The Undoing of Saint Silvanus

by Beth Moore

  CHAPTER 18

  CAL GLANCED AT HIS PHONE and shot a text back to Frank. Meet you there in 5. It was close to midnight and he could use a cup of coffee.

  They’d gotten a panicked call from a woman whose ex promised to make good on a threat that night. Cal had provided the documentation for the woman’s protective order and he intended to catch the guy violating it before the maniac got his hands around her neck.

  Cal had taken responsibility for watching for him at the woman’s apartment while Frank eyed her workplace. Bully and Sanchez were parked down the street from his house and five minutes earlier reported that he’d arrived and gone inside. Until he reemerged, Cal and Frank could grab some coffee.

  The French Quarter was famous for bringing out the worst in people. The Eighth District had the smallest land mass of any in Orleans Parish but the highest number of officers assigned to it. In Cal’s opinion, this band of officers took it in pretty fair stride. The Eighth also encompassed the Central Business District, Canal Place, Bourbon Street, and the casino, so their days were rarely monotonous. And despite the area’s reputation, they still got to serve some decent citizens.

  Heading up the sidewalk on Decatur, Cal heard a loud clang coming from the alley behind Café Beignet. The beam of his flashlight landed on a young woman in an employee’s uniform picking up the lid of a stainless steel trash can. Just beyond her, a dog scurried out of sight. “Oh, man!” the employee exclaimed. “I nearly had him!”

  “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m with law enforcement.” Cal lowered the flashlight. “That stray been getting in the trash?”

  She set the lid back on the trash can. “No, I was looking for something to feed him. I can usually find a leftover hot dog in here or part of a sandwich. Otherwise, it’s just gross, soggy beignets. He’d be hungry enough to eat one but I’d rather give him some meat.” She took a good look at Cal, tilted her head with a hint of disapproval, and said, “Are you going to arrest him?”

  He smiled. “That’s not really my job. Mongrels on four legs don’t worry me much. It’s the ones on two legs I’m interested in. Has he been begging here for a while?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t beg. He’s too skittish to be any trouble. I’ve caught him snooping around the trash can several times, but every time I try to get close to him, he runs off.”

  Cal leaned over and looked past the young woman’s shoulder and then motioned for her to look behind her. A scruffy medium-size dog with wiry gray-and-white fur stood in the entryway to the alley. Cal knelt down on one knee. “Here, boy. It’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” After several rounds of those same words, the stray slowly inched its way over to Cal and sniffed his open palm, even letting him scratch behind his ears. Without taking his eyes off the dog, Cal whispered to the woman, “Did you see anything while you were rummaging around in there?”

  “Nothing but beignets.”

  “Well, that’ll have to do tonight. Can you take that lid off—quietly—” Cal glanced up and grinned—“and hand me one?” She did as he asked, but when she stepped toward Cal with it, the dog darted off again. “Just wait a second.” As if on cue, the stray soon made another timid approach. As he swallowed the large piece of fried bread whole, a car alarm went off close by and the dog scrammed with his tail down, the way a coyote would.

  As Cal got to his feet, the young woman gave him a puzzled look. “How’d you do that? I’ve been trying to get him to come to me for two weeks.”

  “Give it time. He’ll come around. The old boy just knows me a little better.”

  “You’ve seen him before?”

  “Yeah, he’s been running these blocks for, I guess, a year now.”

  “How does he stay alive? And out of the pound?”

  “He’s warmed up to a guy who lives on the streets around here and sings for cash when he’s sober enough. The two of them mostly roost in that abandoned eyesore on Iberville. I guess the reason animal control hasn’t picked him up yet is because some people around here feel the same way I do. It seems wrong to take a man’s dog. It’s all he’s got.”

  She paused for a moment and stared into the distance behind Cal. “So what’s the secret?” she whispered.

  “Patience. And you’ve gotta get down eye level and talk gently to him.”

  Cal could hide neither his surprise nor the twinge of endearment she provoked in him when, right on the spot, the young woman did exactly as he’d suggested. Why did the woman seem familiar to him? He knew he hadn’t seen her here before.

  “Here, boy. It’s okay,” she said, crouching down, her hand extended with a second beignet in her open palm.

  The dog crept around Cal and took several steps toward the young woman. “That’s a good boy,” she said with a wide smile, raising her eyebrows toward Cal. “It’s working!”

  Cal reciprocated the smile and nodded. She continued to coax her reluctant dinner guest, parroting Cal’s exact words. “It’s okay, boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” The trembling stray took the food right out of her hand and tarried long enough to lick the powdered sugar off her palm.

  The back door of Café Beignet swung wide open and a woman in similar attire bellowed, “Jillian! What’s taking you so long?” She jumped to her feet like she’d been caught swiping candy. “You’re ten minutes over,” the woman chided. “I need a smoke.”

  Before Cal could say a word, the dog disappeared from the alley and the girl disappeared through the door. Her coworker pulled out a pack of cigarettes, smacked the bottom of it on her palm, and slid one out. The cigarette between her lips, she flicked on a lighter and, from the corner of her mouth, mumbled, “Need something?”

  “No,” he answered. “Just wanting to grab a table for a cup of coffee.”

  The woman cocked her head at him disapprovingly. “You planning to walk through the kitchen?”

  “Nope. Heading around front right now.”

  She lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew a puff of smoke. “Alright then.”

  When Cal entered the open-air café, Frank threw his hands in the air, looked at his left wrist dramatically, and asked, “What took you so long? I’m starving here.”

  “Sorry, buddy. Why didn’t you go ahead and order?”

  “Because I was waiting on my date.” Both men chuckled. Frank was as good a comrade as a man could maintain in the madness of urban law enforcement. That their friendship had remained largely undisturbed in the wake of Cal’s promotion was something he hadn’t taken for granted a single day. He credited Frank entirely for that.

  “Hey, sit down here,” Frank insisted. “You’re not going to believe this. See that girl? I’m nearly positive that’s Rafe Fontaine’s daughter. Remember? We saw her at the Fontaine place that day, and Sanchez told us that’s who she was. Gotta be. Dead ringer. Don’t you think?”

  “Doesn’t she live in California?”

  Frank shrugged.

  Jillian was wiping off a Formica table close to the kitchen. Cal studied her carefully as she pushed through the kitchen door with a stack of dirty dishes, then seconds later, came back into sight with a plate stacked high with piping-hot beignets. She placed them in the middle of a table of four, pulled a green order pad out of her pocket, and headed their direction.

  She was only five feet from their table when she looked up from her order pad. She came to an abrupt stop and stared. It was her, alright. From the look on her face, she wasn’t remotely comfortable with them turning up at one of her tables. Just because Cal had seen her in the alley, or did she recognize them from the case?

  “You think we could order when you get a minute?” Frank sounded uncharacteristically impatient at Jillian’s hesitation.

  She dropped her pen and it bounced under their table. When Cal picked it up and handed it to her, her face was crimson against the white neckline of her uniform. She avoided his eyes and looked at Frank.

  “Sure.” She pressed the ballpoint against the pad. “So it’s true what they say
about cops and donuts, I guess.”

  “Well, your management has always welcomed a few officers dropping by late at night since it gives your café here some free security,” Frank countered. “But you’re obviously new since you still don’t know the difference between a beignet and a donut, I guess.”

  Cal grimaced.

  “Fried dough,” Jillian responded, rolling her eyes.

  “Sharp edges and no holes.” Good grief, Frank sounded like a fifth grader. Maybe Frank even heard it in himself because the next thing out of his mouth came with a more familiar jovial tone. “But call it whatever you want. I’ll have two orders and a café au lait. What’s your pleasure, bro?”

  Cal glanced at Jillian. “Just coffee. Black’s good.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Frank shook his head as she walked away. “That girl’s got a little attitude, doesn’t she? She’s gone and hurt my feelings.”

  “Save your hurt feelings for the creep we want cuffed before dawn. He’ll show you some sharp edges. He’ll be cussing a blue streak from the backseat all the way to jail and calling you everything but an altar boy.”

  They both chortled as Jillian approached with their order on a brown tray. All it took was one look at her and Cal knew she assumed they were laughing at her.

  “Here you go, gentlemen.” She clapped the plate of beignets in front of Frank and set his cup down with a slosh. The slight jolt unbalanced the tray, splashing blistering hot coffee across Cal’s lap. He jumped to his feet with a loud yelp.

  “Oh no! I’m so sorry!” Jillian grabbed every paper napkin out of the stainless steel dispenser on the table and threw them toward Cal, her face scarlet. She grabbed another stack from a nearby table, squatted down, and started soaking up what had spilled on the floor.

  Wincing, he blotted his soaked pant leg. “I’m good. It’ll dry. No real problem.”

  “That’s right, my man,” Frank said, sounding amused. “You’ve never been bothered by a good third-degree burn.”

  “I’ll go get you another cup.” She was clearly grappling for an exit strategy.

  Frank slapped Cal on the back. “He’s had enough coffee for one night. He can just wring his pants out if he wants any more.”

  “Leave it alone, Frank. Yeah, absolutely. I’ll have another.”

  As Jillian turned on her heels and headed back to the kitchen, Cal said to Frank, “Stop giving that girl a hard time, man.”

  Frank stuffed a beignet in his mouth, still tickled enough to blow a cloud of powdered sugar down the front of his shirt. When Jillian set the second cup of coffee on the table in front of Cal, Frank swallowed, cleared his throat, and asked, “How have you liked New Orleans so far, Miss . . . Is it Fontaine? You must like it pretty good, since you came back.”

  She made no attempt to mask her shock. “How do you know who I am?”

  Frank seemed surprised she didn’t remember them. “We’re working the case involving your fath—”

  “Family,” Cal finished for him.

  Astonishment swept over Jillian’s face and she fixed her gaze on Cal. “Is that why you were spying on me?”

  “I wasn’t spying on you. I heard a noise, and—”

  “You knew it was me?”

  Frank looked back and forth between the two of them. “Am I missing something?”

  Cal ignored him and tried to answer Jillian’s question. “No. I thought you seemed familiar, but I wasn’t sure where I’d seen you until Officer Lamonte here made the connection.”

  Jillian turned her gaze to Frank. “Miss Slater. My name is Slater, not Fontaine. And what makes you think you have to like a place to come back to it?” She hesitated for a moment and then slapped the check on the table and walked off in a huff.

  “That’s not a bad point,” Cal responded to the back of her head. Then he said loud enough to hope she heard, “Hey, I really did know that stray!”

  “What are you talking about?” Frank might have pressed the point had he not simultaneously turned over the check. His eyebrows flew up. “She charged us! Didn’t even comp us after scalding you.”

  Cal took the check from him, read it, and slapped it back into his palm. “She didn’t charge us, Frank. She charged you. My burn was free.”

  “Gah, that’s girl’s crazy. Crazy’s in her bloodline.”

  “If a bloodline could make you crazy, we’d all be nuts.”

  Frank countered with his mouth full. “Yeah, maybe, but those Fontaines are their own kind of crazy. They’re criminal crazy.”

  “If that’s true, they’ve sure done a good job of dodging prosecution.”

  “I didn’t say they weren’t smart. Slick as greased pigs, with lawyers just as oily. Of course, that corpse couldn’t have been too smart.” Frank threw back the last of his coffee. “Let’s go, boss.”

  Cal had told his old partner repeatedly not to call him that, but the man had a mind of his own.

  As the two left the open-air café, four guys were heading toward them on the sidewalk, not stumbling drunk but too happy and with mouths too coarse to be stone-cold sober this time of night on the square.

  “Fraternity pledges,” Frank offered.

  Cal directed his attention and volume toward them. “What has you boys out tonight?”

  The young men couldn’t have seemed less intimidated. “Looking for a bite to eat, Officers,” one said as he tipped his baseball cap and tried to go around them. “Top of the evening to you keepers of the peace. Good job you’re doing there.”

  Cal stepped squarely in front of him. “Where have you gentlemen been?”

  “Oh, just doing a little sightseeing.” All four of them laughed. “Is that against the law?”

  “Well, I guess that depends on how old you are, now doesn’t it?” Cal knew they were old enough to get into those illicit clubs but he still didn’t like it. He hadn’t even liked it when he was their age. “Why don’t you boys get a cab and go back where you came from?”

  The same one spoke up again with fearless sarcasm. “If it’s all the same to you, can we eat first?”

  Cal glanced over his shoulder. He could see Jillian mopping underneath their table at the café.

  “Go somewhere else.”

  “Why can’t we go there?”

  “They’re closing.” Cal shifted his weight toward the one who’d stepped off the sidewalk.

  “No, they—”

  “Go somewhere else.”

  Cal decided to take a detour on his way back to his post. He lagged as far back from the trolley as he could and still keep it within eyeshot. When it screeched to a halt on St. Charles across from Saint Sans, he pulled over to the curb and turned off his lights. He watched Jillian sprint across the street and halt at the front door, digging into her purse. She withdrew what he was certain was a key but then she stood there longer than it should take anybody, in Cal’s opinion, to unlock a door, especially a woman at 1 a.m. He leaned forward against the steering wheel, squinting for a better look, and saw her trying to turn the key with one hand and push the big door open with the other. His eyes might have been playing tricks on him, but he suspected she was crying.

  “You can’t just sit here, you idiot. You’d do this for anybody,” Cal grumbled to himself. As he cracked open the door and started out of the car, his right elbow landed on the horn hard and long enough to wake all but the dead. Jillian looked frantically the direction of his car. Then she shoved the stubborn front door with her shoulder, causing it to fly open. The only thing louder than the horn of his car was the quick slam of that door behind her.

  CHAPTER 19

  IT WAS LATE THE NEXT NIGHT. Stella stopped by the café just before Jillian clocked out and persuaded her to come by when she got off.

  Stella was growing on her. She came to the café almost every night for coffee. She asked Jillian a lot of questions—some of them pretty personal—but maybe that’s the way people were around here: in your business. At least the woman seemed genuinely
interested in her. Jillian was tired, but she could use a friend, and so far Stella was the closest thing to qualify on the muddy banks of the Mississippi.

  Jillian asked her if she could wait a few minutes so they could walk over together, but Stella insisted on going ahead. “Let me get a jump on you and get things tidied up a little. Sound good?”

  Actually, it didn’t. Jillian put on a brave front, but walking by herself at night in this town gave her the creeps. All seemed shadows here. She longed to go home. In the six months she’d lived with Vince, she’d tasted a whole different life. Everything was new: the loft, the furniture, the cars, the clothes. The sidewalks outside Sigmund’s were spotless. Sour smells didn’t assault one’s senses. The bay was beautiful. The people were beautiful. The view from the loft was beautiful. A wave of nausea tightened her throat as the memories of the good life were swallowed in an avalanche of images replaying the brutal end. The same butterflies flew into her stomach. The same emotions sent heat waves through her chest.

  She slipped her purse strap over her head and told the night manager she was leaving. The woman nodded and waved. “See you day after tomorrow then.”

  Everything in Jillian wanted to answer, “I hope not,” yet she knew in the pit of her stomach she’d be right here, right in this town, right on this square, in this uniform, making minimum wage.

  Stella’s apartment was only four blocks away, but the moonless night left the streetlamps to small circles of light. On the weekends, people traipsed up and down the sidewalks until the early hours of the morning, but this was a weeknight and a slow one at that. The few people she saw were each sitting alone on the sidewalk with a bottle. She circled as far around them as she could. Keep your head up and look confident, Jillian told herself. Don’t look like a victim. Anyway, you’ll be living down here soon yourself.

  She stopped in front of an old four-story redbrick building with tattered green awnings and checked the address Stella had written with a felt-tip on the inside of her wrist. 301. This is it. She opened the door and took two flights of narrow stairs. “The last apartment at the end of the hall on the left,” Stella had told her. “Easy to spot. It’s the one with a green vine painted on the door.” Jillian found it and tapped at it tentatively.