As soon as he answered it, Neil whispered, “Have you found them yet?” It sounded like Neil had fallen to the bottom of a well.
“Not yet. It’s dark in here.” Jackson scanned the room.
“Turn on a light.” Neil’s voice echoed. “Do you want help?”
“No. Stay there. ” Jackson turned on the hall light. The house had a tropical look with yellow walls and paintings of street scenes from the city. In the middle of the hall, he saw one of Glenway’s paintings, the initials “GG” scribbled in the corner. The thought of Rogers’s dirty dealings and the sight of the initialed painting angered him enough to want to call Neil and tell him, but he knew his friend would jump the fence, leaving no one on guard.
He kept walking, paying close attention to the walls, watching for Glenway’s work. He reminded himself to stay focused on looking for the figurines. He imagined Neil egging him on, so he hurried to the bedroom and found a trunk on the bed, sitting there as if it were waiting for him. He walked over to the black trunk with its shiny hardware and slid his finger over the gold metal plating. The two clamps unlatched easily, and Jackson thought it was odd that the trunk wasn’t locked. Just like the door. He slowly pulled open the top, feeling almost like a kid who found a treasure chest. The trunk was obviously old and the thought of pirates made it seem even more like treasure.
Unfortunately, there was no treasure inside. Jackson saw nothing but the silky fabric lining the chest. Picking it up, he turned it over and shook it, but nothing fell out. It was empty. Disappointed, he turned to leave and then heard the squeak of a floorboard. The sound stopped him dead. It almost sounded like someone else was in the house. He waited for a moment and when he heard nothing else, he stepped into the hall. Something near the high ceiling caught his eye—the drawstring to the hinged ladder leading to the attic. He could also see light slipping through the cracks. He didn’t want his journey to be fruitless, so he pulled the cord and let the stairway come down. He grabbed the ladder and climbed slowly until he saw the landing at the top where he could stand. It was the second time in less than a week he had been in an attic on account of Rogers.
Newly installed pink insulation lay in between the ceiling beams. He wondered if crawling through the wooden maze of the support beams was worth the trouble. He looked for an easier way to search, but there was none. A single bulb hung from an electrical cord. He carefully started making his way around the perimeter of the attic. He felt like a fool because all he found, at each of the four corners, was rat poison, wires, and insulation. At the far end, he looked out through the outside vent and saw Neil standing nervously at the fence, one moment peering over into Rogers’s courtyard and the next looking behind him to watch traffic.
Jackson turned around and started through the maze of two-by-fours. Midway back to the landing, his phone rang. He jerked up and his head smacked the slanted ceiling as he reached in his pocket. If Neil was calling to sound the alarm, Jackson was in trouble. He dropped the phone in the pink insulation below him. The phone continued to vibrate as he whipped down and plucked it out of the pink fluff.
Now that he was practically covered in the insulation, he regretted coming up to the attic, especially in his shorts. Shorts were a good choice for attending parades but a poor choice for climbing attics. His legs began to itch, covered in a thin veil of fuzz. He checked his phone and saw Billy’s name on the screen, “He’ll have to wait.”
The itch on his legs turned into a sort of burn. He hurried to the platform, doing some fine acrobatic work through the beams. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help scratching his legs. After a moment, he couldn’t tell what stung worse, the insulation or his fingernails. The attic at Lena’s praline shop had been a veritable resort compared to this one, and he cursed the moment he’d decided to scour it for treasure.
He forced himself to stop scratching and look around the landing. It was nothing but a few sheets of plywood placed across the beams to cover an area large enough for Christmas decorations and old clothes. He searched through the bags, looking for something to wipe off his poor, burning legs. He came across a Christmas tree skirt and applied it liberally to the pink fuzz, which came off in heaps. He felt like a sheep being groomed. His cell phone began vibrating again. “Ah, Neil. What is it?”
As soon as he answered, Neil yelled, “Jackson. Get out now. Someone just drove up.”
He didn’t have to hear Neil say it twice. He hung up without responding. He didn’t turn the attic light off either, because as soon as he stuffed the phone in his pocket, he heard a car door slam out front. In one motion, he whipped 180 degrees and jumped down the ladder, touching only one of the wooden steps, sliding down the ladder using the sides and burning his hands in the process. Splinters gouged his hands, but he ignored the pain when he heard keys rattling in the front door.
He flipped off the light in the hall just before the front door opened. There was no way he could make it out the back. He darted into the bedroom, searching for a big enough space to hide, but didn’t see anything that would work. Rushing to the bathroom, he found only a shower curtain for cover. That wouldn’t do for long.
He heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the wall. They were powerful, almost obnoxious, which meant they belonged to Rogers. The gruff lieutenant was nothing if he wasn’t a human bulldozer. Jackson waited for him to pass into the main bedroom, and quietly eased his way into the next bedroom. It had a large closet and he made his way down a small path between boxes and other clutter.
Longer than most closets in old New Orleans houses, it ran behind the shower in the bathroom. Jackson edged to the back of it and crouched down just below a box full of what felt like clothes. He grabbed for the first thing that might conceal him, a blanket or a jacket to keep him hidden. There was scant light coming from the room. As he frantically searched, he came across a long cotton piece. All the items looked black in the darkness, but the one he touched felt like a soft robe. He threw it over his head and got tangled up in it.
Jackson started to panic, having to fight for air. He stretched the robe until he made a small opening. There was some kind of hood or hat attached to the robe that seemed to settle naturally on his head, which was fine as added concealment. He concentrated on his breathing, trying to settle it down so Rogers wouldn’t hear him if he looked in the closet. He folded the excess fabric over his eyes, leaving a small slit, just in case the light turned on. He realized then that he was probably wearing a Carnival costume, the exact nature of which he could not discern. He heard muffled footsteps through the nearby bathroom and then the faint sound of the lieutenant’s voice, so he remained perilously still, like a trapped possum.
He listened and waited. And waited. The closet was dark. He leaned over onto a soft comforter. He felt himself estimating the time, trying to count slowly. He lost track after two hundred Mississippis. His phone started vibrating. He put it close to his ear and whispered, “Neil, I’m ready to come out. Is Rogers gone yet?”
He listened for a response, but all he could hear were mumbles and then the sound of two feet stomping into the closet. Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and began dragging him from the closet.
“Neil, is that you? I can’t see you. Thanks for helping me. We need to hurry before Rogers finds us.”
A voice boomed into Jackson’s ear. “Rogers has already found you.”
Twenty-Four
“What do we have here?” There was no mistaking the lieutenant’s voice as Jackson was wrenched from the closet by his shoulders. The hood still covered most of Jackson’s head and face, but he still caught a glimpse of the huge lawman through the slit in the fabric. His knees scraped the ground as Rogers pulled him.
Jackson twisted and turned. “Let me go, you meathead.”
Rogers quit dragging him, but he continued to hold his arms. “I thought it was a woman under that outfit.”
“What? Would you drag a woman like that, you Cro-Magnon?” He tried to break fr
ee. The garment muffled his voice, so Rogers ripped it away and Jackson could suddenly see clearly.
“Look at yourself, Sister.” He spun Jackson around with one arm so that they both faced a full-length mirror. The headpiece Jackson had suspected to be a hat was in fact the top of a mother superior’s habit. Jackson looked like he had stuffed his head through a sock. Looking at himself, he wasn’t sure if his face had turned red from embarrassment at being found in the ridiculous costume or from the struggle with Rogers.
“My woman’ll be upset to see you in her costume.” Rogers looked the very picture of a an enormous primate, towering over Jackson with his hulking shoulders and his arms bent out the way an ape will bend over a tree stump.
“She couldn’t be any more upset than I am.” Jackson wondered what sort of woman would tolerate the lieutenant. He looked at himself in the mirror, the very figure of an angry nun, scowling at the officer, his black and gray curls poking out under his habit. What he had suspected as a robe was exactly that, and the white coif held him into it tightly.
He tried to extract himself from the costume, but Rogers grabbed the tunic and secured it forcefully. “Sit still, Sister.” Rogers tried to calm Jackson, but he was in no mood to accept orders, religious or otherwise.
“That’s a perfect restraining device. You’ve run from me one too many times already, and I ain’t chasing you again.”
Jackson had not yet given up his mission to be free. He squirmed and pulled against the restraints even as Rogers told him to hold still.
Jackson broke away from the lawman’s grasp, falling to the floor headfirst against the hardwoods. He began crawling away, and Rogers stepped on the black fabric, halting the forward progress. He stretched the outfit until the stitching started to pop. As it tore, Rogers dug his knee into Jackson’s back and forced a cold pair of handcuffs on Jackson’s wrists. Jackson started yelling, “Help! Neil, I’m stuck. Come on. Rogers has got me.”
Rogers stuffed a piece of the white coif that had ripped loose in the struggle into Jackson’s mouth. Then Jackson noticed his cell phone on the floor. It must have fallen out of his pocket in the struggle. He scooted until he could grasp it with two fingers and then hit the call button twice, in effect dialing the most recent number. As soon as he heard Neil’s voice answer, started beating the floors. He leaned down and repeated his plea for help, but Rogers heard him. Rogers grabbed the phone and ended the call.
“You son of a bitch.” Jackson erupted into a fit of swift kicks.
Rogers grabbed Jackson’s flailing legs and pulled him down the hallway to keep him out of sight from the front door. After the lieutenant swung him around violently, Jackson had a view of the back door. Rogers bent down and let his body rest against the wall, apparently winded from the effort of the struggle.
That’s when Jackson caught a glimpse of Neil creeping through the kitchen, and he started screaming for his friend to rescue him. “HHHHHHP!”
Rogers looked up and saw Neil. “Aww, shit, you too?” He slammed his fist against the wall and ran into the kitchen. Jackson saw him jump on the new arrival. Rogers grabbed some white cord from a drawer and tied Neil’s hands behind his back.
Neil’s ability to protest had not yet been restricted. “What—what are you doing, you ape?”
All Jackson could do was watch his friend get handled like a sack of potatoes as Rogers tried to restrain Neil. “Help!” Neil screamed until the lieutenant went over and slammed the kitchen door, which Neil had left open. Then Rogers stomped over to Jackson and grabbed hold of the headpiece and yanked it close. He had a knife in his hand and he raised it just above Jackson’s head. “HHHHHHP!”
“Rogers, so help me God, you hurt him or me, and you’ll spend two lifetimes in a Louisiana penitentiary.” Neil lunged at the lieutenant, as if trying for an encore of the infamous head butt.
Rogers sliced a big swath of fabric from Jackson’s habit and started wrapping it around Neil’s mouth.
“Wait a minute, honcho. Stop.” Neil ducked the outstretched fabric. “Listen, we know about you stealing the jewels from Glen—”
“What’d you say?” Rogers stopped short of wrapping the cloth over Neil’s mouth.
“I said we know you stole the figurines from Glenway. He knew it too.” Neil swallowed a big gulp of air.
Rogers leaned against the kitchen cabinet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned as pale as a powdered French aristocrat.
“Who’s to say you didn’t kill Glenway while you were at it?” Neil pulled away from the officer.
Rogers screwed up his mouth. “I oughta throw you in the Mississippi River for sayin’ that.”
“Is that where you threw the murder weapon?” Neil puffed out his chest and stuck his chin in the air. He was defiant, hog-tied but defiant. Jackson looked from his captor to his friend and then back.
“I haven’t thrown anything in the river. At least not yet.” Rogers said it with such force that it shook the cabinets.
Neil fought to remove the white cords binding him. “We found a painting Glenway was finishing before he died. It shows you as the pirate Jean Lafitte, standing on a pile of gold. Maybe he was trying to tell us you have a pile of figurines that you stole from Glenway all summer. And what about that broken curio cabinet I found under the tarp in your yard? Sure looks like the one that was in Glenway’s shop. And we just happen to have a picture of that same cabinet inside his studio the day we discovered his body. I’m certain my friends in the city council will be interested to know just how that cabinet made it into your back yard.”
Jackson was having a hard time breathing and he tried to call out despite the fabric stuffed into his mouth, but only managed a muffled noise. Still, it was enough to get Neil’s attention and Neil pointed at him. “He’s about to pop. His face looks like a radish.”
Rogers went over and yanked the fabric out of Jackson’s mouth. Jackson took a few deep breaths then said, “I was gonna tell Captain Caveman here that I had an offer for him. But dammit, I’m not even sure he deserves a deal.” He glared at Rogers, who had moved to a stool in the corner of the room. “Lieutenant, I’m the one who kept Neil from turning you in as soon as I saw those figurines you stole from our hotel room.” Rogers scowled at him. “Don’t look at me like that. You know that I know.”
Rogers started muttering, but Jackson shook his head. “I don’t know how or why you stole the figurines. Did you honestly think you could have sold them?”
Rogers didn’t answer.
“Anyway, here’s the thing. If you agree to help us find Glenway’s murderer, we promise not to turn you in for stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars in artwork.” Jackson’s heart raced. “And I mean really help us. You’ve been dragging your feet.”
“I have not.” Rogers took a deep, loud breath.
“Yes you have,” Jackson said. “You’ve slowed the murder investigation. Maybe because you really thought you could make some money from Glenway’s art.”
Rogers thrust his considerably jagged chin in the air and peered at Jackson. “How could you say such a thing?”
“Because you’ve done nothing of substance concerning Glenway’s murder. The moment you walked onto the scene with that duffel bag, you have been working for yourself and your own ends.” Jackson blew the hair from his eyes, which the nun coif had pasted to his face. “So. If you don’t want to be arrested for burglary, you’ll cooperate with us. We want all the evidence from the murder scene and the copies of your case files. Additionally, you will return all the carved pieces you stole.”
“Yeah,” Neil said, working on his restraints.
Rogers thought about it for a few minutes. He sunk his head down, looking like a defeated giant out of some fairy tale. He stammered, “I...um, well, maybe I don’t have a handle on the whereabouts of the art.”
“What? Jackson, just forget it. Let’s go.” Even though he was still bound, Neil stood up, but Rogers waved his big hand to stop him.
>
“Wait,” Rogers said. “There’s this guy, over in Algiers.” He rubbed his forehead as he spoke.
“Who?” Neil scooted closer.
“I can’t tell you. Let me get the pieces and then we’ll talk.” The lieutenant stared at the putrid green tile on his kitchen floor.
“Fine. You don’t want to cooperate? We can just talk in court. After you’re arrested.” Neil was fired up like an overturned anthill.
“I said I’d get the pieces. Just wait here and I’ll bring them.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Jackson said. “Take me and Neil with you to Algiers rather than leaving us in your house.”
Rogers stood up from his stool, walked into the other room, and made a phone call. Jackson heard most of Roger’s end of the conversation, “Listen, TH. I’m on my way to your house right now. I gotta get that stuff whether you’re there or not…Yeah, my whole career’s at stake… I don’t give a shit what you could lose, TH…”
Jackson stared wide-eyed at the lieutenant, moving closer so he wouldn’t miss any of the conversation. Rogers turned and saw him and eased down to the bedroom at the front of the house. Jackson eased toward the open bedroom door and caught bits of the conversation.
“You need to make time for it.”
Jackson turned toward Neil. “He’s talking to your friend Thurston, and I still think that’s the TH from Glenway’s journal. Thurston claimed he barely knew you and Allen, but he was lying. You knew him well enough to take his ‘suggestion’ on what hotel we should switch to, and you’ve defended him ever since I mentioned his name. He also claimed he barely knew Glenway, which is another lie. Why did you hide the fact that his initials stand for TH?”
Imogene in New Orleans Page 20
