by Julie Smith
"Humiliated her; held her up as some terrible example of a hussy in front of everybody. So then she had no way to make a livin'—or she wouldn't of if she hadn't seen through it a lot faster than I did. She just went, ‘I'm outta here,' and that was that. So I thought, 'I can do that.' And you know what? I'm outta there."
"I'm happy for you, Nikki, I really am." Skip smiled. "Tell me, do you have Evie's forwarding address?"
Pigeon looked surprised. "No. She didn't leave one."
"Oh. Well, do you know what agency she worked for?"
"Agency?"
"Didn't you say she worked for a modeling agency?"
"Oh, yeah. No, I guess I don't know. If I did, I'd go right down there myself."
"Okay. Do you want to file a complaint about the battery?"
"What battery?"
"Jacomine hitting you."
"Oh, no. No way. He'd kill me."
"Kill you? You really think he'd kill you?"
"I wouldn't put it past him."
"Nikki, are you trying to tell me something?"
"You mean, like, he kills people? Well, I don' know of any, but I'm just sayin' he could, tha's all. He's that evil."
Skip went back to her desk and started calling modeling agencies.
The fifth one, fancifully named Cygnet, said Evie Hebert no longer worked for them, and twenty minutes later she was in their office. Another ten minutes and she had Evie's address.
Just like that. St. Expedite was working overtime.
Or, she thought, every now and then things just go right.
Something shifted inside her, and she realized it was depression beginning to lift. She hadn't yet experienced it as depression, only as a heaviness; unnamed baggage she'd carried since that night in the Iberville project. There had been a sense, she realized, that nothing would ever go right again, a low—energy feeling that affected her self-esteem.
She had a sense now of victory, almost an elation, far out of proportion to the tiny fact she'd uncovered.
I'm going to get Sally back. She knew she hadn't really believed it for some time.
Things are going right. They really are. Tricia found Dennis; that fell into my lap. Though not really, she knew, because she had found Tricia and had set in motion Tricia's need to prove something to her.
And now this.
Evie lived near Claiborne, in a run-down building in a rundown neighborhood. Whether it was mostly black or mostly white, Skip didn't know; demographics changed from block to block. There were a few cars parked out front, but not the Heberts' beige Mercedes, the one Reed had left in. The place looked deserted.
She found a phone and called Cappello. "I got an address for Evie, but it looks like no one's home."
"I'll send you some backup."
"I think I might try the Avon lady routine. If I don't call back in twenty, assume the worst." She hung up before Cappello could answer.
She had no bag of cosmetics, but she always kept a clipboard handy, along with a copy of an opinion survey she'd picked up from a genuine surveyor, and some product brochures.
She rang Evie's doorbell and waited.
Nothing.
She rang it again, and stood there.
She was about to slip a brochure under the door, to discourage suspicion, when someone shouted down from upstairs. "Hey! You lookin' for Evie?"
Skip consulted her clipboard as if unsure. "Does Evelyne Hebert live here?"
"Yeah. I mean I guess that's her name—I call her Evie. She hasn't been home in days."
"Are you the building manager?"
The face leaning down was round, white, and surrounded by black hair; the voice was female. "No, uh—uh. Just the upstairs tenant. I'm gettin' a little worried. I thought maybe you were a relative or something."
"I wonder if I could come in for a minute? My company's offering free gifts for the first thirty-five—"
"Sorry. I've got to get back to work."
The face disappeared.
The building was a four-plex. Evie was in Apartment One, and this was the one above—Three, probably.
Suratt.
She rang Suratt's bell.
The face came back.
"Could I talk to you a minute?" Skip held up her badge, not wanting to shout her identity.
"Hey, what's that? Are you a—"
Skip nodded and held a finger to her lips, holding virtually no hope it would work. But Suratt nodded and disappeared from the window.
She appeared downstairs breathing hard.
She was about a hundred pounds overweight, with quite a lot of curly hair and the pretty face with which every fat girl is supposed to be blessed. She wore leggings, an oversized T-shirt, and sandals. She looked intelligent, and there was something else about her, a kind of joie de vivre.
"Diane Suratt," she said. "Could I see that again?"
Skip displayed the badge and introduced herself. "I wonder if we could talk inside?"
"Sure."
Diane led her into an airy apartment with very little furniture, mostly thrift—store stuff to which she'd applied various exotic paint jobs. Below the window she'd shouted from was a large white worktable covered with tiny fruits, airplanes, cars, flowers, birds, cats, fish, trees, cups, saucers—anything you could name—some painted, some awaiting paint.
On another table were pairs and pairs of earrings attached to little paper cards. All were large, dramatic, exuberantly painted, and made of the tiny objects. She'd seen them many times around town, both in stores and on ears. In fact, Dee-Dee had given her some, which were amusing but which she couldn't bring herself to wear.
She said, "You're the Slutsky lady. I've got a pair of your earrings with little revolvers and knives on them."
"I made those for Halloween one year." She frowned. "They didn't sell, though."
For a moment Skip didn't speak. She was trying to take it in—this woman's apparent poverty and the popularity of her work. Finally she said, "Do you have anyone helping you?"
A shadow passed over Diane's face. "I can't really afford it right now. But I might get a contract for a department store chain .... "
She crossed her fingers. "Then I could get a couple of people. Evie never seemed to have any money; I always wanted to hire her. But lately she's been screwing up pretty bad."
"How's that?"
"Drinking too much. Maybe doing drugs, I don't know. And a horrible boyfriend. Manny.
"God! Rides a motorcycle, looks like a thug, and hollers at her all the time. Did I mention his tattoos?
"I~Ie hasn't been around lately, though. For about a month, I guess. In fact, things have been so quiet over there I thought maybe she'd gone back to AA—she used to be sober, did I say that? Nice girl when she's not loaded. But I don't know about her and men. That Manny was abusive as hell."
"How long has she been missing?"
Diane looked uncomfortable. "About a week, I think. I'm not sure when I first noticed she wasn't there. Tuesday or Wednesday, maybe.
"Her newspapers started piling up. I've been removing them so the neighborhood hooligans don't get the idea they can make off with the Picassos."
"Picassos?"
"Kidding. So far as I know, Evie hasn't got a dime. Supports herself with crummy little modeling jobs."
"Has she gone missing before?"
"When she was seeing Manny, she'd be gone a couple of days sometimes. But what's funny—she'd usually ask me to get her mail for her. And this time she didn't. Why are you here, by the way? Did someone report her missing?"
"Something like that."
"I don't even know where she's from. Must be Louisiana though; with a name like Hebert."
Skip asked if the building manager lived on the premises. "There isn't one," said Diane, "but I can give you the owner's number. You can call her from here if you like."
* * *
She called Cappello first, to report that she was still in one piece. The owner sounded young, as if she'd inherited the building but wasn'
t ready for the responsibility. When Skip told her the situation, her voice turned high and tense.
"Do you think we should go in and look? Is it legal?"
"It's legal in an emergency, and frankly, I think we've got one here. But if nobody's there—and I'm presuming Evie's not—I'll need a search warrant. I'll call you back when I've got it."
It took two hours to get the warrant delivered and another hour for the owner to bring the key, during which time Skip sat in her car and stared at the building as if her gaze was needed to keep its timbers together.
The owner was older than she'd thought, but still not much over thirty. Her name was Belinda Carbo, and she was worried about getting sued; for what, Skip wasn't sure.
She went through the apartment with Carbo behind her, finding an even mingier decorating job than she'd done herself on her first apartment at Dee-Dee's, before he'd taken it away from her and made the Big House big again.
Evie's place would have been depressing in a.ny case, but right now it was dusty and lonely and a little mildewy.
Skip found little except some snapshots in a drawer, of a very pretty blonde with a young man who looked like the sort who gave white trash a bad name. He had a thick, nasty neck, too large a head, and tiny little eyes that probably had a mean glint in them, she couldn't tell from the photo. There was a Rolodex as well, but only a few of the cards had been used, which struck Skip as sad. She looked under "Hebert," and under "Foucher," but Evie hadn't recorded the phone numbers of any member of her family.
Skip gave Carbo a receipt for the Rolodex and snapshots, then knocked once again on Diane Suratt's door. "Sorry to bother you again, but do you know these people?" She proffered the snapshots.
"Sure, Evie and Manny. How'd you like to meet him in a dark alley?"
Skip went through the Rolodex in the car. A Manny Lanoux was listed, with no address.
She found a phone and called his number. No answer.
She turned over the snapshot, staring at it, willing it to release its secrets.
The more she stared, the more Manny looked familiar. As if she'd arrested him maybe; or should have.
Oh, well, at least I've got his mime.
She went back to headquarters to look him up. And there he was, two years before—a domestic violence case with her name on it, back before she'd been in Homicide. She remembered the woman well, her nose smashed in, blood running down her chin. And she remembered Manny's voice—high and whiny. The woman's jaw had been broken, as well as her nose. She'd pressed charges, and Manny was convicted of battery. He was now on probation, which meant it was only a matter of calling his probation officer for his address.
She also got a work address for him, but it was now going on five o'clock. Better to go to his apartment and hope to catch him as he was getting home from work.
She marched into Cappello's office. "Well, now I've got to see her ex-boyfriend. This time I better take somebody with me—I know the guy. He's a creep."
"Okay, Thuringer. But tomorrow I'll have somebody new and kind of great—we don't have Jim's replacement yet, but O'Donnell's getting transferred and we have his."
O'Donnell was the other sergeant in their platoon. "I mean, nothing against Thuringer, but this is somebody you've worked with before."
"Who'd we get?"
"Adam Abasolo."
"You've got to be kidding."
"The movie star himself."
He wasn't a movie star, but he looked like one—tall, slender, and wiry, with dark hair and blue eyes. He also looked a little like a thug. He was one of the best policemen in the department—she'd worked with him on the Axeman case.
"Well, that cheers me up."
He was such a hotshot, she hadn't looked forward to working with him, afraid he'd be bossy and superior, her two least favorite qualities in a partner. But he was great. If she couldn't have Jim, Abasolo would do just fine. Her only regret was that, since he was a sergeant, she couldn't often partner up with him.
Today she had more than one reason to miss Jim. Thuringer, though a perfectly adequate policeman, could bore the pants off a naked person. He was a short detective with glasses and a kid in college, who was his only subject of conversation.
Manny wasn't home when they got there, which meant time in the car together; hours, as it turned out.
It was Steve's last night in town.
22
Manny never did turn up. By the time Skip staggered in, Steve was sleeping like a baby.
Oh, well. I'm way too tired for a night of passion anyway. He rolled over and put an arm around her, which was what she did want and something she was going to miss when he left—the feel of his body; the comfort of it.
The morning was overcast, which matched her mood. It was not only the day of Steve's departure, it was the day of Jim's funeral.
Jim had been Catholic, but almost certainly not a member of St. Louis Cathedral, which was where the funeral was held. He had probably gone to a small church somewhere—but this was to be a big deal cop funeral.
The Times-Picayune had made a major event of Jim's death, and the chief had treated it as a personal affront. Everyone in the department who could would probably attend the funeral, and a number of politicians were expected.
Not to mention Jim's friends and family.
"Families," Steve reminded her as they walked over. "That means two sets of in-laws, aunts, uncles, every kind of thing—how the hell did he do it?"
"Reminds me of that country song."
"As you know, I would listen to country only if you tied me up and tortured me."
"If you ask me nice, I might."
"How does the song go?"
"Tryin' to love two women is like a ball and chain."
"I'd never attempt it." He wouldn't. She was sure of that.
"Funny thing, though, Jim didn't seem any more tired or distracted than anyone else."
‘·‘How could you even handle the logistics of having two families?"
"/Vell, I've been pondering that. You know the way our schedules change all the time? Like one month my platoon's on the first watch, which is eight to four, the next it's on the second, which is four to twelve, the next it's the. third, which is midnight to eight. At first I thought maybe he could tell them it changed every day or something like that. But you know what? I couldn't figure a way in hell to make it work. The only thing I can imagine is he gave them some idea that being a policeman is like being a spy—he can't be called at work, he's out of pocket for days at a time. Lies upon lies upon lies."
"And think how small he'd have to tell them the pay is."
"Oh my God, I hadn't considered that—I hope he wasn't sending all those kids to Catholic school."
They were nearly at the church. Steve nuzzled her neck briefly. "Did I ever mention I like a woman in uniform?"
It was the right thing to say. She'd worn one for the occasion, along with her mourning band, the little black elastic sleeve that fit diagonally over her badge. But one of the great perks of being a detective was not having to wear a uniform; because if the truth were told, it was distinctly unflattering. She felt self-conscious today, too heavy in the boobs and butt.
Having arrived fairly early, they were shown to seats about midway to the altar, giving Skip a good view of the front pews. She had wondered if each of the two families would take a side, as at weddings, giving everyone a choice of Wife A's side or Wife B's. But what she saw amazed her. The two families were sitting together, the women side by side, their children interspersed. They'd apparently bonded.
Skip felt tears come to her eyes, she wasn't quite sure why. They were dealt a bad hand and they made the most of it; that's better than most people would have done.
She tried to imagine it: overcoming your jealousy and sense of betrayal at a time like that.
It would take a bigger woman than me.
She watched the pols and dignitaries file into the church, and thought that Jim was a much more important pe
rson in death than . he'd been in life. He would have shaken his head, she thought, and said, "Mm mm mm."
There would have been a lot here to puzzle him.
So much had been changed by his death. It wasn't merely that one second he'd been breathing, the next he hadn't.
It wasn't just that his death left a hole.
The department was different, his families' lives were different, her life was different. Even the climate of the city was different. And who could have predicted it? He was only one man—a decent man, a good cop, a good friend—but the domino effect surprised her.
There was something here that bore thinking about; something larger; but she couldn't handle it now.
The service had begun. Sounds of quiet sniffling filled the church. When the eulogies were given, she joined in herself. When Joe Tarantino, her lieutenant, talked about what Jim had meant to the department, it came clear to her how much she was going to miss him, how much she'd depended on him.
She saw Adam Abasolo near the front of the church and wondered what a steady diet of him was going to be like. He'd come to Homicide from Sex Crimes, much against his will, she was sure. He'd once told her he liked Sex Crimes because the perps got more time, the cases were more interesting, and you were really doing something for the victim. He was right on count one, semi-right on count two—a lot of teenagers killed each other over drugs, but every now and then, Arthur Hebert's daughter shot him—and right again on count three. In Homicide the victim was past it.
Abasolo had been fine in the short term, but she didn't know how he'd wear. The fact that he was so attractive might be a problem. Would it be weird, riding in a police car with all that testosterone in the air?
Probably not, she thought. Police work was absorbing enough so you'd hardly notice. Unless his ego was so big he insisted you notice.
But she didn't think Abasolo was like that. She thought he was a good cop. More of a hot dog than jim, maybe, but a little faster, probably, and a little trickier.
And that, she realized, was what bothered her. She was tricky herself. Were they the same kind of tricky? That was the question. A hymn began, and that brought her back to the present.
Jim's barely cold, and I'm already thinking about working with someone else. But I had to sometime. Life goes on.
