I thought of Landron Mobley, the cruelties visited upon his body, and almost spoke, but to give Adams more than he already had would be to give him everything and I was not ready to do that. There was too much here that I did not yet understand.
“You going to talk to the Larousses?”
Adams finished off his toast. “My guess is they knew about it as soon as I did.”
“Or maybe even sooner.”
Adams waved a finger at me in warning. “That’s the kind of implication could get a man in trouble.” He gestured to a waitress for more coffee. “But, since you brought it up, why would the Larousses want Jones beaten in that way?”
I stayed silent.
“I mean,” he continued, “the nature of the injuries he received seems to indicate that the people who killed him wanted him to reveal something before he died. You think they wanted him to confess?”
I almost spit in contempt.
“Why? For the good of his soul? I don’t think so. If these people went to the trouble of killing his guardians and then hunting him down, then it doesn’t seem to me like they were in any doubt about why they were doing it.”
There was, though, the possibility that Adams was at least partly right in his suggestion that a final confession was the motive. Suppose the men who hunted him down were almost certain that he had killed Marianne Larousse, but almost certain wasn’t good enough. They wanted it from his own lips because if he wasn’t responsible then the consequences were even more serious, and not simply because the real culprit might evade detection. No, the actions that had been taken in the last twenty-four hours indicated that some people were very concerned indeed about the possibility that someone might have targeted Marianne Larousse for very particular reasons. It seemed to me that it was about time to ask some hard questions of Earl Larousse Jr. but I wasn’t about to do that alone. The Larousses were hosting their party the following day, and I was expecting some company to join me in Charleston. The Larousses would have two unwelcome guests crashing their big occasion.
That afternoon, I did some research in the Charleston Public Library. I pulled up the newspaper reports of Grady Truett’s death, but there was little more than Adele Foster had already told me. Persons unknown had entered his house, tied him to a chair, and cut his throat. No prints had been lifted, but the crime scene squad had to have found something. No crime scene is entirely clean. I was tempted to call Adams but, once again, to do so would be to risk blowing everything that I had. I also found out a little more about the plateye. According to a book called Blue Roots, the plateye was a permanent resident of the spirit world, the underworld, although it was capable of entering the mortal world to seek retribution. It also had the ability to alter its form. As Adams had said, the plateye was a changeling.
I left the library and headed onto Meeting. Tereus had still not returned to his apartment, and he now hadn’t shown up for work in two days. Nobody would tell me anything about him, and the stripper who had taken the twenty and then sold me out to Handy Andy was nowhere to be seen.
Finally, I called the public defender’s office and was told that Laird Rhine was defending a client over at the State Courthouse that afternoon. I parked at my hotel and walked down to the Four Corners, where I found Rhine in courtroom number three at the arraignment of a woman named Johanna Bell who had been accused of stabbing her husband in the course of a domestic argument. Apparently, she and her husband had been separated for about three months when he had returned to the family home and a quarrel had broken out over the ownership of the couple’s VCR. The quarrel had ended abruptly when she stabbed him with a carving knife. Her husband sat two rows behind her, looking sorry for himself.
Rhine handled himself pretty well as he asked the arraignment judge to convert her bail to OR release. He was probably in his early thirties but he put up a good argument, pointing out that Bell had never been in trouble before; that she had been forced to call the cops on a number of occasions during the dying months of her marriage following threats and actual physical assualt by her husband; that she could not meet the bail set; and that no purpose could be served by keeping her in jail and away from her infant son. He made her husband sound like a creep who was lucky to get away with a punctured lung, and the judge agreed to her release on her own recognizance. Afterward, she hugged Rhine and took her son in her arms from an older woman who stood waiting for her at the back of the court.
I intercepted Rhine on the courtroom steps.
“Mr. Rhine?”
He paused, and something like worry flashed across his face. As a public defender, he encountered some of the lowest forms of life and was sometimes forced to try to defend the indefensible. I didn’t doubt that, on occasion, his clients’ victims took things personally.
“Yes?” Up close he looked even younger. He hadn’t started to gray yet and his blue eyes were shielded by long, soft lashes. I flashed him my license. He glanced at it and gave a nod.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Parker? You mind if we talk while we walk? I promised my wife I’d take her out to dinner tonight.”
I fell into step alongside him.
“I’m working with Elliot Norton on the Atys Jones case, Mr. Rhine.”
His steps faltered for a moment, as though he had briefly lost his bearings, then resumed at a slightly faster speed. I accelerated to keep up.
“I’m no longer involved in that case, Mr. Parker.”
“Since Atys is dead, there isn’t much of a case, period.”
“I heard. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure. I have some questions for you.”
“I’m not sure that I can answer any questions. Maybe you should ask Mr. Norton.”
“You know, I would, except Elliot isn’t around, and my questions are kind of delicate.”
He stopped at the corner of Broad as the light changed to red. He gave the offending signal a look that suggested he was taking its interference in the course of his life kind of personally.
“Like I said, I don’t know that I can help you.”
“I’d like to know why you gave up the case.”
“I have a lot of cases.”
“Not like this one.”
“My caseload doesn’t allow me to pick and choose, Mr. Parker. I was handed the Jones case. It was going to take up a lot of my time. I could have cleared ten cases in the time it took me just to go through the files. I wasn’t sorry to see it go.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a young public defender. You’re probably ambitious and from what I saw of your work today you have good reason to be. A high-profile case like the murder of Marianne Larousse doesn’t come along every day. If you had acquitted yourself well, even if you had ultimately lost, it would have opened doors for you. I don’t think you wanted to give it up so easily.”
The lights had changed again, and we were jostled slightly as people crossed ahead of us. Still, Rhine didn’t move.
“Whose side are you on in this, Mr. Parker?”
“I haven’t decided yet. In the end, though, I guess I’m on the side of a dead woman and a dead man, for what it’s worth.”
“And Elliot Norton?”
“A friend. He asked me to come down here. I came.”
Rhine turned to face me.
“I was asked to pass the case on to him,” he said.
“By Elliot?”
“No. He never approached me. It was another man.”
“You know who he was?”
“He said his name was Kittim. He had something wrong with his face. He came to my office and told me that I should let Elliot Norton defend Atys Jones.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that I couldn’t do that. There was no reason to. He made me an offer.”
I waited.
“We all have skeletons in our closet, Mr. Parker. Suffice it to say that he gave me a glimpse of mine. I have a wife and a young dau
ghter. I made mistakes early in my marriage, but I haven’t repeated them. I wasn’t planning on having my family taken away from me for sins that I’ve tried to make up for. I told Jones that Elliot Norton would be better qualified to handle his case. He didn’t object. I walked away. I haven’t seen Kittim since then, and I hope I never see him again.”
“When were you approached?”
“About three weeks ago.”
Three weeks ago: about the time that Grady Truett had been killed. By then, James Foster and Marianne Larousse were also dead. As Adele Foster had said, something was happening, and whatever it was, it had reached a new level with the death of Marianne Larousse.
“Is that all, Mr. Parker?” asked Rhine. “I’m not happy about what I did. I don’t really want to go over it again.”
“That’s pretty much it,” I said.
“I really am sorry about Atys,” he said.
“I’m sure that’s a great comfort to him,” I replied.
I returned to my hotel. There was a message from Louis, confirming that he would be arriving the next morning, a little later than expected. My spirits lifted slightly.
That night, I stood at the window of my hotel, drawn by the steady, repeated hooting of a car horn. Across the street, in front of the cash machine, the black Coupe de Ville with the shattered windshield idled by the curb. As I watched, the rear driver’s side door opened, and the child emerged. She stood by the open door and beckoned to me, her lips moving soundlessly.
I got a place we can go
Her hips moved, shimmying to music only she could hear. She lifted her skirt, and she was naked yet sexless beneath, the skin smooth as a child’s doll. Her tongue moved over her lips.
Come down
Her hand moved over the smoothness of herself.
I got a place
She thrust herself at me once more before she climbed back into the car and it began to pull away, spiders spilling from its half-closed door. I awoke rubbing gossamer from my face and hair and had to shower to banish the sensation of creatures moving across my body.
21
I WAS AWAKENED BY a knock at my door shortly after 9 A.M. Instinctively, I felt myself reaching for a gun that was no longer there. I wrapped a towel around my waist, then padded softly to the door and peered through the peephole.
Six feet six inches of attitude, razor-sharp dress sense, and gay Republican pride looked me square in the eye.
“I could see you looking out,” said Louis as I opened the door. “Shit, don’t you ever go to the movies? Guy knocks, skinny-ass character actor looks out, guy puts barrel of gun to glass and shoots skinny-ass in the eye.” He was dressed in a black linen suit, offset with a white collarless shirt. A wave of expensive eau de cologne followed him into the room.
“You smell like a French whore,” I told him.
“I was a French whore, you couldn’t afford me. By the way, you maybe could use a little makeup yourself.”
I paused, saw myself in the mirror by the door, and looked away again. He was right. I was pale, and there were dark smudges under my eyes. My lips were cracked and dry, and I could taste something metallic in my mouth.
“I picked up something,” I said.
“No shit. The fuck you pick up, the plague? They bury people look better than you.”
“What have you got, Tourette’s? You have to swear all the time?”
He raised his hands in a backing-off gesture. “Hey, glad I came. Nice to be appreciated.”
I apologized. “You checked in?”
“Uh-huh, ’cept some motherfucker-sorry, but, shit, he was a motherfucker-try to hand me his bags at the door.”
“What did you do?”
“Took them, put them in the trunk of a cab, gave the guy fifty bucks, and told him to take them to the charity store.”
“Classy.”
“I like to think so.”
I left him watching television while I showered and dressed, then we headed down to Diana’s on Meeting for coffee and a bite to eat. I ate half a bagel, then pushed it away.
“You got to eat.”
I shook my head. “It’ll pass.”
“It’ll pass and you be dead. So how we doin’?”
“Same as usual: dead people, a mystery, more dead people.”
“Who we lost?”
“The boy. His guardians. Maybe Elliot Norton.”
“Shit, don’t sound like we got anybody left. Anyone hires you better leave you your fee in their will.”
I filled him in on all that had occurred, leaving out only the black car. That I didn’t need to burden him with.
“So what you gonna do?”
“Push a stick into the beehive and rustle up some bees. The Larousses are hosting a party today. I think we should avail ourselves of their hospitality.”
“We got an invite?”
“Has not having one ever stopped us before?”
“No, but sometimes I just like to be invited to shit, you know what I’m sayin’, instead of havin’ to bust in, get threatened, irritate the nice white folks, put the fear of the black man on them.”
He paused, seemed to think for a while about what he had just said, then brightened.
“Sounds good, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Real good,” he agreed.
We drove most of the way to the old Larousse plantation in separate vehicles, Louis parking his car about half a mile from the gates before joining me for the rest of the journey. I asked him about Angel.
“He workin’ on a job’.”
“Anything I should know about?”
He looked at me for a long time.
“I don’t know. Maybe, but not now.”
“Uh-huh. I see you made the news.”
He didn’t reply for a couple of seconds. “Angel tell you somethin’?”
“Just gave me the name of the town. You waited a long time to settle that score.”
He shrugged. “They was worth killin’, they just wasn’t worth travelin’ too far to kill.”
“And since you were on your way down here anyway…”
“I figured I’d stop by,” he finished. “Can I go now, Officer?”
I let it drop. At the entrance to the Larousse estate, a tall man in a flunky’s suit waved us down.
“Can I see your invitations, gentlemen?”
“We didn’t get invitations,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure somebody is expecting us.”
“The names?”
“Parker. Charlie Parker.”
“By two,” added Louis, helpfully.
The guard spoke into his walkie-talkie, out of earshot from us. We waited, two or three cars lining up behind us, until the guard finished talking.
“You can go ahead. Mr. Kittim will meet you at the parking area.”
“Surprise, surprise,” said Louis. I had told him about my encounter with Bowen and Kittim at the Antioch rally.
“Told you this would work,” I said. “That’s why I’m a detective.” It struck me then, my worries about the consequences of the Caina incident aside, that I was already feeling better since Louis had arrived. That wasn’t too surprising, since I now had a gun, thanks to him, and I was pretty certain that Louis had at least one more on his person.
We followed half a mile of live oaks, palmettos, and palms, much of it overhung with Spanish moss. Cicadas chirped in the trees and droplets from the morning’s now departed rain kept up a steady rhythmic patter on the roof and road until we emerged from the trees and onto an expanse of green lawn. Another white-gloved flunky directed us to park the car beneath one of a number of tarpaulins erected to shelter the vehicles from the sunlight, the canvas shifting slightly in the currents of cold air cast by one of a number of huge industrial air conditioners arrayed on the grass. Long tables had been arranged along three sides of a square and covered by starched linen tablecloths. Huge amounts of food had been arrayed upon them while black servants in pristine white shirts and trousers hovered
anxiously, waiting to serve guests. Others moved through the crowds already gathered on the lawn, offering champagne and cocktails. I looked at Louis. He looked at me. Apart from the servants, he was the only person of color present. He was also the only guest dressed in black.
“You should have worn a white jacket,” I said. “You look like an exclamation mark. Plus, you might have picked up a few bucks in tips.”
“Look at them brothers,” he said, despairingly. “Ain’t nobody here heard of Denmark Vesey?”
A dragonfly glided across the grass by my feet, hunting for prey among the blades. There were no birds to prey on him in turn, at least none that I could see or hear. The only sign of life came from a single heron standing in a patch of marshland to the northeast of the house, the waters around it seemingly stilled by a carpet of algae. Beside it, amid rows of oak and pecans, stood the remains of small dwellings, equidistantly spaced, their tiled roofs now gone and the miscast and broken bricks used in their construction weathered by the elements over the century and a half that had probably passed since their original establishment. Even I could guess what it represented: the remains of a slave street.
“You’d think they’d have knocked them down,” I said.
“That’s heritage,” said Louis. “Right up there with flying the Confederate flag and keeping one pillowcase clean at all times. Y’know, for special wear.”
The Larousses’s old plantation house was pre-Revolutionary redbrick, a Georgian-Palladian villa dating back to the mid-eighteenth century. Limestone steps led up a set of twin staircases to a marble-floored portico. Four Doric pillars supported the gallery that ran across the front of the house, four windows on either side over two levels. Elegantly dressed couples crowded in the shade of the porch.
Our attention was distracted by a party of men moving quickly across the lawn. They were all white, all had earpieces, and all were sweating beneath their dark suits, despite the efforts of the air conditioners. The only exception was the man at the center of the group. Kittim wore a blue blazer over tan trousers and penny loafers, his white shirt buttoned to the neck. His head and face were largely concealed by the baseball cap and sunglasses, but they couldn’t conceal the blade wound that had been torn in his right cheek.
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