Mariel said nothing and the room filled with a thick, clotting silence.
Forster nodded, as his face rearranged itself into something less savage. "If you give it to me now, we can still be friends," he promised quietly, "you can still have your cocoa. It's just that the necklace is important, it might be recognized if you wear it around. It's not really worth anything otherwise . . . it's cheap, paste jewelry . . . something a whore would wear—something a whore did wear." He set the mug carefully down and took a sudden step across the slight distance that separated man and child.
"You killed Ripper," Mariel pronounced clearly, seizing the songbird with surprising rapidity.
Forster froze in midstep. "Don't," he gasped, even as he watched the bird's tiny, futile struggles within Mariel's pudgy grip. "Please . . . don't."
Mariel withdrew her fist with the bird firmly in her control. Backing up to the door, her sweaty free hand groped for the handle while Forster watched her every movement, his eyes sliding back and forth as the heat-swollen door resisted her efforts.
As she turned slightly to gain more leverage, he eased a step closer, taking advantage of Mariel's distraction, his long fingers reaching out for her nest of curls.
Mariel's fist shot up, the tiny head of her captive swiveling this way and that in its panic, its black, shiny eyes blinking and blinking.
"Okay," Forster halted once more, his hands coming up palms outward, "okay, please . . . please, don't hurt him, Mariel . . . please."
At last, she succeeded in throwing open the door to the outside world, letting a cold wind rush through the stifling kitchen.
"Maybe," she answered enigmatically, backing out onto the porch, her eyes never leaving his as she pulled the door slowly closed behind her. The latch snapped into place like a hammer blow in the now-silent room. From the porch Forster heard a muffled giggle and the sound of clumsy footsteps.
He took a long step, then had to grasp the edge of the table to keep from falling, his legs grown too weak to support him. He slumped down onto the nearest chair. After several moments there came the ratcheting of a bike bell. "Oh God," he moaned into his hands, "Oh God, what am I going to do?"
Finally, as his breathing quieted, he looked up and around him as if just awakening. Lifting the mug he had prepared for Mariel, he drank its contents down in one scalding gulp, then walked from room to room turning on every light. All around him the air began to fill with the song of a new and sudden day.
Returning to the kitchen, he resumed his seat at the cluttered table, and after a while, sagged tiredly forward, laying his head to rest on the place mat. As his eyelids began to flutter his breathing grew very rapid and he began to pant like a dog, perhaps like Mariel's dog, he thought. Then, suddenly, it slowed once more to become reedy and shallow. Trying to lift a hand to reach out for the empty bird cage, he smiled and muttered, "The speech of angels . . . the language of God."
From other rooms his choir sang on.
Though Mariel had been successful in keeping the necklace a secret, the songbird proved another matter altogether. Between its near-continuous song celebrating the unfettered freedom of Mariel's bedroom, and Sailor's constant yowling and scratching at her closed door, the secret was soon out. The following morning Mariel's mother discovered the colorful little creature flitting happily about Mariel's room, leaving its droppings wherever they happened to land. Neither she nor Sailor was amused.
Remaining mute in the face of interrogation as she always did served no purpose in the end, for her mother had heard from other mothers on the street about Mr. Forster's fussy relationship with birds. An unsettling suspicion began to dawn on her.
Snagging the contested bird within the worn fishnet from an old forgotten aquarium, she confined it within a perforated bait can left behind by her ex and set off down the street. Mariel followed on her purple bike at a distance, silent, resentful, and slightly fearful, but curious for all that.
When Forster failed to answer her repeated knocks, Mariel's mom marched her formidable bulk to the rear of the house, where she found his hens scattered about the yard and far into the woods. Upon seeing her they stormed forth with hungry shrieks. Ignoring them, she mounted the rear steps, grunting with each, to peer in through the glass of the back door. Forster sat slumped at his table and would not respond to her repeated poundings. An empty mug with a teddy bear painted on it rested next to an outstretched hand. As keen as her daughter, she noticed right away the long scratches that festooned his bare arms.
Turning with a gasp, she swept back down the steps, through the now-fleeing hens, and back up the street to her home, carrying Mariel in her wake by force of will and dire threats. The police responded within minutes of her call.
Mr. Salter was released from custody with a muted apology from the police, even as Forster was bundled away for autopsy. It appeared Mariel had misidentified her assailant in the darkness, a common enough mistake even for an adult. For his part, Salter threatened lawsuits all round.
As to Forster's motive for breaking into Mariel's bedroom, the general consensus was the obvious one. But as he was dead, the matter was laid to rest with his body.
Mariel, as a reward for her brave defense of herself, was allowed to keep the bird, and though it was not a dog, she was very satisfied with the exchange. As for the necklace, she continued to keep it a secret from her mother and wore it only when out of the house. Ripper, forgotten in all the excitement, remained in his shared and secret grave, an arrangement that also suited Mariel, as she had no wish for her possession of the necklace to be challenged in any way.
Copyright © 2012 by David Dean
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FICTION
MISPRISION OF FELONY
by O'Neil De Noux
Art by Jason C. Eckhardt
A Shamus and Derringer Award winner for his short fiction, O'Neil De Noux has contributed work from several of his long-running series to EQMM. This month he debuts a new character, Detective Joseph Savary. If readers like this New Orleans homicide cop as much as we think they will, we'll probably be seeing him in a novel soon. Meanwhile, De Noux fans won't want to miss his latest novel issued on Kindle, the John Raven Beau mystery The Body in Crooked Bayou.
Detective Joseph Savary counted nineteen people on Felicity Street. Four older men sat on folding chairs outside Ojubi's Barbershop, two women swept the sidewalk beyond the shop, two others hosed off their stoops while chatting with each other, three boys rode around on bicycles, four girls hovered between a parked blue Chevy and a dark green Pontiac, two young men leaned against the outer wall of the Laundromat, another two sat on the loading dock of the long-abandoned warehouse and pretended they weren't watching the plainclothesman. Savary tapped down his black sunglasses and gleeked the men on the loading dock. No reaction.
Savary had left his suit coat in his unmarked gray Chevy Impala. He was glad he wore a white shirt today, as the sweat wouldn't show. He loosened his sky-blue tie and rested a hand atop the grip of the nine-millimeter Glock 17 semiautomatic resting in its Kydex holster on his left hip, next to the gold star-and-crescent NOPD badge clipped to his belt. He stood stiffly in front of the boarded-up door of Jeanfreau's Grocery and glanced at his watch. Two p.m., exactly. Same time, same day—a Wednesday—as two months ago. On that Wednesday, a lone black male put a bullet into the forehead of Jack Hudson, the owner of Jeanfreau's. Grainy black-and-white video showed a young, thin African-American male in a white T-shirt and low-riding jeans, pulling out a forty-caliber semiautomatic, pointing it at the gray-haired old man. The weapon was tilted on its side, gangster-style, waving in the right hand of the shooter. Jack Hudson, a man who'd bragged he was part Zulu and once shook Martin Luther King's hand, exchanged words with the gunman, touched his chin and the big pistol went off, snapping Hudson's head back. The shooter went around, had to kick Hudson out of the way to empty the cash registe
r, stuffing cash in his pockets, snatching two candy bars on his way out. Looked like Milky Way bars, maybe Snickers.
Savary fitted his sunglasses back up and stepped over to Ojubi's Barbershop. The four men outside, all over fifty, stopped talking. The barber, in a white smock and black pants, stood and stretched.
"Afternoon," Savary said.
The barber nodded.
"Back again, huh?" The barber was Willie Ellzey, who lived on Terpsichore Street but stayed with his woman on Eurphrosine, as he'd explained. Savary looked at the only man he hadn't spoken to on his four previous canvasses, twice in the morning, twice in the evening.
"I'm Joe Savary," he told the skinny man with blue-black skin as dark as Savary's. "I'm working on—"
"Jeanfreau." The man didn't look up. "We know."
"What's your name?"
A pair of bloodshot eyes met his and the man said, "Joe Clay. You wanna see my ID?" The voice was harsh, challenging.
"That would be nice." Savary pulled out his notebook as the man reached around for his wallet, took out his driver's license. Savary copied down the details.
"You come around here often, Mr. Clay?"
Savary got the same answers he'd been getting since he took over the case. No one saw anything or heard anything. No matter that Jack Hudson was a neighbor, had run the neighborhood grocery store since old man Jeanfreau died in 1968. It was as obvious as the nose on the detective's face. A local boy did this, but no one was giving him up to the police. It didn't even matter if Savary was raised three blocks away on Erato Street. The day he started the police academy was the day he'd left the neighborhood—permanently.
He moved to the women. He'd spoken to some of them before, the two young men by the Laundromat as well. One was the son of a fireman and was actually civil to Savary, the other barely mumbled responses. The two sitting on the dilapidated warehouse loading dock who pretended they weren't watching Savary would not even look at him as he stepped up.
"Police," he said to the taller of the two. Both were maybe twenty, both in white T-shirts and those long shorts with the crotch below the knees. "What's your name?"
Nothing.
"Stand up."
"Say what?"
"Stand up before I yank you up by your ears."
The taller one stood slowly and Savary, who towered over the man, patted him down.
"Man, you can't just search us," said the shorter one.
"I'm not searching your friend. I'm patting him down. Terry versus Ohio. Look it up. If a police officer has reasonable suspicion that a person has committed, is committing, or is about to commit a crime, the officer can pat that person down for weapons. For officer safety as well.
Savary found something. "That a cell phone and a wallet?"
The tall man nodded.
"Take them out. Let's see some ID."
The smaller one stood and raised his hands. Savary patted him down as well.
"What crime we did?"
Savary nodded to the large sign nailed to the wall of the warehouse which read: Posted—No Trespassing.
"I don't write the laws. I just enforce them." As Savary jotted down their names, addresses, cell-phone numbers before passing their IDs and cell phones back, he asked about Jeanfreau's and received the usual information. Nothing. He called in their names, had both run through the police computer. Both had records, but no felonies and nothing around the neighborhood. "Thank you for your cooperation."
A tan Impala pulled up and Savary went around to the driver's side to speak with his sergeant. Jodie Kintyre gleeked him over her cat-eyed sunglasses. It tickled Savary, because Jodie had wide-set, hazel, catlike eyes. She claimed Scottish descent, but there had to be some Asian blood in her genes with those eyes.
"Any luck?"
He laughed, stood back as she climbed out. Unlike most women cops, Jodie liked wearing skirt suits and wore them well. This one was beige. She left her jacket in the car as well, readjusting her shoulder rig with gold badge affixed. She was a striking woman in her forties with that shock of yellow-blond hair cut in a long pageboy. Jodie stood five-seven, her heels added a good inch but she had to crane her neck to look up at Savary, who stood six-four.
"I'll take this side of the street." She clicked her ballpoint pen, flipped open her notebook, and moved to the two outside the Laundromat. Savary crossed the street. A half-block down he ran into a distant cousin, Eddie Tauzin, who worked as a caretaker at the Audubon Zoo.
"On my way to work, my man." Eddie slapped the big detective's shoulder. "You gettin' nobody to talk about it?"
Savary shook his head.
"Man, I been askin' but no one sayin' nothin'."
He got a nod in response. "I appreciate your asking around."
Eddie moved past, backing as he walked. "You know, I hear anything, I'll give you a call." He turned, spied Jodie across the street, and looked back at Savary. "I admire the comp'ny you keep."
Reverend Tom Milton stepped out of his chapel with a large sponge in hand, spotted Savary, and gave him a knowing smile. The Sacred Congregation of the Good Lord occupied a two-story brick building two blocks from Jeanfreau's.
"Hot enough for you, boy?" The reverend leaned over a bucket, dipped the sponge inside. Savary wiped his brow as Milton took the sponge to the picture window lining the front of his building, slapped it against the glass, and rubbed on the soapy water.
"Hear anything from your congregation?" It was the same question Savary had been asking.
"You know if I did, I'd be the first to call. You get any luck at your church?"
That brought a smile to Savary, a lapsed Catholic who hadn't been to church, except for weddings and funerals, since he was a teenager.
"You want a bottle of water?" the reverend asked.
"No, thanks."
Milton reached over and patted Savary's back as the detective went by. Hopefully, the man of the cloth would pass any information to Savary, who had asked the reverend to talk with the children of his congregation about the matter because kids hear and see more than anyone in a neighborhood. When Savary was a patrolman, Milton and some kids had helped him recover two stolen cars. But that was before Katrina.
Things were different now, AK—after Katrina. The hard-core criminals, who were some of the first to return, had reestablished themselves with a killing vengeance. The murder rate was back up top as new blood carved out drug territories and the police department, as devastated as the neighborhoods, reeled in turmoil from lack of manpower, lack of leadership, lack of inspiration.
Savary linked up with Jodie back at her car and she actually had a line of perspiration on her upper lip. The fair-haired sergeant rarely perspired, even in the sweltering summer city.
"M.F. screwed this one up from the start." She went on to her repeated diatribe against Detective Maurice Ferdinand, who had done absolutely nothing on the Jeanfreau case beyond overseeing the processing of the crime scene. M.F.'s recent transfer to the reorganized Vice Squad was welcomed by the rank and file of the Homicide Division. M.F. in the Vice Squad, always a joke in decadent New Orleans, was a classic example of the Peter Principle—a worker rising to the level of his incompetence. So much for a man who thought being called M.F. was cute.
"Know how I know it's somebody local?" Savary asked.
Jodie narrowed her left eye as she looked up at him.
"All these people out here and no one saw anything. No one's heard anything. You think a ghost flittered in here and shot old man Hudson? If it were a stranger, someone would tell me, 'I saw him but don't know who he is.' But that's not what we're getting. No one saw anything because they know who he is."
Neither detective had to say the word "retaliation." Eyewitnesses, especially inner-city eyewitnesses, were at the top of the endangered-species list in New Orleans. So much for the vaunted witness-protection program.
Back at headquarters, Savary sat next to his Macintosh G5, donated by Apple to the department AK, typed in the hundred blo
ck of Jeanfreau's Grocery, and searched the police database for any incidents that had occurred there over the last five years. As a boy, Savary had looked up the definition of "felicity," discovering it meant "intense happiness." Felicity Street was a real-life oxymoron.
In the five years AK, NOPD had received over one thousand calls along the twenty-four blocks of Felicity Street. In the last two years there had been two murders in the blocks around Jeanfreau's—nine rapes, twelve aggravated batteries, eight burglaries, seven armed robberies, two carjackings, twenty-nine batteries, the list went on. Savary narrowed the search to Jeanfreau's Grocery and discovered there were nine thefts, two armed robberies, two simple batteries, four disturbing-the-peace calls, and a Peeping Tom reported there.
The only arrests on site involved the two simple batteries—fist fights—and the Peeping Tom case. A suspicious man standing outside Jeanfreau's had a warrant out for his arrest for Peeping Tom from Tangipahoa Parish. Jack Hudson was the victim of both armed robberies. Of the nine theft cases, five listed young African-American males as the culprits. Two were later arrested after pulling the same shoplifting stunt at other stores.
Savary stood and stretched. Time to get home, cook something up, and call his girls on the phone. Every night between six and seven, when he wasn't working, Detective Joseph Savary called his ex-wife's number and talked to his girls. Emily was nine and Carla four. Carla thought she could show her daddy things through the phone as if he could see what she pointed the receiver at. Last night she was talking about a drawing she'd done and said, "See, Daddy?"
"Yes, baby. I see it."
Savary left headquarters, heading uptown to his small apartment near Audubon Park. He would pass his ex-wife's house, the one he still paid the mortgage on, but would not stop. Joint custody in Louisiana meant his ex was the custodial parent, but he got his girls every other weekend and every other holiday. He fought for those visits even harder than he fought to solve murders. He barely knew his father. His girls would not suffer this.
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 12/01/12 Page 6
