by Jaye Maiman
“Frogsticker,” he said as he slammed into the driver’s seat of his rental car.
“What?” I asked, my butt dropping into the car one second after he revved the engine.
“The scar. I saw you looking at my arm. Some perp in Houston stabbed me with a pocket knife.”
“Oh.”
“You shoulda seen what I done to him.”
We lurched out of the lot. Sweeney drove with a heavy foot. I belted myself in and asked, “What were you doing in Houston?”
“I’m a traveling man, sweetheart. I’ve chased lowlife scum from Dan to Beersheba.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, why do you keep talking like that?”
An ugly grin spread over his face. “Pisses you off, doesn’t it?” The Cajun twang disappeared instantly and he sounded at last like a San Francisco cop. “I was born down here. Amazing how fast it comes back to you. And how good I am at pissing off little tidbits like you.”
He popped in a cassette and turned up the volume. Zydeco. Raucous accordions and washboard music. I actually liked it. The best part was that Sweeney clearly had expected me to be irritated. I finger-tapped the dashboard with more zeal than I felt and asked, “So where are we going and why?” To myself I added, and for how long? I’d already decided that compared to Sweeney, a visit to the dentist would be a welcome respite.
“I met with the lieu in the sector where the woman was killed. We’ve had our share of les bonne temps. He dropped enough hints for me to come up with the name of this jailbird I been tracking for years. The man’s got a camp out in the bayou, which is where we’re headed now. The cops got no legit reason for questioning him, so in a way I’m doing them a favor. See if the fish is stinkin’.”
The bayou? I checked my watch. Damn. There was no way I’d be back in time to meet K.T. I switched on the beeper I wore on my waistband. At least she’d be able to page me.
Sweeney glanced my way and said, “Uh-uh. Shut that off. I seen a man blown away ’cause of one of those contraptions.”
I started to protest, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand and said, “Mind if I stop for a bite?” Not that he waited for an answer. He pulled up to a Popeye’s drive-in window with the finesse of a drunken New York cab driver. Lava rock studded the outside walls. As Sweeney rolled down his window, heat rolled through the car like a fireball. He swung his arm out and depressed the order button. My hand went immediately to the door handle. I should have enough time to call the hotel and leave a message for K.T.
“Where you going?” Sweeney asked.
“I need a phone.”
“You get out of the car, you also gonna need a lift.” The automatic door lock clicked into place. “While I’m ordering, you want anything?”
I grunted my response. Working with Sweeney was the cost of helping out Thomas Ryan, I reminded myself. The price was high, but I owed Ryan a hell of a lot more.
A few minutes later Sweeney retrieved a basket of fried chicken legs and french fries. “You still find the best Popeye’s in the black neighborhoods,” he said, gunning the ignition, “but even they’re past their heyday.” Heyday or not, Sweeney tore into a leg with the gusto of a medieval landlord. Within seconds the car stunk of grease, with an undertone of cloying air scent. I leaned over, shut off the air-conditioning and rolled down the window.
We reached the city limits and he floored the gas. Between mouthfuls, he asked, “How much you know about the other murders?”
I told him about the research I’d done earlier in the afternoon.
“Chicken piss,” he snorted, shoving a fistful of fries into his mouth. “Look in there. I brought you a present.” He nodded at the glove compartment.
Inside I found a manila envelope. I untied it and dropped the contents onto my lap. My stomach heaved instantly. “Shit, what is this?”
I felt him glance at me. “What do you think? You gonna grind the beans, babe, you better be able to drink the coffee.”
My gaze drifted back to the image of a battered naked woman, her limbs twisted into a position resembling a swastika. Blood caked on the back of her head. The other photos were worse. I turned them over slowly. He rattled off the names. Eileen Anderson. Hope Williams. Betty Galonardi. Andrea Allen.
“How the hell did you get these?”
“Connections.”
“Are these from all the crime scenes?”
“Every one that Ryan’s called me on. That bottom one is his wife. Go ahead and look.” Again, the small smirk. He was daring me.
Mary Ryan rested on her back. There was no resemblance to the beautiful woman depicted in pictures Ryan had showed to me. Bloody pulp obliterated her face. Her body…
I stuck my head out the window and heaved.
“Knew it.” Sweeney’s laugh was high-pitched.
“Fuck you.” I rummaged in my backpack for a tissue and Life Saver.
“Ryan told me you’d only done pretty murders. A nice poisoning or two. Here…drink the rest of my Coke.”
I declined the offer and said, “If you think I’m such a soft-weight, why’d you invite me to ride along?”
“Ryan thinks you got smarts. That says something. Still, I’m reserving opinion. So far, I can’t say I’m real impressed with your credentials. Or your guts. You wanna tell me how you’re gonna track a serial killer if you can’t stomach a few nasty photos?”
I didn’t bother to respond.
Neither of us said another word until we drove by an assembly facility for NASA, where they build the rocket section of the space shuttle. Sweeney pointed past my nose. “Pride and joy of Michoud. Personally, I don’t think we got business in space. Earth’s fucked up enough.” He polished off the last fry, licked his fingers and flicked the garbage into the back seat. A few minutes later the smell of coffee wafted in through the car window. Finally, a welcome aroma. I stuck my head out and took a deep whiff.
“Hera International got its headquarters here,” he explained. “Company wanted to be right neighborly to South America. Why else would they move out to this boony. Unless it’s ’cause labor’s so cheap here in the po’ South. Ain’t that what you Northerners think?”
He was testing my sore spots, a sadistic dentist digging for cavities. This guy made Thomas Ryan look like English gentry. I made a cup with my hand and let the wind blow hard against my palm. Anywhere but here, I thought. The man’s bitterness was almost palpable. I wondered what made him tick. “So, Sweeney, how long ago did you leave New Orleans?”
He threw me another sideways glance. The man was sharp. He had recognized my unspoken criticism. “N’awlins. Sweet N’awlins,” he sang. “Well, at least you pronounce it right. If you’d a said New Or-leans, you’d be eating tire dust right now.”
“You worked with Ryan back in ’eighty-four?”
“I worked with Ryan from nineteen-seventy-five to ’eighty-five. Ten years. I’d been up North twelve years before that. Twenty-two years. Then I decided to chuck the force and go out on my own. Want my es-es number?”
I ignored his jibe. “Why’d you quit the force?”
“Pigs shouldn’t wag their tails in the farmer’s face, especially when he’s got a hankering for pork.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to answer my question?”
“Gee, you are quick. I’ll tell you this much, sister, I was pissed at how they treated Ryan after his wife’s murder. When you got a rep as a drunk, it don’t ever leave you. The straight and narrow boys look at you from the corners of their eyes, waiting for you to slip. Life under a fuckin’ microscope. I’m amazed he’s stayed on this long. After I left, I never looked back and I gotta say, I’ve done real, well working for myself. Meanwhile, Ryan’s rotting away in that foggy-assed city.”
A few minutes later, we reached the twin spans. The air rolling off Lake Pontchartrain reminded me of Cape Cod. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Three nights ago, Winston drove K.T. and me to a seafood shanty out here called Vera’s. K.T. had reveled in teachi
ng me to snap off the heads of crawfish, pinch the tail and suck out the sweet meat from the heads. We’d giggled like kids, played footsie under the table while Winston pretended to not notice. Later, in the drive back to town, K.T. fell asleep on my shoulder, strands of her hair brushing across my cheek like silk, our hands joined tightly over her swollen belly.
“Nap’s over, Miller,” Sweeney said, snapping me back. “I need the companionship. And you need info.” He stabbed a finger toward my side of the car. “This area’s called the Irish Bayou. Good, solid folk. The perp of the day was raised out here.” We were passing little fishing villages. “Them camps just blow away during a good hurricane. I saw it happen once when I was just a boy. Thought it was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen, but that was before homicide. Nothing compares to that, now ain’t that right?” He poked my side. “I still got cousins out here. Clover Lee just bought himself a two-bedroom condo ’round here for forty-five grand. The place is a good thousand square feet with its own boatslip. Tell me where you can get that up North.”
We were about forty minutes out from the city. I wondered how much longer I’d have to listen to his travelogue.
“Tell me more about this guy in the bayou.”
The car jerked forward. We were cruising at close to eighty. I clasped the door handle.
“Barry NeVille and if ever a man were born on crazy creek, it’s him. Let’s see…he’s thirty-five. Some folks ’round here would still call him a quadroon. He’s five-nine, dark-skinned, got weird blue-gray eyes, black hair. Good-looking guy. Grew up in foster homes. Been in and out of jail since he was sixteen. Convicted rapist and burglar in three states. I came across his name first on Mary Ryan’s murder. Acts dumb, kills smart. I like him for the murders, but no one’s paid me much attention. They will, though, when I nail the sucker.”
“What’s the connection to this case?”
“Jimmy, a buddy of mine on the force, says someone matching NeVille’s description was made at the hotel just hours before Rubin kicked. But the connection goes way back. Ryan arrested him on the first rape. This was back in ’seventy-five. NeVille was seventeen, a bum camped out in Berkeley, getting stoned and messing with chicks from the university who found his po’ boy history oh-so-romantic. The pinko liberal ass judge let the scum go with little more than a kick in the butt. Problem then was the same one we have now…no sperm, no pubic hairs, not a single goddamn forensic trace. Ryan went crackers. Turns out NeVille and his little girl Shawn were born two days apart. Made the man crazy to think his daughter died, but this bastard got to live. The two of us got him down in an alley, gave him a private lesson in law. He was still living in flophouses down on Mission when Mary was killed. Started roaming ’cross state the next week.”
The thought of Ryan as a vigilante disturbed me. The guy I’ve come to know plays by the rules.
Sweeney must’ve read my mind. “Ryan was booze blind when we jumped the kid, case you’re wond’ring.”
“Why’d NeVille wait nine years to get revenge?”
“Who said he waited? I think opportunity just knocked him in the face. The place he was crashing in back in ’eighty-four was a stone’s throw from the Pink Clam. Knowing Mary, she might’ve seen the kid and swept him under her wing. You know, giving him money, bringing him food. I figure somehow NeVille found out she was Ryan’s wife. Coincidence can be mighty cruel, sometimes.”
“How does he link to the other murders?”
“I found a strong link in your own backyard, darlin’. Betty Galonardi, the I-talian woman.” I remembered the case. Betty was forty-seven when she was killed. A school teacher with no significant relationships outside work. “June thirteen, ’eighty-eight,” Sweeney crooned on, then checked my expression. “You surprised I can remember the date, huh? I see it on your face. Well, let me remind you, I’ve been foxing this here trash since he took out my partner’s wife. These murders are engraved in my mind. They found Betty with a hard-boiled egg stuffed in her mouth. Take a gander at the shot there.”
The photo stung my eyes.
“Immediately, I thought of NeVille, so I started scouting the flophouses. Sure enough, the man was in town. Found out old Betty had been throwing him some odd jobs. Car washing, groceries, shit like that. I thought I really had him, but it weren’t no turkey shoot. I trailed him back to the camp we’re aiming for right now, but by then some Bronx psycho confessed to the murder and everyone assumed the case was signed, sealed and delivered to the D.A. Later on they found out the perp was freakin’ nuts…he kept insisting he was fuckin’ Jack the Ripper—the original, mind you. Asshole couldn’t even pick a contemporary killer. Turned out the guy hadn’t even been in New York City the night of Betty’s murder. He was released a few weeks later, real quiet-like. All that time, no one bothered to talk to me or my man. Morons. Now, NeVille’s either been real good or real careful since then, ’cause Betty was the last kill I heard about until now.”
“Didn’t Allen come later?” I tapped the stack of crime-scene photos.
“So you been paying attention? Good. You passed test one. Now let’s see how you handle the tough part.”
He two-wheeled onto a dirt road. The trees closed in around us, scratched the side windows. Deep shadows covered the road. I shivered again, despite the heat. “How can you be so sure he’s here?”
“Like I said, this ain’t my first visit. One thing I know about NeVille is no matter where he roams, he always ends up back home. In that way, the son of a bitch ain’t much different from me. Better hold on, it gets bumpy ’round ’bout here.”
As if to punctuate his words, the car heaved in and out of a ditch, then collided into a thick mound of underbrush.
“Rock and roll,” he muttered, utterly absorbed in sailing through the obstacle course. Mosquitoes and gnats buzzed around my ears. I rolled up my window. “There she be.” He stopped short, in the middle of nowhere.
Almost instantly, the car started to smell mossy. I glanced around. We were surrounded by massive oaks. The filtered sun tinted the air green. “Where the hell are we?”
“Hell is right. Step on outside.” He pushed the car door open against a thorny bush, then scampered onto the hood and leapt off. Stretching his arms wide, he smiled at me.
My heart thudded. What did I really know about this man? How could I be sure he was even who he purported to be? I thought about the man following K.T., the room service I hadn’t ordered. Suddenly, I felt like a fool. I was in the backwoods of Louisiana, without a weapon and without information.
“C’mon sweetheart. The bayou’s calling.” He sucked air in through his teeth and winked.
The crime-scene photos still rested in my lap. I flipped through them in disgust, then shoved them back into the glove compartment. Without movement, the car had grown oppressively hot. My hands, however, remained stone-cold. I took a deep breath and stepped outside. Instantly my sneakers plunged into brackish mud. A tree limb slapped my neck. I elbowed my way around the corner.
When I reached the front fender, Sweeney hooted. “The Northerner’s in her element. Ha. C’mon. We’re just getting started.”
He disappeared into the thicket with the purposeful gait of a bear tracking salmon. I cursed and followed him. Sweat beaded up on my brow and trailed down to the corners of my lips. Insects swarmed around my head. I hesitated for an instant, considered heading back to the car. There was no way to tell how long Sweeney would be gone. I glanced down at my watch. Humidity had fogged the face. I wiped it clean and cringed. It was way past three. K.T. would worry about me when she didn’t find me at the hotel. I should’ve left her a note. For both our sakes.
I followed Sweeney more by sound than by sight. Branches cracked. Mud sucked around our heels. Birds flitted from the bushes with each step forward.
Suddenly, Sweeney shouted, “Did I mention New Orleans got over half-a-million ’gators. Biggest concentration in the country. Once saw a ten-footer swallow a Doberman whole.”
The son of a bitch was having fun. I picked up my pace. In another minute or so, we emerged on the banks of a river. A corroded rowboat lay on its side. He trudged over and stroked the rim as if it were a cat stretched out in the sun.
“The Pearl River yacht.”
“How’d you know that was here?” I asked.
He stalked over. “What’s wrong, missy? You feeling peculiar?”
“Just answer my question.”
A hand shot inside his vest. Too late I noticed the shoulder harness and the blue-black hammer of a forty-five. I swung away as he slapped thick fingers around my wrist.
“My identification.” He flipped a billfold under my chin. “Theobald Sweeney, licensed private investigator in four states, a current California driver’s license. Photograph of me with Ryan and his mom. Want more?” His ugly puss was so close I could smell his aftershave and the perspiration glistening at the, base of his neck.
I stepped back. “You still haven’t explained the boat.”
“It’s my cousin’s. And without it, we can’t get to the perp. You in or out?” His back was to me now as he turned over the boat and eased one end down the bank. The oars slid into place. I uttered a silent prayer and stepped in.
We pushed into the current, slicing through a rich, moss-green carpet. I gingerly dipped a finger into the water.
“Duckweed,” Sweeney said. “It covers a good portion of fresh-water swamp. Now hush. We don’t want to scare him up until we’re ready.” Out in the middle of the river all shade disappeared. The sun scorched my scalp. I dug a baseball cap out of my backpack and slipped it on. Squatting opposite me, Sweeney shook his head. “No rainbows here.”
I scrunched my eyes at him, puzzled by the reference.
“Ryan told me you were a dyke,” he continued. “Never married. That’s fine with me, better’n lezzies who break their husband’s heart and shrivel their organs by eating a neighbor’s puss. But out here, you better be straight and narrow, so take the damn cap off.”
I checked the hat. Sure enough it was from a gay march. I tucked it back in the bag and briefly considering kicking Sweeney into the murky water.
