by Julie Smith
* * *
She took her Coke out to the courtyard, where Steve was making notes, having just interviewed some kids for his project.
“Want anything?”
“No thanks. I’ve got iced tea.” He had looked at her only a moment. Now he turned back, fast, doing almost a classic double take. “What?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking—I better get hold of those witches. For Layne’s allergy.”
“Uh-uh.”
“You don’t believe in magic?”
“That’s not what’s on your mind.”
“Well, what is, big boy?”
“You know how some machines have a ‘ready’ light? You’re blinking one, baby—want to spend the afternoon in bed?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She sat down next to him and took a pull on her Coke.
“Uh-uh again. That’s not it. You didn’t sit in my lap. You’re not following up.”
She shrugged, but she couldn’t hide her excitement. “I guess I’m a little distracted.”
He drew away a little bit, so as to get a better look at her face. “You think you know how to get him!”
Jacomine, he meant. She didn’t have to ask.
“I wish. Cappello called, that’s all. I think I’ll go to work Monday.”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, so many people assisted so generously I’ve probably forgotten some—I apologize if I have. My deepest thanks to Tracy Johnston and Jon Carroll for a great idea over dinner; to New Orleans Police Captain Linda Buczek, John Gagliano of the coroner’s office, Sergeant Andrew Clark of the Louisiana State Police, Mike Andrews of Reed Brothers Security, Betsy Petersen, Kathy and Ken White, Kit and Billy Wohl, Chris Wiltz, Steve Holtz, Jim Alexander, two librarians— Robert Burke and Mairi McFall—and Bob Breck, who talks about weather in a way even I can understand. Thanks also to those who helped in Southwest Louisiana—Alison Owings and Stanley Dry, the kind people at the Teche News—especially Henri Clay Bienvenu and Gladys de Villiers—and Lee Pryor, with whom I would travel to the end of the earth.
Get the heart-stopping new Skip Langdon : CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION by Julie Smith at www.booksbnimble.com
For a glimpse, read on …
A HOLLYWOOD WALK was basically a photo op. The prisoner had to be taken from Headquarters to what was now grandly called the Intake and Processing Center (“central lockup” in simpler days). This could easily be done without going outside, but that wasn’t sexy. When the superintendent of police got shot, the department damn well wanted everyone to know it got its man. Hence, a short walk from the garage door at the rear of Headquarters, about half a block up White Street, and over to the booking facility on Perdido.
A short walk with more media people in attendance than there were cops in the building.
Bazemore’s hands were cuffed behind him, Skip at one side, Boudreaux at the other, cameras everywhere. People eddied and swirled, shouting inane questions. Skip felt as if she’d been up for two days.
Perhaps, she thought later, she should have been more alert. In retrospect she had no idea where her attention had been when she heard the shot.
Bazemore stumbled and went down.
Reporters scrambled, some tripping over wires and falling as well.
Skip stared down at her prisoner for no more than a second—a split second, it couldn’t have been more—and immediately jerked her head up to the Broad Street overpass. A man was there, running. Traffic had slowed. But she had no shot, given the number of civilians in both places.
She simply watched, frozen, unbelieving, as the man ran, holding what was apparently a high-powered rifle. When they turned Bazemore over, his nose was gone.
Skip spent the next morning giving statements to other officers and avoiding giving any to the press. Cappello was handling that.
The letter came with her other mail—the only piece that wasn’t junk, but she would have noticed it anyway. It was in a plain white business envelope, with her name and address neatly typed, plain as you please. The arresting part was in the upper left hand corner, where the return address should have been. It was only two words: the jury. Skip called Cappello. “Sylvia, come over here.” Cappello took one look and immediately came to the same conclusion Skip had. “Omigod. Let’s get the bomb squad. And the crime lab.”
They left it there, not touching it, till the bomb squad had pronounced it safe and the lab had dusted. Then, carefully, and in the presence of witnesses, Skip slit it open and read.
Dear Detective Langdon:
We wish to congratulate you on your swift and excellent work in apprehending Nolan Bazemore, a blight on the city of New Orleans and indeed on the entire country, which used to be worth something. That’s right—used to be. This used to be a country where it was safe for old ladies to walk down the street in the middle of the day, where public schools were excellent and every child assured a good education, where neighbors took care of each other—cared about each other—and where crime was negligible. In the event a crime was committed, the criminal was entitled to a fair and speedy trial by a jury of his peers, twelve good men and true, and more often than not, justice was done. At any rate, we certainly expected it to be, and if it was not, we were surprised. We were shocked and we were outraged.
To our eternal sadness, this is no longer true. We no longer permit our grandmothers to walk alone (or our children, for that matter), we accept the decrepitude of our schools, many of us carry guns against the rising tide of crime, and we do not expect justice. We have become a nation of cynics. We expect judges to sleep on the bench, juries to acquit, and lawyers to get rich.
Why is this? We are too defeated to have any hope.
In Chief Albert Goodlett we had a chance at a real change in one of our major cities. In the only city in the world, possibly in the history of the world, that currently has two officers on Death Row. In what is possibly the worst police department in, once again, the history of the world.
There is much in a name. Chief Goodlett was a good man. An honest man. A competent man.
And he was shot to death by an unworthy enemy, an enemy of the church, the state, the Lord—of our very system of justice and the only decent chance it has had in years.
Nolan Bazemore was scum. He was not fit to lick the boots of Chief Albert Goodlett, and there will not be a single detractor among those who read this letter, black or white. This is not a racial issue. Yet Nolan Bazemore was a racist—an ignorant racist who deserved to die. Nolan Bazemore was guilty of cold-blooded homicide and he was guiltier still of another outrage—of destroying our Hope! Just when we had Hope, he destroyed it.
And so we The Jury claim responsibility, as the newspapers say, for the trial, conviction, and execution of Nolan Bazemore. It saddens us deeply that such action is necessary and yet we know that it is, and you. Detective Langdon, know that it is, and you, fellow Americans, know that it is.
The letter was signed, “Very Sincerely Yours, The Jury.”
Skip hated this. It terrified her. It scared her a great deal more than mindlessness, or simple craziness. This was complicated craziness. This was a very effective mind at work. And it made her want to run screaming into the woods.
She felt her heart beating, her pulse racing, and realized that part of what she was feeling was anger.
Part of it was irrational anger, but part of it was rational—she was pissed off at anyone who had a brain that functioned as well as the letter-writer’s and still went around killing people. A person who most assuredly knew right from wrong, and who had chosen wrong.
Chosen evil.
She shivered. It gave her goose bumps. And made her think of Errol Jacomine.
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The Skip Langdon Series (in order of publication)
THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ
JAZZ FUNERAL
DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK (formerly NEW ORLEANS BEAT)
HOUSE OF BLUES
THE KNDNESS OF STRANGERS
CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION (formerly Crescent City Kill)
82 DESIRE
MEAN WOMAN BLUES
Also by Julie Smith:
The Rebecca Schwartz Series
DEATH TURNS A TRICK
THE SOURDOUGH WARS
TOURIST TRAP
DEAD IN THE WATER
OTHER PEOPLE’S SKELETONS
The Paul Macdonald Series
TRUE-LIFE ADVENTURE
HUCKLEBERRY FIEND
The Talba Wallis Series
LOUISIANA HOTSHOT
LOUISIANA BIGSHOT
LOUISIANA LAMENT
P.I. ON A HOT TIN ROOF
As well as:
WRITING YOUR WAY: THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL TRACK
NEW ORLEANS NOIR (ed.)
And don’t miss ALWAYS OTHELLO, a Skip Langdon story, as well as the brand new short story, PRIVATE CHICK, which asks the question, “Is this country ready for a drag queen detective?” More info at www.booksBnimble.com.
About the Author
Julie Smith is a New Orleans writer and former reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle and the Times-Picayune. New Orleans Mourning, her first novel featuring New Orleans cop Skip Langdon, won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel, and she has since published eight more highly acclaimed books in the series, plus spun off a second New Orleans series featuring PI and poet Talba Wallis.
She is also the author of the Rebecca Schwartz series and the Paul Mcdonald series, plus the YA novels CURSEBUSTERS! and EXPOSED. In addition to her novels, she’s written numerous essays and short stories and is the editor of NEW ORLEANS NOIR.
