Old Black Magic

by Jaye Maiman

Swimming. My arms weary from propelling me through the dark weight of the water. So hard to move. But I couldn’t stay still. Another thrust and I’d explode into the light. K.T. would be there.

  I opened my eyes. The room was still dark. Thomas Ryan still mumbled in my ear. K.T. was gone.

  “Tom,” I gasped. No other words would come. I said his name and started to weep again. I hated the sound. Hated the tightness in my chest, the inability to speak, to look around, to breathe.

  “We don’t know what happened yet, Rob. You have to hang on.”

  He was talking in slow motion. I stared at the phone and allowed myself to drift. My head was floating, but my body wouldn’t follow.

  “You sure no one in the restaurant cut themselves? You checked with everyone?”

  Crimson. The color of fire engines, bicycles and tops. The color of my sister’s dress the day I killed her.

  “Tom, did I call the police? Did I tell you?” My memory bank felt clogged. I blinked hard. The room blurred.

  “No, hon, you called me instead, and that’s fine for now.”

  Right. The cops wouldn’t take me seriously. Not in New Orleans. Not in any big city where a person isn’t considered missing until his or her body washes up with the spring thaw.

  “How’s your breathing now? Steadier?”

  “Sure, Ryan, I’m steady as a rock. Can you check out Chamelle for me?”

  “I’ll move mountains, Robin. Mountains. As soon as Sweeney gets there, I’ll call in every chit I can. We’ll find her.”

  K.T. I held the phone to my chest and rocked. Her copper hair, her green eyes, a spark of spring in them when she smiled. The softness of her skin. The rise of her belly. Her belly. At the memory, I gagged, dropped the phone and stumbled into the bathroom. Dry heaves racked my body. I had nothing left to give. Nothing.

  I hadn’t wanted the baby. Not really. The decision had been strictly hers, made long before I found my way back into her life. We weren’t even sure what we’d do once it was here. Now they were both gone and I felt on the verge of going mad.

  My mouth tasted like soured milk. I rinsed and spat repeatedly. When I returned to the room, Ryan’s voice buzzed through the air like a trapped horsefly. I retrieved the phone. “Sorry. I can’t stop barfing.” The door of the refrigerator snapped open. I pushed aside the Yoo-Hoo and containers of skim milk and dug out three miniature bottles of booze. Vodka, gin and rum. I gulped one down.

  “What are you doing now?” Ryan’s voice held an edge.

  “Guess.”

  His silence told me more than I wanted to know. He knew exactly what I was doing. And he disapproved. “This isn’t you, Robin.”

  “What the hell is me, Tom? Tell me that. I murdered K.T. I murdered my sister Carol. What kind of woman is that?”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  I twisted the cap off the gin. More than anything else, I wanted to pass out. The alcohol ran down my throat like a feather down a thigh. A seductive warmth drifted through me. So nice. My fingertips tingled.

  “Fuck it. First, you blow me out of the sky by informing me that Sweeney’s off the wagon, and now you’re going to fall down and join him. Is that it? Are you telling me that everyone I put confidence in is going to screw me? If I mean anything to you, Robin, anything, you’ll put the booze down right now. And I mean right now!”

  Why was he shouting? I draped the phone wire over my shoulder and let the phone bounce gently against my back, like a tree branch in a stiff spring breeze. Better. Much better. I closed my eyes. No. Not better. The room spun as images of K.T.’s face, sliced and bloody, snapped into my brain.

  I cried softly to myself as I tossed the last empty bottle in the ice bucket. Ryan’s ravings hadn’t stopped.

  “K.T. may still be alive, and you’re taking the chicken-ass path out. If ever you needed to be sober, it’s now. Do you hear me? I did the same shit-face routine you’re succumbing to now, and it blew me out of Mary’s investigation. If I’d been thinking straight back then…Christ! K.T. is probably still alive, Robin, and you need to be alert.”

  He was right. I had to think clearly, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. I sat down on the floor, pressing my back hard against the footboard. “I stopped drinking, okay? Now, ease off. My head’s pounding.”

  I retraced my steps. Before coming upstairs, I’d searched the grounds of the hotel, climbed up and down the stairwells, checked the boiler room. Only then had I dared to return to the room where K.T. and I had made love, spooned in sleep, whispered and clenched hands, searched each other’s mouths. Ryan was right. K.T. could still be alive. There hadn’t been any signs of blood near the hotel or in our room. Plus, if Roxanne’s theories were right, the bastard would only strike on Friday, Saturday or Monday. At least, he’d never deviated from that pattern. Maybe he’d snared K.T. in some private hell of his own, waiting. I had to hold on. I had to believe. At least for now

  Ryan’s sigh was unmistakable. “Good, good,” he muttered to himself. I could almost hear him gulping for air. This had to be hard for him, too. The madman who had taken K.T. from me had murdered his wife as well. Nine terrible years ago. He’d never fallen in love again. I rubbed my hands over my face as if I were scrubbing mud from my skin. This insanity had to end.

  I filled Ryan in on my visit with Roxanne Lerebon, my voice a low monotone. I’d grown gratefully numb. When I finished explaining the voodoo connections, Ryan was clearly more surprised than I had been and far more disturbed. We assessed the details we had accumulated on the five homicides With the ease of criminal clinicians, emotions dulled and pulses steady. When the knock on the door came, I didn’t even jump. My progress was measured by the loss of appropriate response. Some career I’d chosen.

  Sweeney looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. A wiry beard had sprouted on his chin, setting off a scar along his chin I hadn’t noticed previously. He stared at me hard, clearly gauging my mental state, then peered over my shoulder at the phone dangling from the arm of the desk chair. “That Ryan still? Good. Let him debrief me, you’re in no shape.”

  While he talked to Ryan, I retreated to the bathroom again. I balanced myself on the tub’s edge and dropped the rubber plug into the sink’s drain. The rushing, water drowned out most but not all of their conversation. It sounded like Sweeney was trying hard to convince Ryan that he wasn’t a complete fuck-up. The last thing I needed to hear was Sweeney apologizing to his good friend for screwing up years of investigative work. I had my own screw-ups to worry about, and they were doozies. The terry cloth wash towel was almost too hot to touch. I flopped it over my face and leaned my head back. At one point, I thought I heard Sweeney sob. I pressed my hands to my ears and waited for him to stop.

  For a few seconds after he hung up all I could hear was the buzzing of the light fixture.

  “Hey.” Sweeney rapped on the closed bathroom door. “How you doing in there?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “Mind if I open—”

  “Go ahead.”

  The door swung to the side. Sweeney stepped in and gingerly lowered himself onto the toilet, his big booted feet tracking sludge over the tiles. We both noticed K.T.’s bra hanging to dry over the towel rack at the same time. I reached over and tucked it into my pocket, gulping as I did so.

  “Look,” he said, “what can I say? Shit.” He stuck a finger in the sink basin and made small swirling motions in the water like a schoolboy waiting to be chastised for messing up on the big test. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. How many lives had his incompetence cost?

  I stood up suddenly. “Sweeney, I’m not up to this right now.”

  “Can’t blame you. You must think I’m an asshole, and me coming from here.” I got the impression he was talking more to himself than to me. “That’s what living in San Francisco did for me, made me forget my roots. I shoulda thought of asking some locals about the eggshell stuff, maybe then I’d’ve hit on something before this
, but that voodoo stuff is mostly for black folk or swampers and, well, none of that ever crossed my mind. And that news about the Allen murder, its being closed and all that, hell, I got no excuse for that. I just didn’t follow up. Shit happens. You have any idea how fucking rare it is for a cold case to get yanked out of deep freeze years after a vic’s done in?” He glared at me hard. “Don’t look at me like that, Miller. I fucked up, okay, I fucked up. I know for a fact I wasn’t the only one. Think about how many people have touched this case at some point, me, Ryan, your partner—”

  I pulled hard on the door but it slammed against his boots.

  Without moving his feet so much as an inch, Sweeney narrowed his eyes at me and drew his thumb along his upper lip where sweat beads had erupted. This guy hated apologizing to me, hated asking me to understand his ineptitude. I didn’t avert my gaze. Let the asshole suffer.

  He snorted like a hippo considering a charge, then grabbed the towel I’d dropped back in the sink and rubbed it over his own face. “Tough broad, I’ll hand you that.”

  The intimacy of the setting suddenly disturbed me. I growled, “Let me out of here, Sweeney.”

  “Sure thing, but you gotta hear me first, and if you think this comes easy to me, you are dead wrong. I’m sorry, sorry for badmouthing you when it looks like maybe you’re a better dick than I thought. Hell, you may be a better dick than me, and coming from a big-balled Southerner like me, that says a lot.” The smile on his face had pain behind it. He was trying way too hard, and I didn’t care a twit. I wanted out.

  “Sweeney, move your legs. I got work to do.”

  “Okay, okay, here you go,” he said, kicking the door open with his heel. It crashed against the towel bar with such force, the framed prints on the wall almost bounced off their hooks. I stepped by him without a second look.

  He wouldn’t back off. “All I’m saying is, you’d be making a big mistake if you think you can move this baby without me. I’ll even let you call the next shot. Give me an assignment, Madam Dick. Come on, I mean it, what can I do to help?” he asked, following too closely on my heels.

  I waved him away. The volatile pit bull had turned into a big, sloppy Saint Bernard, over-eager for a rescue mission. No matter where I moved, he was half a step behind me. His new persona annoyed me as much as his last. “Back off!” I snapped finally.

  Thick-fingered hands closed around my biceps. “Don’t do this. I’m not a complete fuck-up. Your friend needs both of us. Tell me what to do. Anything.”

  The words erupted from me, flaming with sarcasm. “Find K.T.” I bit my lip before the sob could crack loose.

  “I plan to do just that.”

  “How? How?” A hint of hysteria crept into my voice. I couldn’t lose control again. I took a deep breath and asked, “Can you get help from the local police force?”

  “If anyone can, I’m the man. Those boys have my bucks to thank for some of their best drunks. What do you want to know?”

  His comment wasn’t real encouraging. Just what I needed, assistance from cops who counted favors by the number of drinks someone had bought them. Still, this was the best hand I had to play. But what if this moron was overstating his connections and information sources? I stood nose to nose with him and asked, “Were there any peculiar items found near Rubin’s body? And don’t assume I don’t already know the answer.”

  “Yeah, hot shot,” he said, nodding confidently. “A plaster cast statue of a ram ready to attack.” The cocky edge had returned. “So what do I win for being right?”

  “Nada.” I walked away and rummaged in a drawer for an antiacid. My stomach was a cauldron of fire. “The voodoo angle seems to hold up. The ram’s another symbol of Ogou Feray.”

  “What’d you say?” He sounded confused. I spun around to face him and repeated myself. Sweeney’s face had turned red. “You want to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about, or you gonna keep spitting this mumbo jumbo crap at me?”

  I gave him a quick run-down.

  “Shit.” He yanked up his pants like a cowboy about to mount a bronco and strode by me toward the balcony doors. Staring through them, he said quietly, “So Ryan didn’t give me the full scoop on the phone.”

  “I don’t have time or interest in soothing your bruised ego, Sweeney,” I said. “Do you know if the statue was used in the homicide?”

  Still looking away, from me, he said, “The perp probably used it to knock out Rubin. He left it standing between her legs, a friggin’ victory flag. What else you want to know?” He turned back and plucked at the hairs of his eyebrows, waiting for my next question. The son of a bitch knew I was testing the extent of his knowledge, and he was relishing the chance to prove himself.

  In the end, I had to admit that neither of us had a full deck of cards. To make this investigation fly, we’d have to work together, no matter how much we disliked each other. And I had no doubt that the distaste was mutual.

  “Okay, Sweeney, you want an assignment?” I said. “Here’s one. Get me everything you can on Fitzhugh Chamelle, if he has a criminal record. Where he lives. What car he drives. How he might link up to NeVille.” I scratched his name on the hotel pad.

  “Why don’t you fuckin’ ask me for the asshole’s high school album. Shit, Miller, it’s the middle of the night.”

  I muttered under my breath.

  “See,” he said, “there you go again, looking down at me like I got shit on my shoes. You want honesty, right?”

  I spun around. “You ready for true confessions, Sweeney? Is that it? Okay, tell me how you missed out on Chamelle? He covered every damn homicide you investigated, listed facts that no one should’ve known but the cops.”

  “Hey, I admit I’m not big on reading newspapers. So shoot me. Just ’cause I get my dose of daily dirt from the radio doesn’t make me an idiot, and before you turn your nose up at me, remember I’ve been doing this alone. Solo. No staff, no flunkies, no computer shit.” He flicked a nail against my laptop. “So Chamelle’s another nut I forgot to screw. Let me get to him now, okay? I’ll screw him so tight, his eyes’ll pop.”

  I winced at the image. If K.T.’s life hadn’t been at stake, I would’ve kicked this asshole out a long time ago. “We don’t have a lot of time, and we sure as hell don’t have time for your games.”

  “You need me and my games more than you think.” He ground his teeth, clearly trying to rein himself in. “The one thing you can’t get in this town but I can are police files, police info. My buddies on the force are all night owls. I’ll make the calls right now.” He reached for the phone, his eyes demanding assent.

  My nod was nearly imperceptible. “But use the lobby phone. I need this line.”

  He dropped the phone back in the cradle and scrambled toward the door. “Fine, fine. Fuck the phone. I’ll just haul my ass across the street, to command central. Just don’t go anywhere without me.”

  “Sure, you and my American Express card.”

  “Miller, listen up,” he said, his hand on the door knob. “I know you told Ryan about my drinking. He came down on me like a piano dropped from the top of the Sears Tower. For your info, I already put a call in to my sponsor. As of tonight, I’m working this thing sober.” He pointed to the trash can where I’d tossed the liquor bottles. “I suggest you do the same.”

  The last thing I needed was a lecture from the likes of Sweeney. I turned my back on him. As soon as I heard the lock click, my breath came easier. I pulled over the chair and called Dreyer Carr. No one answered. After the second try, I gave up. Considering the hour, he may have turned off the phone ringer and volume. I left a message, again urging him to contact me if he found anything out about Chamelle. The next call was to my office. By now, it was after two in the morning. I left detailed instructions for Jill, then dialed my partner Tony Serra. Even diminished by AIDS, Tony was one of the most dedicated and insightful investigators I’d ever known. After half a second of grogginess, he zeroed in on my briefing with amazing speed.


  “So this reporter looks like he could be the primo perp. Let me do some follow-up from here in case that donkey Sweeney takes another tumble. I’m a little disappointed in Ryan. He usually sizes them up better than this, otherwise I never would’ve taken a chance on you way back when. I gotta tell you, from the way he’s talked about Sweeney, I always assumed the guy could walk on water. I even tried to interest him in joining SIA.”

  I started to interrupt.

  “Hold on, partner, this was way before you came on board. The guy never bothered to return my calls. I figured he was another HIV-phobic asshole, so I didn’t push.”

  “Did you meet him when Betty Galonardi was murdered?”

  “Hold on, let me think. The spinster schoolteacher, right? There was a rumor some librarian killed himself over her. I remember thinking maybe the dead guy’s mom had killed Galonardi in revenge. Shit, did I meet Sweeney then? I should remember that, shouldn’t I?” Tony’s memory had begun deteriorating in recent weeks. The frustration in his voice disturbed me. “Come on, Serra, what was the year? ’Eighty-five?”

  I supplied the answer his memory wouldn’t surrender. “’Eighty-eight.”

  “Okay, that’s why I don’t remember. I was in Paris that summer. By the time I returned, Sweeney was done and gone. That’s right. I did some look-see when I got home, but the trail was stone-dead by then. Also—” He cut himself off. “You’re not going to like what I gotta say.”

  I clenched my fists in anticipation. “Go ahead.”

  “Galonardi was a dyke, I mean, a lesbian.” Shivers ran through my limbs as he spoke. “At least according to her next-door neighbor, an older guy who was kind of wacky himself. I never, got absolute confirmation, but the vic sure looked like a butch from her photos. Short hair, squared-off nails, man-tailored shirts. Back then, I hadn’t had much exposure to these types, so—”

  I burst in. “You blew it off? You blew the case off because she was gay?”

  “Miller, don’t make this personal.”

  “Okay, partner, I’ll remember that the next time I decide the death of an Italian not important enough for me to investigate.”