The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  NOEL WAS SITTING sideways at his desk, talking to Boo on the phone. He had taken to sitting that way when talking to her, as if looking straight ahead were too painful.

  He had flicked his eyes toward the dirt-encrusted window and flicked them back, so that he was now idly contemplating a pile of campaign brochures. He caught motion out of the corner of his eye, but later he thought that he had felt something, too—felt her presence as strong as a scent.

  He turned toward the blur. It was Torian, in baggy white shorts and T-shirt, backpack slung over her shoulder, hair slipping from her ponytail. Her body was moving fast and so, he thought, was her face, or maybe just her eyes, which took in the scene quickly, then seemed to rake the room for escape.

  He said, “Boo, I have to go. We’ve got a crisis here.”

  He hung up without waiting for an answer and nearly leaped over the table to get to Torian. Her arms went around him as if she were shipwrecked and had found flotsam to cling to. With one hand, he pulled her to him, with the other pushed the door closed. But as he pushed, he noticed Errol Jacomine, standing in the reception area, turn around and note the closing door. What else he had seen Noel didn’t know.

  “What is it, darling? What’s wrong?” He whispered it, hoping the softness of his breath would calm her. Her neck was uncharacteristically hot.

  “Ohhhhhh, Noel!” Her voice was ragged with sobbing.

  He squeezed her closer, held her tighter, until the sobs began to subside.

  She pulled away from him and touched her nose, high on the bridge, where a nasty bruise discolored her delicate skin. “I can’t stay with my mother anymore.”

  “She did that?”

  Torian nodded and flung herself against him again, clinging like a toddler. “She hit me! Noel, she hit me! And then she left me all alone in the middle of the night.” She began to sob again.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.” He was horrified for her, distraught on her behalf, yet a part of him exulted because she was with him, this thing had driven her to him.

  When he had stopped her sobs, he sat her down and got her a drink of water. “Noel, what am I going to do?”

  “Let’s think about it. Let’s talk it out.”

  There was a light tap on the door, and Jacomine entered without being bidden.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Torian leaned back in her chair, withdrawing as if she were suddenly shy, but her face split in a smile. “Mr. Jacomine? Reverend Jacomine?” Her voice was eager.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Torian Gernhard. You don’t know how hard I’ve been working for you. It would mean really, really a lot to New Orleans if you got elected. I’m just so glad you decided to run.” The words came out in a breathless rush, making her sound more like an awkward schoolgirl than she ever had in Noel’s acquaintanceship. She flushed, apparently afraid she was babbling.

  Jacomine smiled as if she had just conferred a knighthood on him. “I’m so very pleased to meet you, Miss Gernhard. I wonder if .. .” He paused, seemingly shy. “.. . if there’s any way I might be of service.” He glanced suspiciously at Noel. “I mean I…” another gentlemanly pause “… I really couldn’t help noticing your distress, and I wondered if you and Mr. Treadaway could use my assistance in any way.”

  He sounded so courtly that Noel almost forgot the things he had heard about “taking care of’ Langdon, the cop.” However, he was far from ready to put Torian’s fate in Jacomine’s hands.

  But Torian was all innocence. Her face gave way again, and when she had enough control to speak, she said, “I don’t know what to do; I’m frightened, and I just don’t know what to do.”

  “What is it, child?”

  “My mother hit me!” Again she rubbed the bruise on her face. “I’m afraid to go home, and I can’t tell my father, he’ll…”

  Jacomine put a hand on her knee. Torian apparently took the gesture as paternal; Noel wanted to kill him. “He’ll what, dear child?”

  “I don’t know what he might do to her!” The sentence was more like an explosion. Her cheeks reddened.

  Noel started. She’d painted her dad as the next thing to a saint.

  Jacomine said, “Your father is violent?”

  “No! I mean, he never has been, but—” The tears and sobs started again. Noel longed to hold her.

  Jacomine looked at him curiously. “Mr. Treadaway, you’re a relative?”

  “Neighbor. Torian babysits for my wife and me.”

  “Perhaps she could stay with you for a day or two.”

  But Torian blurted, “No! I mean—I do need a day or two, but I need … I need . ..”

  Jacomine patted her again. “I understand, dear child. You need to be away from people you know.”

  She gave him such a grateful look Noel was jealous.

  “There’s a very nice place called Covenant House.”

  “The one on Rampart?”

  “Yes. They offer sanctuary for seventy-two hours, I believe. Before they inform anyone of your whereabouts.”

  She started to shake her head, and Noel knew that she was afraid. “I don’t know…” she said. He knew she was thinking of the runaways who hung out on Decatur Street, the kids with multiple piercings and dreadlocks and three months’ worth of caked dirt. “I don’t think I could . ..” she shuddered, apparently unable to stop herself.

  Finally, she said, “I think I need more time. I need a week, I think. Just one. To think. To consider my options.”

  Jacomine smiled what Noel thought was an exceptionally smarmy smile. “I think there was a reason you came to Mr. Treadaway.”

  Torian flinched; her face was like a baby animal’s.

  “You must believe he can take care of you.” He turned to Noel. “Children have excellent instincts, don’t you find?” Back to Torian. “And he can, my dear. Make no mistake, he can solve your problem.”

  Noel felt his stomach start to spin in his belly. Torian looked at him adoringly. Jacomine took advantage of the situation to wink at him: Little white lie coming up; bear with me.

  Noel had no choice but to bear with him. He couldn’t have found his voice if fire had broken out.

  Jacomine said, “I’m thinking of that woman you told me about. The one who takes care of runaways. Did you tell Miss Gernhard about her as well?”

  “I… uh … must have.” He thought: What the hell is he talking about?

  “Why don’t you just take her over there? You know the church can’t shelter a runaway. That’s illegal.”

  “But it’s illegal for me, too.”

  Jacomine ignored him and turned to Torian. “Miss Gernhard, would you like to stay with a nice woman for a few days who’ll take care of you? While you think?”

  “I have to go get my clothes.” She sounded uncertain.

  “Well, of course.”

  She said, “Noel, should I? Tell me what to do.”

  “I don’t…” He stopped to clear his throat, barely able to speak. “I don’t think this is a good idea at all.”

  Torian looked as if he’d slapped her. She started to cry again, and Noel would have given up anything he owned to be able to go to her.

  Jacomine stood. “I think I’d better leave you two to talk about it.”

  When he had gone and Noel had made sure the door was safely shut, he took both of Torian’s hands. “Darling. You have to go back home. Or to your father’s.”

  She looked utterly panicked, a cornered animal, no place to turn. “I don’t see why you won’t help me.” Her voice was high with the knowledge of betrayal.

  He stared at her, helpless, unable to think of a thing to say. Finally, he settled for, “Excuse me a moment,” and dashed into Jacomine’s office.

  “Who is this woman? What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  The candidate was cool as vichysoisse, and just as smooth. “Noel, I don’t know how much thought you’re given to children’s right
s, but that happens to be a particular concern of mine. And of the Following. We feel very strongly about seeing a child mistreated, and even more strongly that there aren’t enough options for them.

  “Options,” he said again. He stopped and seemed to be sipping the word. Holding it in a chalice. “Miss Gernhard used the word herself. A child like her has no options. Did you ever think that in some cases, it’s not what the law is that matters? It’s what’s right? Did you ever think of that?”

  He pointed to Noel’s office, electricity practically sparking from his fingers. “Now that young lady in there is desperate. Somebody’s been abusing her badly, and I can tell she means a lot to you. We happen to know a woman—that is, the church does—who is absolutely marvelous with these children. We’ve worked with her for years, and I assure you she’s both reliable and discreet. That child will come out of there feeling as if she’s been given a new mother and a new life. I’ve seen it over and over.”

  He stared at Noel for too long a time. “It’s up to you, Mr. Treadaway; it’s completely up to you.”

  He turned away and made a note on a small piece of paper, leaving Noel feeling as if he’d been slammed in the solar plexus. He handed the paper to Noel.

  On it was written a name, “Paulette Thibodeaux,” along with a phone number and address. Noel read it and said, “Laurel Street. Near the park.”

  Suddenly Jacomine’s face began to turn purple. He spoke with venom that seemed to come from nowhere and nothing. “What does it matter where it is? You’re trying to find out if she’s black or white, aren’t you? That really matters to you, doesn’t it?” He shook his head, a man utterly disillusioned. “I’ll tell you one thing, Noel. I’ll just tell you one thing. I’ve been worried about you. Maybe this just isn’t the job for you. I’ve been worried about that. I’ve talked it over with Potter, and we both agree you might not be working out.”

  Noel felt as if he were being given an order: Send the girl to this woman.

  He said, “You know I can’t take her over there. Any more than you can.”

  Jacomine shrugged. “Send her in a taxi then.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Paulette? I’m sending you a baby.”

  Noel left, amazed, feeling dazed and manipulated, yet not knowing how to get out of the net he’d fallen into. He said to Torian, “You sure about this?”

  She smiled, already looking as if she’d been given a new life. He had had some idea of trying to talk her out of it, but there was no hope now.

  He gave her the slip of paper and some money. “Call me when you get there. Promise?”

  She gave him a half-disgusted look, almost as if she were dealing with a parent.

  * * *

  Skip tried Jeanie in Records, but she was off.

  Just as well. She didn’t want to do it the first time. Who else could she call?

  Jim.

  The thought came before she could stop it. And a wave of pain, the first in a long time, made her gasp.

  Jim Hodges was the officer who’d died backing her up—the person in Homicide to whom she’d probably been closest besides Cappello and Joe Tarantino—the person she’d have called instead of Jeanie if he’d been around. Due to her delicate status with the department, she couldn’t ask either of the others for a favor.

  She’d been standing, staring out at the courtyard. But she found the sudden tightening of her throat so painful, so evocative, that she stepped backward involuntarily, staggering a little. She turned around, groping her way to the sofa through a curtain of tears. For a few minutes she sat motionless, not really remembering Jim, just feeling sad, as if she had done it so long she couldn’t remember what else to do.

  This had happened to her before, and coming out of it felt like waking up—she never knew how long she’d been gone, and was always surprised that she seemed to have had no thoughts at all during the period she’d been away, and no sense memories of it.

  Shortly after the two killings—Jim’s and his murderer’s—she’d spent her weekends in that state, coming out of it only to go to work.

  This time she shook her head, as if shaking off the sadness, and got up to get some water.

  Abasolo! she thought.

  Adam Abasolo had come to Homicide only recently, but they’d been through a lot together and she knew he’d do her a favor.

  She phoned him for access once again to NCIC. “I need everything you can get on an Earl Jackson,” she said.

  “AKA anything I should know?”

  “Certainly not,” she said. Abasolo was her buddy, but he was also a sergeant; she certainly wasn’t mentioning Jacomine to him.

  “It’s kind of an ordinary-sounding name.”

  “It’s Earl Theophilus Jackson. DOB June 14, 1945.”

  “Okay, ma’am. I’ll get back to you.”

  In a couple of hours he called back. “One little assault, one tiny battery; that’s it. Or almost it.”

  “Tiny battery? How do you manage that?”

  “Well, he wasn’t convicted. Some guy in Savannah said Jackson hit him with ‘no provocation’ during an argument—do you love that phrase? There weren’t any witnesses, but the guy had a broken nose.”

  Skip was curious. That was more information than NCIC provided. “How do you know all that?”

  “How do you think?”

  “You called the Savannah cops.”

  “I got curious.”

  “I’m so touched I may send flowers.”

  “Do. It’ll enhance my reputation.”

  “What about the assault?”

  “He took a swing at somebody in Tampa. That time there were witnesses, but the other guy had the sense to step out of the way.”

  “Volatile dude.”

  “I don’t know. Jackson was waiting for a parking place and the other guy sneaked in behind him. They must have some pretty hard-nosed juries in Tampa. You probably wouldn’t convict on that yourself.”

  Skip had to admit she wouldn’t. “What did you mean by that was ‘almost it’?”

  “Well, the Savannah policeman said there was also a fraud investigation, but it didn’t pan out. He didn’t really know any more about it.”

  “I think there’s a juvenile record somewhere.”

  “Oh, great. You didn’t mention you wanted me to get sealed juvenile records, which cannot be gotten. What else can I do for Your Majesty?”

  “Sorry, Adam. Just thinking aloud.”

  “Could I go back to fighting crime now? I hear some noise outside—I think it’s the city falling apart.”

  “Listen, thanks a lot.”

  “Whatever I can do for you, kid. You know that.”

  “I know.” He’d been with her the night she shot Jim’s killer.

  She called Jane Storey and ran down what she had. “Not bad,” said Jane. “Not good, but not really bad.”

  “That fraud thing might be interesting.”

  “Libelous, however. What the hell, I’ll call the cops in Savannah. Maybe it’ll come to something or other.”

  “I wonder what he was doing there?”

  Next, she called Mary Lou at the Christian Community and asked where Jackson came from in the first place. “Atlanta, I guess.”

  “You sure?”

  Mary Lou sighed dramatically. “Let me go look at the file.” Skip could almost see her waddling to get it.

  “Savannah,” she said in a minute.

  “Bingo.”

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  Twenty minutes later she was in the library, photocopying the ‘Jackson’ section of the Savannah phone book. There were six Earls and one Theophilus.

  Back home, she called the Theophilus.

  A woman answered—Mrs. Theophilus Jackson, also known as Perdita. “There’ve been Earls,” she said. “Quite a few Earls in the family.”

  “This one became a preacher.”

  “Oh, yes. I know the one you mean. He’s a few cousins removed, I b’lieve. Or some
thing like that. His folks were—let me see—Blanche! Blanche and Harry. Or maybe it was Henry. Something like that, anyway.”

  As she talked, Skip scanned the Jacksons. “Henry on DeRenne Avenue?”

  “Now that’s his brother, I think. There were three of those boys. Henry and Earl and—let’s see now …” There was a long silence. “Thomas! That’s it. Henry and Earl and Thomas. Earl became a preacher, and Henry married Marcelline Sims from over at Port Wentworth. He’s a pretty good car mechanic. We’ve always used him. Thomas, now. They say the good die young, and everyone said that about Thomas. Something sudden, I think. Heart attack. He was a bus driver, can you imagine? What if he’d been drivin’ the bus at the time?”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Let me see now … Eva! Think she lives out at Wilmington Island.”

  Skip tried Eva first, but got no answer. Next she tried Henry. Since it was daytime, the best she could hope for was Marcelline. But a man answered, quite a young one from his voice.

  “Is Mrs. Jackson there? Marcelline Jackson?”

  “She isn’t here right now. This is her son Theo—can I help you?”

  Why not? Skip thought. He sounded very young indeed. She made her voice a little more Southern, a lot less confident, and about an octave higher. “I’m calling for a newspaper in Louisiana—about your Uncle Earl?”

  “Oh, Uncle Earl. Did he die or something?”

  “Well, no. He’s been elected president of the Chamber of Commerce.”

  “Uncle Earl? You sure you got the right Earl Jackson?”

  “Well, I must, because he said something along those lines. He said, ‘‘My family sure would be proud of me. Nobody would have ever thought when I was growin’ up.. .’

  “Of course, him being a preacher and all, I didn’t really believe it, I thought it was just a kind of modest thing he said, but then I thought, ‘Wait a minute. There might be a pretty good story in this.’ We’re just a tiny town, you know; even something like the Chamber of Commerce is news. And I’m kind of—you know—new here. So I thought … I mean, nothing much happens here, so I thought…”

  “Did you say Uncle Earl’s a preacher?”

  “Well, yes. With the Christian Community?”

  “You got to have the wrong Earl Jackson.”