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

by Julie Smith

  He said, “Her dad’s been in an accident. He’s not expected to live.”

  “My God! Stay here and I’ll get her.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  The woman stood up and walked around the counter. She was nearly at the door when she seemed to remember her job.

  She turned to him. “Sir, I really need authorization from the child’s parents. I’m sorry, but I—”

  “Her mother’s at the hospital.” He looked over her shoulder at three curious faces, two black, one white, all female. “Look, could we talk in the hall?”

  The woman shrugged shoulders that looked massive—though not unattractive—under dark green fabric. She crossed the threshold and almost the second she did, Daniel put the gun to her head.

  “Let’s go.”

  Fortunately, it wasn’t far. The woman wet her pants almost instantly and hyperventilated the entire way. He didn’t know how long he had before she passed out.

  He shoved her into the room. “Get the teacher out here.”

  But the teacher didn’t have to be asked. She took one look at the secretary and without even a word to the kids, click-clicked to the door of the room. “What is it?” she hissed.

  Daniel showed her his gun. “Shavonne Bourgeois. Now.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really can’t—”

  He shoved the gun in the secretary’s temple so hard she jumped. “You can, or I’ll kill her.”

  Without flinching, the teacher turned around; an extremely cool customer, also black, a lot older than the secretary. “Shavonne, can I see you a minute?”

  As soon as the girl was close enough, Daniel grabbed her. The teacher made a noise like someone who’s been hit, and literally grabbed for Shavonne. Took her around the waist and pulled. Daniel had her arm. Shavonne, suddenly the object of a tug of war that might result in mayhem, screamed, “Mama. Mama, Mama!”

  Daniel hit the teacher with the gun, its butt to her temple. The sound was ugly, even to him.

  The secretary, seizing the distraction, started running down the hall, screaming, “Help! Help! Kidnapping! Help!”

  Daniel fired a shot, and she fell down. He didn’t think he’d hit her—hadn’t even aimed for her—but she lay still.

  Room doors were cracked and timid heads peeked out. However, one man, a large black dude Daniel thought might have been a coach, flung open his door and lunged.

  Daniel didn’t have so much as a split second to make a decision. He simply fired, more or less a reflex.

  The bell rang, signifying school was out for the day.

  Only later did Daniel remember that Daddy said no one gets hurt. It occurred to him to throw himself from the speeding car.

  Twenty-three

  CAPPELLO GOT THE call while Skip was questioning Lovelace. The girl was still screaming when the sergeant came in. Skip knew from Cappello’s face the worst had happened. What can be worse? she thought. I killed a man today.

  Another man.

  Cappello took care of the girl first. “Calm down, Lovelace. Take a deep breath.”

  Skip said, “What is it?”

  Cappello said, “Let’s get her squared away.” She turned to Lovelace. “You okay, darlin’?”

  Lovelace shut up quickly. Nodded, looking terrified. “Is it my uncle?”

  “No, baby, it’s not your uncle. Langdon, you through here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lovelace, we’re going to have to put you in protective custody for a while. Stay here a minute more. I’ll send someone for you as soon as I can.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, just left the interrogation room, Skip following.

  “What is it?”

  “Someone’s kidnapped a little girl at school, just as the kids were getting out for the day. The FBI’s over there—they want you right away.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a kid you know. Shavonne Bourgeois.”

  “Oh, shit! It’s Jacomine. Oh, shit—Shavonne. I never thought of that—I thought Sheila or Kenny. I never thought Shavonne. Oh, God, the man’s evil. I swear to God he’s the devil. Always one step ahead, no matter how I think I’m in control.”

  “Hey, hey. Take it easy.”

  The tirade had been involuntary. She expected Cappello to tell her how paranoid she was, possibly even to take her off the case. The sergeant said, “You want to sit down?”

  “I’m okay, goddammit. I’m just mad.” And scared half out of my mind.

  “We need to talk about this. Let’s go in my office.” Cappello would probably send her to Cindy Lou this time—a definitive vote of no confidence. It would end up in an administrative reassignment, and she needed to be on the case. She could have bitten her tongue off.

  Still, there was nothing to do but follow the sergeant like a puppy-dog.

  Cappello made her sit, though Skip was far too antsy to pull it off with any grace. She wanted to stand; she wanted to pace. She wanted to chew nails and pound walls.

  Cappello said, “You think Jacomine kidnapped Shavonne to get to you somehow.” She sounded like a shrink, humoring the patient.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but he is crazy. I’m telling you, Sylvia….”

  “The FBI agrees with you.”

  “What?” Skip hoped her mouth wasn’t hanging open. She said, “Shellmire.”

  Cappello nodded. “Shellmire knows all about you and Delavon. He knew exactly who Shavonne was, and apparently the feds huddled and came up with the same theory you have.”

  “Do they have any evidence?”

  “None.” But she hesitated.

  “What?”

  “Well, I guess the whole terrorist thing got to them. And, frankly, maybe the fact that it was a white guy”

  “I don’t get it”

  She shrugged. “Obviously it wasn’t the kid’s father. He cut the phone lines and marched right in wearing coveralls and those insect glasses—scary as hell. And he shot someone for no reason.”

  “Dead?”

  “Not so far.”

  Skip sighed. “If there’s a Jacomine M.O., that’s more or less it—terrorist tactics, senseless violence.”

  “Listen. How’re you holding up?” It was the same question Cappello had asked before, when Danny LaSalle had shot Herbert. It meant “Are you going to make it or are you going to fall apart after shooting that man today?”

  “I’m fine.” It was more or less true. She wasn’t fine, but she wasn’t falling apart either—at least not yet. She was running on adrenaline. “What about Public Integrity?”

  That was the department’s name for Internal Affairs, the cops who policed cops. She had been scheduled to report immediately after talking to Lovelace—standard procedure when an officer fired a shot.

  “Later. The chief wants you out at the school. You’re the only officer familiar with the case—and you may end up at the center of it. The whole goddamn city’s exploding, and he doesn’t want to look like an idiot.”

  “Too little too late.”

  She could have sworn the sergeant suppressed a smile. “Go. Abasolo’s waiting for you.”

  Great. She finally had help.

  It was bedlam at the school. The streets were clogged with parents and school buses trying to get the kids home. Emergency vehicles were everywhere, though there had been only three injuries—the shooting and bruises resulting from a fall and a gun butt to the head.

  Feds and policemen swarmed, streaked with sweat and looking disoriented. There was an odd sense of panic in the air.

  An army of press was there. As soon as she and Abasolo emerged from their car, a familiar figure started toward them.

  “Shit. Jane Storey.” A former print reporter who’d been trying to nail Jacomine almost as long as Skip had. They’d pooled information once, and she’d had more than Skip. Skip owed her. And now she worked in television, which made her about ninety times as visible.

  Abasolo said, “Let’s just duck her.”

&n
bsp; “Right.”

  Jane waved. “Hey, Skip.”

  “Hey, Jane. Sorry. Can’t talk now.”

  “I’ve got something for you.”

  That was the last thing she’d expected to hear. It stopped her in her tracks.

  Jane said, “What’s happening today? Is it the heat or what?”

  “Big news day, huh?” This was New Orleans—you didn’t get away without small talk.

  “Listen, you know that Maple Street thing? That guy you shot? I know him.”

  He had been tentatively identified as Darnell Roberts, twenty-eight, no known address. That was all they had. Skip said, “You know him?”

  “Yeah. From a long time ago—when I did the story on Blood of the Lamb.” The name of Jacomine’s flock.

  “He was a member?”

  Jane nodded. “Fanatic’s more like it; he was the press liaison or something. Called me up and more or less made a threat. Course he said later he never said it. So what do you think? Was that juice bar thing connected with Jacomine? Is our favorite bogeyman surfacing again?”

  Skip rolled her eyes. “No comment, Janie.”

  “Well, let me tell you something. You know who the getaway car is registered to?”

  “What getaway car?’

  “This one. The one in the McDonogh forty-three kidnapping.”

  “No comment, Janie.” She didn’t even know someone had gotten the plate.

  “I do. Darnell Roberts. You think these two things are connected?”

  Abasolo said, “Holy shit.”

  “I’ll take that for a yes. What do you think the asshole’s up to?”

  “What do you think?”

  The reporter rolled her own eyes, “No comment, Skippy.”

  Skip and Abasolo went to find Shellmire, who had just talked to the principal. He was sporting two kinds of forehead cleavage, horizontal and vertical. “Skip, this is nasty.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s about you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But what he wants, I don’t know.”

  “I do. He wants me dead, but he wants to torture me first.”

  “You know what? In any other situation, I’d call for a shrink. But I have a bad feeling you’re right.”

  Skip was so used to the idea that hearing it put so baldly didn’t even give her goose bumps. She said, “Has anyone talked to Dorise?”

  “The mother? Let’s do it now.” He gave her a hard stare. “You know what, Langdon? I like your sangfroid.”

  “It’s an act. I’m shaking on the inside. Have been for weeks.”

  “That’s a good thing. Otherwise I’d worry.” And for a second, he rested a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, maybe I should go alone. You shot this woman’s husband, didn’t you? She might not see you.”

  “You know damn well I did. But I’d like to try. Let me tell Abasolo.”

  She caught up with the sergeant. “AA, I want to go with Shellmire to talk to the mother. How about if you stay here and pick up what you can?”

  “You got it. I’m sure she doesn’t want to see both of us.” He’d been with her when she shot Delavon.

  As Shellmire maneuvered out of his parking place, Skip said, “She lives in Gentilly. Moved away from the East. Too many memories, I guess.”

  He said, “I know that—I got her address from the school. But how do you know that?”

  “I’ve kept up with the family. But—you know—I’ve been pretty private about it.” She stared out the window, thinking.

  “Meaning, how did Jacomine know kidnapping this kid was going to get to you?”

  “Yeah. He’s got to have sources within the department.”

  “Have you actually been to visit?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He turned to her and raised an eyebrow.

  “Watch your driving, will you? I… uh … leave little trinkets sometimes. For Shavonne.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, maybe The Jury’s been watching you.”

  That one did give her goose bumps. She was silent for the rest of the trip.

  They found Dorise with a district officer, a school official, her mother, and her sister. She’d apparently gotten over having hysterics and was now sitting pitifully on an old gold-covered sofa, tearing tissues into shreds.

  Shellmire displayed his shield. “Agent Turner Shellmire, FBI. This is Detective Langdon.”

  Dorise nodded, turning to Skip. “I know Detective Langdon. You my secret admirer.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “That jus’ a little joke I tell myself. You leave little presents for Sh—” Apparently, she couldn’t say the name. “For my daughter.”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Well, that’s real nice of you. I know you feel bad about what you done, but I don’t hold it against you. It was God’s will. I know that.”

  Skip felt tears and lifted her chin, knowing that wouldn’t hide them.

  Shellmire said, “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  As if he’d given a signal, the mother and the sister got up. The older woman said, “We go in the kitchen.”

  The school official said, “I better be going now,” and the district officer rose as well. He spoke to Dorise. “You be sure to tell the detective everything you told me. Will you do that for me?” He gave Skip a meaningful look, and Skip in turn glanced at Dorise. The large woman who was Shavonne’s mother slumped in her chair, obviously as miserable as if her daughter were already dead.

  In a moment, she straightened, turning her attention to Skip and Shellmire. “Won’t y’all sit down?”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know what it is with me. I jus’ can’t seem to find me a good man—seems like every man I meet got the devil in him.” She plucked a tissue from a box someone had placed close at hand, and started crying anew.

  Skip and Shellmire glanced at each other, alarmed, not having the least idea what to make of this.

  She was nodding now, over and over again, and rocking her body as well. Cindy Lou had once told Skip that this movement was one people used to induce a mini-trance as a kind of comfort mechanism. “I know who got Shavonne. I know ’zactly who. Only problem, I don’t know his address. Everything my sister said true as the word of the Lord.”

  “You know who kidnapped Shavonne.” Skip thought she sounded like some particularly lame psychologist, repeating what the patient said.

  “Oh, yes’m, I know. I sure do know. He call himself Dashan Jericho and he say he a lawyer come from Monroe, but I bet a year’s salary that ain’t his name and ain’t where he from, and he ain’t no lawyer. Oh, why, oh, why didn’t I listen to my sister?”

  A voice from the kitchen said, “I hear that,” and Skip thought her sister must be a small-minded bitch. She said, “Tell us about him, Dorise.”

  “Oh, he handsome, he slick as shit. He ax me out, and took me for a big ol’ ride. Yes ma’am, my sister say he seem too good to be true, and she be right about that.”

  “What makes you think he kidnapped your daughter?”

  “’Cause he entirely too interested in my little girl. No man I ever met in my life be that interested in my child. I shoulda known. I just shoulda known.”

  Skip and Shellmire were silent.

  “He ax me what school she go to. What her teacher name. What her hobbies.

  “Y’all see what I’m talkin’ about? I didn’t see nothin’ comin’. Nothin’. I just thought he love chirren. He told me he had a little girl of his own. You know what I really thought? I thought he auditionin’ to be Shavonne daddy. He axed me if I be willin’ to have more chirren—now what you gon’ make out of that?”

  Skip could see exactly what was bothering her—she probably thought he had a mile-long record of child abuse, and maybe he did. Maybe she and the FBI were wrong about this one. She felt the tension in her shoulders let up a little.

  Maybe, she thought, this isn’t my fault. And knew, even as she
thought it, she was as crazy as Dorise. If the man was a pedophile, it wasn’t her mother’s fault, and if he were Jacomine’s flunky, it wasn’t hers. But she wondered how healthy a person would have to be not to feel responsible.

  And she also remembered what Jane Storey had said about the car—that it was registered to Jacomine’s late follower. The kidnap had Jacomine written all over it.

  Shellmire said, “How do you know this Dashan Jericho?”

  “I met him at church. Where in God’s name you s’sposed to meet somebody? He walked into that church like he own the place, pick me right out, and ax me for my phone number.”

  “Did he meet Shavonne that day?”

  “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, he sure did meet Shavonne. Then later on, he talk to her while I be gettin’ ready to go out. They talk about what color kitty-cats they like—you ever hear of a grown man doin’ that?”

  Skip said, “Fathers do—and uncles. People interested in kids, sure.” She was nodding, not wanting Dorise to feel any worse than she had to. “Did he ever do anything inappropriate?”

  “What you mean by that?”

  “Did he touch her in an inappropriate way?”

  “Not when I be aroun’ he didn’t. Lemme ax my sister.” She raised her voice. “Sister! Sister, lemme ax you somethin’.”

  The sister came back to the living room, a shorts-clad, slightly messier version of Dorise, heavy though still in her twenties. “You ever see Dashan touch Shavonne?”

  “No. He be real careful ’bout that. Never got nowhere near her. He watch her though. Mmm-mmm. He shore did watch her.”

  Shellmire said, “Mrs. Bourgeois, did he ever say where he lived?”

  “Well, I don’t know why—I never did ax. I thought he just be a gentleman, not tryin’ nothin’, you know—tryin’ to get me over there.”

  “Do you have a phone number?”

  “No. He always call me—I thought he be so nice. Always call me.”

  “Do you have anything—anything at all—he might have touched?”

  “What you mean?”

  “A glass or something. For fingerprints.”

  “He didn’t touch nothin’ far as I can remember.”

  “Okay. What about a description?”

  “Tall, light-skinned brother. Powerful man; good-lookin’! Yeah, he sure good-lookin’.”