Crescent City Connection (Skip Langdon Mystery #7) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  “Nope.” He smiled and sat on her striped couch, pulling on his own beer. When he put the bottle down, she saw he was smiling again. “This is a celebration.”

  She flopped into a chair. “Well, I know we’re not pregnant. So tell me more.”

  He kept smiling.

  “What? You’re driving me crazy.”

  “You got a new boss.”

  She leaned forward, suddenly all ears. “Somebody good?”

  “Somebody Goodlett.”

  “Albert? No. Impossible. Too nice.” Like Kenny.

  This was way too good to be true. Albert Goodlett was an assistant chief she knew very slightly, but one who had the respect of nearly everyone in the department.

  He was black, but whites liked him.

  He was male, but women liked him.

  He was intelligent, but dummies liked him.

  He was educated; the streetsmart liked him.

  He was a stickler; the lazy liked him.

  He was so well qualified it was hard to believe anybody didn’t like him. But he was so nice there might be some who didn’t think he was tough enough (though there was no doubt in Skip’s mind he was).

  And he was honest. That made it doubly hard to believe he’d really been appointed superintendent—an honest cop could be appointed, but it was usually thought that he had to come from outside the department. “This is no joke?”

  He raised his Abita amber. “Here’s to Chief Goodlett.”

  “Let’s catch the ten o’clock news.”

  It was the lead story.

  “See?” said Steve. “Would I lie to you?” He was so genuinely happy for her she was touched. And she was absolutely elated about the new boss—an outsider would have been fine, but someone from home stood a better chance of working out, she thought. At least he knew what he was dealing with—or, more important, whom.

  She went to get Steve another beer and when she came back, Billy Hutchison’s picture was on the screen. Steve said, “Listen to this.”

  Suzanne Nickerson, the current fave anchorwoman, was reading a letter to the press, purportedly from a group calling itself The Jury:

  “It is impossible for an ordinary, honest person to get justice in America today. Those who are successful in court are those who are able to buy their freedom—or conversely, another person’s conviction.

  “Corporate America can buy ‘justice’. Billy Hutchison can buy ‘justice’. You and I cannot. Justice is not the concern of the American judicial system today—it has bigger fish to fry. It is interested in maintaining its pathetic, perverted self. It is interested in its own sick values—and we do not necessarily mean the values of the fat-cat judges and the incompetent bureaucracy—we mean as well the values of the juries so blinded by fame and money that they no longer have a conscience.

  “Someone must draw a line somewhere. Billy Hutchison killed a woman. Is there no justice for that woman? The woman was his wife. Is there no justice for all the abused and murdered wives of all American men who believe they are entitled to whatever crimes they wish to commit within a marriage?

  “And yet, all that is beside the point. We can do no good for Mrs. Hutchison or for her many sisters. We can only vent our own frustration. This time, we have declined to let a guilty man go free.

  “Yes, this is vigilante action! Yes, we have taken the law into our own hands! Why? Because someone must. Because we are tired of talk, tired of frustration, tired of rage.

  “In America, we each have a right to be tried by a jury of our peers. Yet juries today are composed of those people too weak and too poorly connected to get the judge to excuse them, people whose jobs are considered so unimportant they can be spared, retired people—those at the bottom rung of society—in short, people who hope the glitz and glamour of a Billy Hutchison will rub off on them, not people who have the slightest idea of justice.

  “And so we have appointed ourselves a Jury of Mr. Hutchison’s peers. A Jury of your peers. We have committed this crime—knowing full well that it is a heinous crime by American standards of so-called “justice”—because it is the only way.

  “The only way to bring a criminal to justice. And the only way to force an overhaul of our legal system.”

  The letter, Suzanne Nickerson said, was signed simply “The Jury.”

  “My God.”

  “Yeah. Creepy. I heard it earlier.”

  “Creepy because it’s what you think. In your heart of hearts you agree.”

  “I’m telling you, it gives me goose bumps.”

  “Jacomine—”

  “Oh. come on. You’re not going to blame this one on Jacomine.”

  “He used to say, ‘bigger fish to fry.’”

  “Not much, as you people say, to go on.”

  “No. Anyway, it’s too literate for him.”

  “Yeah, but his trick is having people around him.”

  “Don’t you start, too. Let’s go to bed.”

  “Can’t. I have to walk Napoleon.”

  “You know what? They’re right. There’s no justice.”

  * * *

  Lovelace’s head was splitting, and it cost her to pry her eyelids open. Someone was in the room with her, and it wasn’t Michelle. Michelle didn’t snore.

  But Lovelace was still too woozy to be frightened. That came in a moment when she saw that it was a strange room. She felt her heart speed up, heard its pounding even before she remembered that she’d been kidnapped, that it was her kidnapper sleeping in the next bed, fully clothed, lying on top of the bedclothes.

  As her eyes became accustomed to the light, she could see him, could see everything perfectly well. They were in a cheap motel room and there was a crack in the curtains. Light from the parking lot illuminated the room—and, unfortunately, Lovelace’s sorry condition.

  My hands, she thought, and flexed them, looked down at them. They were numb, bound with duct tape.

  She wiggled her toes. Also numb; feet bound.

  Like her companion, she was dressed and lying on the made-up bed, still in the jeans and shirt she’d been wearing that morning when she left for class. At least she thought it was that morning. The poisoned Coke was the last thing she remembered, so she probably hadn’t awakened since she drank it.

  Especially since she was desperate to pee.

  She scratched her face with her finger, just to see if she could get it to work. It was fine. She grabbed a hunk of her T-shirt at the hem, and wadded it up. Feeling or not, her fingers worked.

  She looked around the room and saw something that heartened her—a Jack Daniel’s bottle on the nightstand, about a third empty, and a glass with some amber liquid still in it. He had probably watched television, drinking, until he fell asleep.

  Whew. I must have really been out.

  She hoped he was now. She thought perhaps she had a chance, in fact she was pretty sure she did, if she could just work the tape off gradually, so that it didn’t make a tearing sound.

  She worked on her hands first, with her teeth, but she couldn’t get any purchase and gave it up.

  She turned on her side and got into as tight a fetal position as she could, hands as close to her feet as possible. Almost immediately, she found the end of the ankle tape.

  Painstakingly, she peeled it, despising the very action, with its minute hopeless movements, despising her fear as well.

  Her hatred of it, in fact her total concentration, served to displace the fear and hopelessness that surfaced in flashes now and then. If she just peeled, peeled, peeled, slowly, slowly, slowly, she couldn’t really think of anything else.

  Peel, peel, peel. Try not to let the springs squeak. Don’t rustle the covers.

  Except for cooking, which she adored, Lovelace loathed little delicate hand chores. She hadn’t the patience of a monkey. She had stopped her piano lessons because practicing was tedious, never could learn to knit or sew because the tiny hand movements frustrated her so badly.

  And now she was condemned
to a life of peeling mother-fucking duct tape nearly upside down in a Motel Six in … where?

  Right now it really didn’t matter.

  The tape was off.

  Should she try to get it off her hands? No. Massage feet.

  She tried, but couldn’t do it without shaking the bed. The kidnapper stirred a little.

  Okay, then. Go back to getting the wrist bonds off.

  She chewed at them while feeling returned to her feet, but in the end got nowhere. All she had to do, really, was get off the bed, walk quietly to the door, open it, and go to the manager’s office.

  No, she couldn’t do that. Even her bound hands wouldn’t get her out of this.

  Okay. Open the door and run like hell.

  She hoped that, wherever she was, it wasn’t too cold out there.

  Okay, this is it.

  She still lay there.

  In the end she didn’t have the courage just to sit up, swing her legs off the bed, and split.

  Instead she did it inch by inch, slithering to the edge of the bed and then lowering her legs. She had to do it slowly, let them unkink themselves—in the end, slow and steady might win, no matter how much it got on her nerves.

  She slid off the bed, and the mattress did creak, there was nothing she could do about it, but the man moved at the same time, turned over or something, so the sound was masked.

  She hadn’t really planned it this way, but it seemed easier to stay on the floor, simply to crawl to the door.

  Good. This way she could use the door to brace herself as she stood for the first time. That was lucky—she was a bit unsteady on her pins.

  She worked the chain lock out of its mooring.

  Bingo, that was all there was to it. She opened the door and slipped out.

  No way to avoid that telltale click, though. A car was pulling into the parking lot—if she left the door open, the noise might wake him.

  She closed it and started running. Almost immediately, he was out the door, after her.

  Damn!

  She had to play it out. She was in the light now, and held up her hands, so anyone, surely the person in the car, could see her bound hands. She yelled as loud as she could, “Help! He’s going to kill me. Somebody help me.”

  The car, which had found a spot, reversed, turned, and sped out so fast it nearly knocked Lovelace over, and did hit her pursuer, who rolled over the hood and fell on the asphalt.

  The driver leaned back, opened the back door, and said, “Get in. Quick.”

  She did and he peeled out of there.

  He was young and he wasn’t alone. He was very young, in fact younger than she. The girl in the front seat looked about sixteen. Her back was glued to the seat and she stared rigidly ahead. They were on open highway now, burning rubber.

  The boy looked like Woody Woodpecker. He had a shock of red hair, thick and wild, a pinkish face, and he wore a rust-colored shirt, no doubt picked by his mama, who thought it flattered him. The girl was a Barbie blonde. Her nail polish and lipstick probably matched and were called “Candy Apple” or “Sugar Frost.”

  Lovelace noticed one thing that pleased her—the girl wore shorts. She hadn’t even thought to notice the weather, but she did now. It wasn’t freeze-your-butt weather, which might mean she wouldn’t die of exposure if she ever managed to get away.

  She said, “Where are we going?”

  Nobody answered. Apparently, they hadn’t thought it out. The girl remained rigid.

  Lovelace touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?” The girl turned to her, her face an odd mask of fear and confusion, her painted lips twisted. “What happened to you?”

  Lovelace hadn’t had time to think about what to do once she got away. In fact, she was still dealing with the odd sensation of being free—in her heart of hearts, she hadn’t thought she’d make it.

  “I wonder,” she said, “why he isn’t chasing us.”

  She was sorry instantly—the girl looked terrified.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “He isn’t dangerous.”

  Woody and Candy both spoke at once. “You know him?”

  “He didn’t hurt you?”

  Lovelace thought fast, and she was amazed at the clarity and speed with which her thoughts came.

  These two probably want to keep a low profile as badly as I do.

  The last thing she wanted was to be taken to the cops. She didn’t know where she was, but so far it showed no signs of being a big city. These two had been in a motel parking lot, probably having just checked in, and they were both babies. More important, the girl was probably well under eighteen.

  She told them a blend of truth and fiction, inventing as she went along. “He’s my dad. See, I’ve been living with my boyfriend and he doesn’t approve. He’s like… I don’t know, some kind of family-values freak, I guess you’d say, and he just… came and got me.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.”

  Lovelace would have smiled if she hadn’t been so scared—it was certainly the right story for Woody and Candy.

  “Could you help me with my hands?” She thrust her taped wrists in the space between the neck rests.

  Candy gasped, but she began rummaging in her purse. “Your dad did that?”

  “Yeah. My own dad did that.” She tried to keep her voice tight and contained, but it got away from her. “My own father, goddammit!” She couldn’t even wrap her own mind around it. What kind of father kidnapped you and drugged you?

  Candy fished out some nail scissors and hacked at the duct tape. Woody kept glancing in the rearview mirror.

  “See anything?”

  “Not yet. Look… are you a minor?”

  Ha. Woody’s not dumb. But maybe he’ll think I am. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because if you are, the cops are just gonna send you home.”

  “Cops? Omigod. I didn’t think about that. What am I gonna do?”

  “I’m thinkin’,” Woody muttered. “I’m thinkin’.”

  “Uh… could I ask something? Where are we?”

  “You mean what town? Jackson, Mississippi. That is, near it, sort of.”

  A long way from Evanston, Illinois. Why? she wondered. And where had he been taking her?

  Candy said, “Where do you live? I mean, with your boyfriend?”

  Something told Lovelace to lie about the place, too—to lie about everything.

  “Austin,” she said.

  “Well, do you want to go back? We could take you to a bus station.”

  “Would you? That would be great. I mean, that would be really great.”

  It had drawbacks, though, not the least being that she had no money. She thought of saying it, knowing they’d give her some, but in the end she just couldn’t mention it—she’d rather steal than sink that low.

  They drove for a while in silence, Lovelace getting more and more nervous as various scenarios crowded into her head: They dropped her at the bus station, and he was waiting for her. She tried hitchhiking, and he picked her up. She checked into a hotel, and he broke into her room.

  Woody broke her reverie. “Shit! That was Pearl Street.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s okay. I can get off at Lakeland Drive and double back.” He swung off the Interstate, and in a moment they entered an area with a lot of street life—young people, bars, coffeehouses. She might be able to get lost in the crowd.

  “Hey, listen… you know—you could just drop me here.”

  “Here? Why?”

  “I think…” she leaned out the window. “I could swear I see someone … Hey, Michelle!” Lovelace yelled loud enough to grate on their nerves—bad. A girl turned around. Lovelace waved madly.

  Woody slowed to a stop.

  “Hey, thanks for the ride.” She leapt out of the car and bounded in the opposite direction, just wanting to lose Woody and Candy, not really having any plans.

  As soon as she dared, she slowed to the prevailing pace, trying to make herself invisib
le. She went into a bookstore and pretended to look at magazines, mind racing.

  What did she do now? Where could she go?

  Woody had been on the money—she was not only a minor, she’d spent a little time locked up once, courtesy of her old pal Depression.

  She just wasn’t going to win any argument about why her dad shouldn’t kidnap her if he wanted to—he could always say she was suicidal; she’d phoned and begged him to pick her up. And now she was irrational, she needed her meds.

  Michelle would vouch for her, but much good it would do. Her dad would say she was a pathological liar, Michelle didn’t know… she was a danger to herself and others.

  Her mother might help her if she could find her. But Jacqueline was in Mexico living on a beach or something, probably stoned out of her gourd.

  What a couple of pieces of work. Why wasn’t there anybody nice in her family?

  A flashback of her Uncle Isaac’s Christmas card popped into her mind. It was a drawing of an old streetcar loaded up with holiday packages. On its side was written DESIRE, and the caption was in red, a holiday wreath around the streetcar: “Here’s wishing you loot, and many a hoot.”

  Inside was the usual lovely letter. She got them twice a year— on her birthday and Christmas. Uncle Isaac never forgot. He nearly always made the cards himself—he was an artist. He always told her what he was doing—painting and drawing, lately—and where he was living—New Orleans these days—but mostly he went off on poetic tangents he thought she might enjoy, and she always did.

  They were a little sentimental, sometimes a bit embarrassing, actually, but they were as sweet as maple syrup. She wrote him back as regularly as he wrote her—twice a year—and never talked to him, hadn’t since she was ten or twelve—but she felt close to him, truly felt he cared for her and would help her if she got in trouble.

  She’d gotten in trouble.

  She reconnoitered: He was her father’s brother, not her mother’s, but she didn’t really think that was a problem. Neither of the brothers had ever mentioned it, but she had the feeling there was some bad blood between them.

  She’d call him.

  But she broke out in a sweat when she remembered she hadn’t a cent.

  Where to get money?

  In a bar or restaurant, she thought: an unclaimed tip, a careless tray of change, something like that.