by Julie Smith
He looked broken-hearted. “Oh, Ms. Bourgeois! I’m so very, very sorry I made that remark about your husband. Your mother told me you’re a widow, and I feel the biggest fool. You must find me the rudest lout you ever met.”
“Lout?” Dorise said, and she laughed in spite of herself. “Is that the kind of word they teach you in law school?”
Seeing his confusion, she stopped herself. “I mean, I guess I don’t know that word. I bet there’s lots of things I could learn from you.” Oh, God. She stopped. “I didn’t mean to say that.” Her cheeks felt hot enough to blister.
He smiled kindly, as if nothing had happened. “May I get you some coffee?” She nodded, feeling numb, and for a few minutes he was gone, giving her time to collect herself. But instead, her heart seemed to pick up speed, flapping like a heron in the middle of her chest. She felt her palms get sweaty.
When Dashan Jericho returned with the coffee, which he handed her only after taking away her empty plate and setting it down for her, he said, “I surely have enjoyed this fellowship here today. It’s been a real delight to meet you and your charming mother—I don’t know when I’ve felt so welcome.”
“It’s been real nice to talk to you, too.”
She watched him go around saying his good-byes, looking like a racehorse—lean, long of flank, aristocratic.
Too bad I’m not in the market for a man, she thought. That one’d probably do just fine.
Her mother started in on the way home. “Well, now. I think we got us a buddin’ romance.”
“Oh, Mama, come on now.”
“You know what I’m talkin’ about. You saw the way he kep’ looking at you, how he kep’ comin’ back to talk to you.”
“He was just bein’ friendly.”
“No, ma’am, he was not just bein’ friendly. I know when a man’s interested, and that one is.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“You ought to be, girl. You ought to be. Trouble with you is, you’re always pickin’ the wrong man.”
“Once, Mama. Just once.” She couldn’t possibly know about Troy.
“Mmmph. I know all about you and Troy Chauvin.”
“My sister ought to keep her damn mouth shut.”
“You ought to give that young man a chance.”
“Jesus and I’ve got a deal, Mama. I’m gon’ devote myself to Him, and He’s gon’ keep me out of trouble.”
Still, she was disappointed it took two whole days for Dashan Jericho to call. Every time he entered her mind, she banished the thought. No more men for her. Not for any reason. No way; no how.
When she picked up the phone, he said, “This is your Secret Admirer.”
She hung up.
He waited half an hour to call back and when he did, he said, “I’m so sorry. That was disrespectful. I’m so embarrassed I almost didn’t call back.”
She said, “Michael Jordan, if you don’t quit callin’ me, I’m gon’ get my Secret Admirer to go over there and tan your hide.”
She hadn’t meant to say that. Somehow it just slipped out.
* * *
The wiretap on Rosemarie Owens’s phone bore fruit almost immediately after the death of her husband. Skip heard it through Shellmire: “The call came.”
“Jacomine? He called Rosemarie?”
“Daniel did. At least we think it was Daniel Jacomine.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said, ‘Hi, Mom. It’s Daniel.’ We highly trained G-men call that a clue.”
“Then what? What’d she say?”
“She hung up.”
“That’s all?”
“Every crumb.”
“Damn. How’s the tail working out?”
“Two of ’em. They’re depressed as hell. Spend most of their time trying to guess the cost of the clothes on all the fabulously dressed Texans at those parties she goes to. One tank top—three years’ salary. That sort of thing. They’re thinking of leaping off the same balcony Roger Owens thought so highly of.”
“Damn again.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, I don’t know if a tail’s good enough. I think she needs a guard on her.”
“Why? I thought she was Jacomine’s girlfriend.”
“She just hung up on his son. Are we talking possible double cross?”
“Could be. Or maybe the call was some kind of signal. Could be lots of things—maybe she’s not double-crossing the Jacomines; maybe the son’s double-crossing the father. Or maybe she just knows her phone’s tapped.”
“Turner, goddammit, you’re like Cassius—you think too much.”
He laughed. “Well, nobody could accuse me of looking lean and hungry.”
The whole Rosemarie Owens thing had thrown Skip into a renewed panic. She reasoned that if Jacomine would kill someone merely as a favor for a friend, if he could take time out to do that from his self-appointed job as vigilante executioner, he probably had time for her. She knew how his mind worked, and she knew he hadn’t forgotten that she had bested him a few months before.
He would probably not go for her. He would go for Steve or Dee-Dee or one of the kids. If she’d been worried before, she was now waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
Obviously Rosemarie was in touch with Jacomine. Skip only hoped she hadn’t mentioned her call—you never knew what a madman would do with a random piece of information.
To make matters worse, Joe Tarantino called Skip and Adam Abasolo into his office. “How’s it going, kids?”
Skip said, “Terrible. I’m trying to find the uncle of the kidnapped kid through the art community. Do you know how many artists there are in this town?”
Joe was impatient. “Adam?”
“I’m checking out oddball religious groups.”
“Oh, great. Let me reiterate. As I understand it, we’re looking for the son of the primary suspect, who may know where the suspect’s granddaughter is. We’re not even looking for the suspect. And we don’t have any other suspects. Have I got it right?”
Skip sighed. She knew it sounded lame as hell. “That’s about it, Lieutenant.”
“We don’t have any reason to imagine he’s in town, do we?”
“Only that his granddaughter may be.”
“I think we’ve got to move on.”
“But, Joe—”
“Listen, another taxi driver was killed last night. That makes two in a week, you know that?”
Abasolo said, “Little twin heater cases.”
“You know, Skip, in a way the captain was right that day. As far as I can see, no one, but no one in this whole department gives a flying fuck who killed that asshole Nolan Bazemore. Most people—policemen included, I’m sorry to say—even seem to sympathize with the guy.”
Skip was speechless.
“I know, I know.” He patted the air. “I’m giving you a few more days, okay? You, Skip. Adam, I want you full-time on the heater cases. I don’t have enough people to waste any more time on this.” He was still patting the air, and for some reason, seemed only about half-focused on what he was saying.
Skip exchanged a look with Abasolo. The sergeant spoke first.
“What else, Joe?”
“What?” The lieutenant seemed to be coming out of a trance.
“Seems like you’ve got something else on your mind.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I sure do. The superintendent’s getting ready to drop a bomb. You know what decentralization is?”
Abasolo said, “That thing they’re doing in New York? Busting up the detective bureau?”
“In effect. All detectives are fixin’ to be reassigned to district stations. You know what that means, lady and gentleman? It means the Homicide Division as we know it will no longer exist. Everybody’ll be working every kind of case within his or her own district.”
“Jesus.”
“This is what I’m worried about. Look, Skip, I believe in what you’re doing, and I couldn’t agree less with these short-sighted ba
stards who think it doesn’t matter. For one thing, to help break a huge national case would do a hell of a lot to restore some of the honor to this tarnished old department. For another—call me old-fashioned—but I still think murder’s murder. But you’re nowhere close and there’s not much time. The chief decides to decentralize, you’ll be running your butt off covering stick-ups of mom-and-pop groceries. You’re not going to have five minutes to check out weird religious groups. If you want to break this thing, you better get some kind of religion yourself.”
Abasolo sucked in air.
“You hear what I’m saying? It’s now or never, kid.”
Just what she needed. More pressure.
If she could have worked twenty-four hours a day, she would have. And so she hit galleries with a vengeance, all the while fretting, trying to think of other avenues to follow.
Lovelace might have credit cards with her—Skip got on the computer and checked for recent purchases. There were none.
There was no record anywhere for an Isaac Jacomine, not even a Social Security number—but that she already knew. She checked the coroner’s office for a twenty-year-old white female or a twenty-seven-year-old white male, and again came up with nothing.
Finally, she went home and endured the nightly hurdle of getting through the courtyard without getting bitten by Napoleon.
“He’s never bitten anyone,” Steve said. “What makes you think he’d bite you? He loves you.”
“He hates me.”
Nevertheless, she went for a walk with the two of them. Truth to tell, Napoleon was the tiniest bit friendlier, meaning his growling had taken on a kind of half-hearted quality. At least, she thought, he makes it harder for anyone to get to us.
But Errol Jacomine was a man who’d killed several times already and who didn’t work alone. A German shepherd, however ornery, wasn’t really going to stop him.
Steve said, “You know what you need? Comfort food.” He made her his special baked potato with sautéed vegetables, and they went over to watch a video with Jimmy Dee and Layne.
“No kids?” said Steve, and she reflected how far he’d come. He hadn’t bonded with the kids immediately.
“Kenny’s doing his homework and Sheila’s at play practice. She’ll be back by nine or nine-thirty. I think she’s Lady Macbeth.”
Layne said, “Beats Ophelia.”
“Damn right,” said Jimmy Dee. “Good training for her. It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Right, Angel?” The black and white pooch wagged her tail, and all was right with the world.
They watched House of Games, one of Steve’s favorites, and though it met with raves from Dee-Dee and Layne, it was too dark for Skip’s mood. She had the willies by the time it was over.
And Sheila wasn’t home. “Drink?” said Dee-Dee.
Steve said, “Sure.” Skip nodded, distracted, thinking that ten was too late to be out on a school night.
By ten-thirty, there was still no Sheila, and inwardly, Skip was wild.
Dee-Dee said, “What is it, kid? You’re checking your watch every two minutes.”
“I was just wondering where Sheila is.”
“Sheila? She’s a big girl. And fortunately, doesn’t drive yet. Wherever she is, she’s with someone’s parents.”
Skip sipped her wine sparingly, thinking to be alert in case she needed to be. When she saw Dee-Dee begin to check his own watch, and then excuse himself, her heart started to pound.
Layne and Steve were talking about the movie, but she couldn’t really follow it. Dee-Dee came back with his forehead creased. “I just made a couple of phone calls. Carol Gauthier’s been home for an hour. She said Sheila told her she had another ride.”
Skip’s breath started getting ragged. “Has she—uh—done this before?” But she knew it was a stupid question even before everyone laughed.
“All the time,” said Dee-Dee. “Still…” He stared at his watch. “This is a little much.”
Skip was sweating. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like a hammer. Her breath was coming in shorter and shorter gasps.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay. Let’s get you a paper bag to breathe into. Come on, now. You’re okay.” She heard the words only dimly. She was afraid of passing out and in a way hoped she would—a piece of her wanted escape.
And then a tiny chime sounded through the house, the noise the alarm made when the door opened.
Jimmy Dee yelled, “Sheila! Sheila, is that you?”
Someone brought a paper bag and Skip breathed into it. Around her, she heard parent-child sounds.
“Yeah, I’m going to bed.”
“Come in a minute.”
“I said I was going to bed.”
Dee-Dee left, striding angrily. Though he was making a half-hearted attempt to save her embarrassment, the whole exchange carried easily through the house.
“You’re an hour and a half late. Omigod, look at you. Do you always wear your lipstick on your chin?”
“I am not late. We’ve been out front the whole time. Talking.”
Parked on a public street. Not talking at all, if the lipstick was any indication. Totally oblivious to her surroundings.
Vulnerable as a bunny rabbit.
“Sweetheart, you okay?” said Steve when they were alone. “I think they call that a panic attack.”
He never called her pet names.
“I can’t crack, Steve. I can’t. I’ve got to get this asshole before he—”
“Before he gets Sheila or Kenny? Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid? He’s not exactly the big bad wolf, you know—he’s just one guy. And, as he keeps reminding the world at large, he has bigger fish to fry. I think you’re taking this kind of personally. What do you think about going back to Boo?”
The therapist she had seen a few months ago that time when she fell apart at work. Shortly after shooting Delavon.
It was a thought. It was certainly a thought. But she didn’t have time. She still had fifty galleries to visit—that was her guess, anyway. She was nearing the end of the alphabet.
As she stood in the shower, an act that often produced clarity, she suddenly thought, Galleries, schmalleries. I’m just spinning my wheels. And for what?
She was crying when she came out, and Steve made her tell him why.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Isn’t that what detective work is? Slogging? Listen, let me help. Let’s divide up the list.”
They were lying in bed. She laughed through her tears, nestling her head in his armpit. “You never give up, do you?” From the moment they met he’d been offering to help her do her work.
He was right. All she could do was slog. But she needed a payoff in the worst kind of way.
She began the morning at Rhino, moved on to the elegant Arthur Roger Gallery, then had coffee on the run and blew into Rough Trade, which, its name notwithstanding, was located in a fashionable part of the French Quarter.
Judging from the work she could see, Rough Trade specialized in the work of untrained artists, the sort that were once called “primitive.” She asked to see the manager and as she was waiting, amused herself looking at the pictures. Most of them, to her mind, looked as if they had been drawn by seven-year-olds, but there were many things she liked, including a collection of angel faces that looked oddly familiar. Alongside the grouping hung a picture of the artist and a short bio. The man in the picture wore a white robe and a beard. Skip jumped as if someone had leapt at her, hollering, “Boo!”
Belatedly she saw why the angels were familiar—though the hair had been darkened to auburn, they had the round face and almond-shaped eyes of the girl in the picture the feds had given her—the one of Lovelace Jacomine.
She devoured the bio like a woman starved for words. The artist, it seemed, was a native South Carolinian who had spent most of his teenage years in and out of juvenile facilities, and his early adulthood in the federal penitentiary in Atlanta, where he had learned to paint. He had also learned to meditate in th
e joint and now divided his time between his art and his spiritual studies. He was known as The White Monk.
Bullshit, she thought. It’s Isaac.
“Ah. You like The White Monk?” The voice had a trace of an accent, but nothing recognizable—it could well have been an affectation. “I am Dahveed.”
David? Skip thought, but she wasn’t about to ask. Dahveed was a slinky, smooth young man of indeterminate ethnic origin and skin that glowed gold. He wore black pants with a narrow belt and a white shirt that might have been silk but probably wasn’t; Dahveed simply had a silky way about him.
“Does he live in New Orleans?” Skip asked.
“Oh, yes. In fact, he often paints in our courtyard. The angels are marvelous, aren’t they?”
“Wonderful. I own a pair of them, actually. I find them so haunting. I came in to ask about the artist, to tell you the truth—”
Her mind raced. Did she want him to donate a painting for a fund-raiser? Talk to a class? Was she simply a fan?
Maybe she was. That might fly fine, New Orleans being the kind of town that celebrates celebrities, however modest.
Her instinct was right. She didn’t even have to bring it up. “You would like to meet him, perhaps?”
“Is he here?”
“Of course. One second.”
Dahveed disappeared and in a moment was back, looking distressed. “His friend said he had to leave suddenly.”
“I need to talk to the friend.” Skip produced her badge.
“Damn you. You lied to me.”
She shrugged. “Only about my angels—and I’d like to own them.”
The shop opened onto a narrow courtyard where a black man hummed as he painted. He said, “How you?” and narrowed his eyes in a way that said her most secret thoughts were known.
She showed him her badge. “Detective Skip Langdon.” The man nodded. “Thought you were heat.” Now this one had been to prison—cons always knew.
