by Julie Smith
Then he had met Torian, and all work had stopped. He simply couldn’t think of anything or anyone else—that is, anyone except Boo and Joy and his guilt toward them, his sadness that his marriage would end, his fear that he would lose his child.
He sat there in his office, his computer on, trying to focus on his novel, and he found sometimes that an hour or more had passed and he had not typed a word. Sometimes, when that happened, he gave in to it; he thought it best, as long as he was going to think of Torian, to do it in a creative way. He wrote poems to her, poems that he hadn’t yet had the courage to read to her. He was working on a short story as well, but that was like the novel. It was happening slowly, at its own pace. He knew it would come together eventually, but for the moment life was confusing. Things that had seemed permanent were suddenly transient, fragile as crystal.
His job, on which he’d leaned for so many years, was gone, at least for the moment. Boo and Joy were floating figures, bobbing on the horizon. And Torian, so much in the forefront, so Colossus-like in his brain, could disappear at any moment; he was aware of that. If someone found out, anyone at all, she could be forbidden ever to see him again, watched like a prisoner, though they’d done nothing sexual.
His whole life was hanging by a hair.
A job was supposed to give him a sense of security, of permanence, of once again belonging—maybe even a sense of self. And this was like stepping into a strange, upside-down world where he didn’t know the rules and people might be cheating.
He felt not only at a disadvantage, he felt a strange sense of foreboding.
Someone knocked at his door.
“Come in.”
The candidate himself came in. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” Surely there could be nothing wrong—that was impossible. Here was a man so humble he came to Noel’s office instead of summoning him, and then he asked if Noel had a minute, as if being there for Jacomine wasn’t his job.
Suddenly he saw what was happening. He saw it as clearly as if the sky had lit up and revealed it: Jacomine didn’t have a clue what was happening. Potter Menard was running the show and it was out of hand.
Jacomine said: “We need to talk about the white honky media.”
Noel nodded, a little surprised by the epithet but relieved to discuss a subject about which he felt confident.
“Here’s a list of reporters we need some dirt on.”
Jacomine handed over a piece of paper with seven names on it, all but one people Noel knew. All of them he respected.
Three were good friends, another two were casual friends, one was a friendly associate. He had had dinner in the homes of most of them.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Jacomine’s eyes looked suddenly small and beady. He shrugged. “Well, you’re the press secretary.”
“Errol, I don’t think you quite understand how things work. The media isn’t dirty.”
Jacomine laughed, prompting a rueful smile from Noel.
“I mean, relatively speaking. Nothing like politics is.”
The other man sat back in his chair. “Oh. Well, I’ve been misinformed.”
I’ll just bet you have, and I think I know who your informant was.
“If we tried to blackmail them, they’d just put that in the paper. You see what I mean?”
“Oh. Well. We don’t want that, do we?” He seemed embarrassed. Noel was trying to think of something to say to get them over the social hump, something casual and reassuring, when Jacomine stood and turned toward the door. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Guess we’ll have to kill ‘em then.”
* * *
Skip’s phone rang again, for the third time in five minutes. “Hi, it’s Tricia.”
“Tricia Lattimore. God, I’m glad to hear from you. You’re the only person who knows me that’s called this morning.”
“Lots of wrong numbers?”
“No, it’s something else. How’s every little thing?”
“Well, I don’t know how to say this, but I’m a little worried about some things I’ve been hearing about you.”
Skip sighed. “What have you been hearing?”
“Just that you haven’t really recovered from … uh … what happened last year, and you’re on leave.”
“Go on.” Skip felt her heart pounding, angry and a little panicked.
“Well, I hear you’re going around spreading rumors about Errol Jacomine. Listen, he’s …”
“What am I supposed to have said?”
“I just heard you’re saying really crazy things …”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, I just…”
“You didn’t ask?”
“Well, no. But the person who told me is totally reliable. It’s someone who knows we’re friends and was worried about you—and thought I ought to know. Thought someone ought to be taking care of you.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“They asked me not to.”
“Why?”
“Listen, it’s complicated. I just can’t do it.”
“Is it someone I know?”
“I’m sorry, Skip, I just can’t break the confidence.”
“They didn’t tell you what I was actually doing…”
“They did! They said you’re saying crazy things and acting paranoid.”
“How am I acting paranoid, and what did I say?”
“Look, Skip, this is a person of goodwill. They were concerned about you.”
“Okay, a person of goodwill comes to you about a very close friend, says things that could damage the friend’s reputation, and won’t let it be known who he or she is. Does that strike you as normal behavior?”
“Skip, you’re really overreacting. I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do, and you come at me with this.”
“I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of something very confusing and uncomfortable.”
“Let me help you. Why don’t I come over and we can talk about it?”
“I think I have to work this through by myself.”
“Come on. I’m your oldest friend.”
“Tricia, I really can’t.”
“Look, it bothers me that you’re trying to make something out of this—”
“Make something? I’m not trying to make anything.”
“Would you let me talk, please? I called up for the reason I said, and you made a big deal out of who the person was and what did they say …”
“So?”
“So I’m sorry to say it, but it really does seem paranoid.”
“Look, we’ll talk about it when this is all over.”
“Now you’re the one talking in generalities. When what’s all over?”
“I’m a police officer. You know I can’t talk about my work.”
“Skip, you’re on leave. Right now you’re not a police officer.”
“My doorbell’s ringing. I’ve really got to go.”
She hung up breathing hard, her heart beating too fast. This was crazy-making. How on Earth had they gotten to Tricia, who really was her oldest friend?
Or had they?
Maybe I am paranoid, she thought. Could it be I really am going nuts? Is she right? It makes as much sense as some perfect stranger telling my oldest friend some cockamamie story, and her believing it. Why did she believe it? That’s the part I don’t get.
The answer came to her with a nasty jolt: Darryl!
Her friend Darryl—the one Sheila liked so well— tended bar in the same place Tricia waitressed. Could Jacomine have gotten to him through one of his followers? Many of them were black, as was Darryl. Was there someone he trusted implicitly who had fallen under Jacomine’s spell? A relative, even?
Tricia’s informant could have been anyone, of course, but Darryl was her best friend—she’d believe him without a second thought. That might explain why she was so insistent.
This
thing is so insidious. If I wasn’t paranoid before, I am now. I feel like all my best friends are in a conspiracy against me.
* * *
Her phone rang again. “Detective Langdon? This is Emily Warford. I’m a friend of Sergeant Milius, who works with you.”
“I don’t really know Sergeant Milius, I’ve only heard of him.”
“Well, listen, I think it’s important to the police department for Errol Jacomine to get elected, and so does Sergeant Milius. The Reverend Mr. Jacomine’s such a fine, fine man, Detective. I wonder if you know how much he’s done for this city? With his day care programs, and his drug treatment programs, and—this is real important to me, because I have a teenage daughter who’s a mother—he has a special program that helps girls like her stay in school. I’m sure I don’t need to outline each and every one of his contributions—”
“No, indeed. I’m well aware of them, I think.”
“But I just wanted to tell you how good Sergeant Milius thinks he’s going to be for the police department.”
“I really appreciate your calling, but I’m afraid I’ve got a call on my other line.”
As she cradled the receiver, the phone rang again. This time she let the machine pick it up. She hoped the deluge wasn’t going to last too long—it would be so irritating to have to get a new phone number.
How did they get my number, anyway?
It was Cappello’s voice on the machine. Skip picked up.
“Hi. I’m screening today. Jacomine’s flock is calling in, one at a time, and so is everyone any of them have ever heard of.”
“I know what you mean. We’re still getting it down here. Even me.”
“Why not? You’re my sergeant.”
“Look, I’ve already asked you to stop whatever you’re doing. Now I’ve been officially designated to ask you again. I won’t say who asked me—”
“Oh, no, not that again.”
“Not what again?”
“That’s how he works. Everything’s always a big secret.”
“Hey. Nothing’s secret. I was just being discreet. This request comes straight from Captain Giannini. Is that open enough?”
“Sorry. I guess I was being paranoid.”
“Listen, Skip, the brass is very fed up with this. For your own good, please think about that. Will you?”
“I will, Sylvia. I promise.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell you about the call I just had—the guy sounded like a nut case. I think you might be on to something.”
Skip let out her breath so hard it was almost a whistle. “Sylvia. You don’t know how much that means to me.”
She unplugged her phone, and no sooner had she done it than her doorbell rang. It was Henry, the mailman.
“Got a few letters for you, Skip.” He had an armload. “What you been doin’—answering chain letters?”
“Don’t knock it, Henry. There’s a five-dollar bill in each one of those.”
As she talked to him, she looked up and down the street, hoping she was being reasonably discreet—if they were writing to her, they had her address, which meant they probably had her under surveillance.
As usual, every available parking place was taken, but she thought she saw the top of someone’s head in a dark red Saturn. Even that was no big deal. Here in the Quarter, people seemed to sit around in cars for hours sometimes—talking, resting, maybe selling drugs.
She went back in and opened a few letters. They nearly all started out the same way: “Dear Detective Langdon, I want to tell you how much the Rev. Errol Jacomine has done for the community.”
She counted them. There were sixty-three.
When she left the house, she glanced once again at the red Saturn. There was definitely someone in it.
She picked up some things at Matassa’s and returned. The car was gone.
* * *
If there were such a thing as protesting too much, Jacomine was certainly doing it. He had to be guilty of something—else why bother trying to stop an investigation?
Skip knew what he would say: “Our people have just had so much trouble, they’re so disenfranchised that, frankly, we’re used to being abused. That’s all we expect anymore, and we’ve learned to cope with it.”
But everybody had trouble, everybody was disenfranchised, and nobody behaved like this. There was a big scandal somewhere, and it wasn’t only in the future, she was sure of that. It could be happening in the present— political skulduggery was probably going down even now at a rate she couldn’t even imagine. But she didn’t know what form it would take or (since they knew her and were probably watching her) how to investigate it. Her gut feeling was to go for whatever he was trying so hard to cover up.
She phoned a friend in Records. “Jeanie? I need a big favor.”
“I heard you were on leave.”
“Yeah, but no one’s gonna know.”
Jeanie sighed. “You’d do the same for me, right? Whatever it is.”
“I need a sheet on somebody.”
“Easy enough.”
“And an NCIC search.” The National Crime Information Center was a federal wanted system—a little hit-or-miss, but the only service available.
“Okay. Give me a name.”
“Errol Jacomine.”
“You got to be kidding.”
“Hey. Would I do it for you?”
Next, there was nothing like her good old hometown sources. When she was looking for a missing person who’d once been a member of some off-brand sect, she’d called the religion editor at the Times-Picayune to ask about three churches she’d narrowed it down to. He hadn’t known a thing about them, but one had turned out to be Jacomine’s.
She felt a twinge of conscience now at never having called him back. Realizing there was something badly wrong with Jacomine, she’d reported him to the department’s intelligence officer, who’d brushed her off. But she hadn’t even thought of nice Stanley at the T-P.
Never too late, she thought, and dialed him. “Stanley? Skip Langdon from NOPD.”
“Ah, yes. We talked about a year ago.”
“I’m calling because one of those churches I asked you about was Errol Jacomine’s.”
“Oh, was it now? My, my. Now there’s a development. What did you think of him?” She heard keen interest in his voice, but by now she’d had enough Jacomine experience not to go blurting indiscretions.
“Well, I had opinions. I’m wondering if you’ve done any work on him lately—in view of his emergence in politics.”
He sighed. “If you don’t know the answer, you must be on the right side.”
“Oho. Calls and letters? Pressure on your boss and your boss’s boss? Maybe even your wife? Is that what we’re talking about here?”
“And how would you know about that?”
“I think we better talk.”
Chapter Nine
STANLEY CAME OUT to meet her and took her into an interview room. So far they’d only talked on the phone, and she had to admit surprise at seeing him. He was no one’s idea of a religion editor.
He was a black man—short, rotund, wearing the kind of baggy print trousers for sale in health clubs, though if he’d ever been in one it wasn’t doing much good. He had on a Dr. Dre T-shirt, and his bald head was so shiny it looked waxed.
“You’re looking at me like you think I’m weird. You think I’m weird?”
“Not exactly. But I’ll bet the archbishop does.”
“Yeah, I bet he does.” He laughed. “I’m so weird the paper didn’t even want to give me any kind of job, despite my fabulous credentials and affirmative action potential. So they offered this little gig to get rid of me, never knowing I had family here, and sickness in it. It was either take their dirty job or get me one as a bartender or something.
“But guess what? I love it. And I’m great at it. Love to go to voodoo ceremonies; crazy for priests who can’t keep their hands off the kiddies.” At Skip’s look, he said, “Journalistically speakin
g, of course. Why should the police guys get all the exposés? You should pardon me, but that’s one hell of a department you’ve got over there. My successes aside, cracking this Jacomine thing’s another ball game. Tell you the truth, I’ve only been nibbling around the edges of it.
“When the big man decided to run for mayor, a young reporter came to talk to me about him, a young political wanna-be—don’t ask, to me it’s the world’s most boring beat. Anyway, she came in here, all full of piss and vinegar and said she’d talked the powers that be into letting her do little features about everybody who’d filed for mayor. A pretty tiresome chore, so I guess the regular political guys were happy to let one of the youngsters do it.
“So she wanted some background on Jacomine. I told her what I must have told you—that I didn’t know him at all. She said she’d looked in the clips and there wasn’t a damn thing on him, but then she got a call from somebody talking about his work in the community.” He stopped himself. “You got to let her tell it. She needs to talk about it; in fact, if you want to know the truth, she could probably use a good therapist right about now.”
“So could I—mine quit because her husband works for Jacomine.”
Stanley’s demeanor changed so suddenly Skip was startled. Thunderclouds settled over his sunny features. “Who is this guy?” he shouted. “How the hell can he be everywhere at once.”
Seeing her shrink back in her chair, he said, “Oops. Sorry. He’s got us all a little on edge.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
He left and came back with a woman in her late twenties, with long brown hair and blue eyes. The hair had a funny sheen to it, and Skip could see roots—obviously she was prematurely gray, but unwilling to live with it.
Skip liked her looks—high cheekbones, but a round face, very friendly; a good smile. “I’m Jane Storey,” she said. “I’ve heard of you.”
“From Jacomine’s people?”
“Oh, no, they don’t communicate with me directly. Though there was a time when Errol called me nearly every day. I’ve read about some of your cases. And of course Eileen Moreland did that great piece about you.”
