Delusion

by Peter Abrahams

  “What happened?” he said. “Who did this to you?”

  She spoke again, just one word. It sounded like “bastard.” Blood trickled from between her lips.

  “Goddamn right,” he said. “We’ll get the bastard.” And he meant it: whoever had done this was going to pay.

  Was she trying to shake her head? Pirate couldn’t tell. And her eye might have been trying to communicate something as well, but he didn’t know what. Maybe he should touch her shoulder, make some reassuring move. He was wondering about that when she said, “Book.”

  Very clear. Book, not bastards. But just to be sure, he said: “Book?”

  Lee Ann moaned again, very softly, mostly from the pain or agony or whatever it was, but maybe a little bit too from frustration, at him, for being slow on the uptake. That pissed him off, but just as he was about to say something, he got it: “The address book?”

  The expression in her eye changed, told him yes. They really were partners.

  Pirate rose, hurried to the kitchen: fruit bowl with peaches; coffee mug now empty; address book with University of Texas on the cover. “Got it,” he called, and hurried back through the bedroom and into the closet. “What am I supposed to do with the thing?”

  No answer.

  He went a little closer. Her eye was very clear in the light from the ceiling window. There was no life in it now, none at all. Pirate stuck the address book in his pocket, knelt and felt Lee Ann’s wrist. No pulse; and the skin itself was different, more like an imitation of skin meant to fool the eye but not the touch. Pirate, real gentle—although he was reminded of doing something similar, less gentle, to Esteban Malvi—closed Lee Ann’s eye. Then he tugged at the material of her skirt, trying to cover her legs, make what was left of her more modest. Tugging the skirt down involved moving her legs closer together. Pirate was still busy with all that, at the same time trying to find some proper words to say, maybe from Job, when he heard a footstep, soft on the bedroom rug, behind him.

  He whirled around, reaching without thought for the pink-handled gun. There, not ten feet away, stood the in-shape, tan one, his enemy: Nell Jarreau. She looked past him, at Lee Ann, took in everything. Her hands rose, as though to cover her mouth or face, some womanly gesture, but she stopped them—he saw the effort it took.

  “She’s dead,” he told her. But it must have been obvious: he began noticing blood he’d missed before, blood all over the closet.

  Nell’s face went pale, practically white. But her eyes, nostrils, mouth, were dark, like black holes. Something about that black-and-white look scared him. She said, “You are a murderer after all.”

  “Me?” Was it possible she thought that he was the—? Oh, God. “We were partners.” His voice rose. “Some bastard did it.” Nell’s face didn’t change. It took a few moments for Pirate to feel the truth sinking in. This was happening again? Not even to Job. The happening-again thing sank in, sank in deep, and when it did, when it pierced all the way down to the core—she was going to frame him for the second time!—Pirate boiled over like some steaming gusher.

  “Frame me again? You want murder?” He sprang, lashing at her face with the barrel of Lee Ann’s pink-handled gun. Somehow he missed—she turned out to be quick, twisting away; but not quick enough to avoid the barrel completely. It caught her on the shoulder, good and hard, and she cried out, and the sound was right. An eye for an eye: the truth of that was confirmed forever in his heart. The only problem, which he missed at first, was that the force of the blow, so strong, knocked the gun from his hand. He heard it fall, bounce off the rug onto the hardwood floor, and then it was on his blind side and so was she; just for an instant, but as he turned, bringing everything in view again, he saw her rolling on the floor, into the corner. Pirate lunged. Too late: she sat up, pointed the gun right at his chest, like she knew how to use it, no surprise for a cop’s wife. He took another step, bent forward, hands extended like claws.

  “Don’t,” she said. Just one word, but something about the way she said it—scared yes, hysterical no—plus the black holes of her eyes, and the hardness he knew to be in her from what she’d done to him already, convinced him that she was not one of those women who could never shoot someone. He raised his hands. But shooting someone with his hands up as he backed out of a room? A different matter. That took a little more than she had going for her, in Pirate’s judgment. He started backing out of the room, hands up. The barrel swung, following him: a bad moment. Then he was out of the line of fire.

  And gone.

  CHAPTER 30

  Nell got off the floor. Pain shot up and down her left arm, from the shoulder to the wrist. But she could raise the arm, lower it, move it side to side. No damage; not worth another thought. So why this shaking?

  Nell went in the closet, knelt beside Lee Ann. She took Lee Ann’s wrist—cold skin, as though Lee Ann had spent a subzero day outdoors—and felt for a pulse. Nothing; but maybe she was doing it wrong. Nell put her ear to Lee Ann’s chest. Silence. She’d seen a murder victim—and been this close—once before. Maybe that experience down at the Parish Street Pier, the worst of her life, steeled her, kept her from crying. Or maybe it was the realization that the two murders were connected, a realization that got her mind working at once; no time for self-indulgence. Two connected murders, yes: but how?

  Nell became aware of Lee Ann’s gun, still in her hand. She had never fired a gun in her life, although Clay had invited her out on the police academy range several times. Could she have fired it at DuPree? Yes, if he’d taken one more step.

  Nell went into Lee Ann’s bedroom, found her purse on the floor, took out her cell phone, tried Clay’s number at One Marigot. Nothing appeared on the cell-phone screen; no lights shone on the keypad.

  The phone was broken.

  Raising the gun to waist level, Nell left the bedroom, walked down the little hall, looked around: fruit bowl; reproduction of Guernica hanging on the wall; splintered front door. He was gone. She went to the window. The painter who’d let her in downstairs had been on his way out; she saw no sign of his van.

  Nell moved into Lee Ann’s office alcove, picked up the desk phone, tried Clay’s number again.

  “Jarreau,” he said, answering on the first ring.

  “Clay?” Her tone betrayed her, wobbling a bit.

  “Yes?” he said; his tone was reserved, emotionless.

  Nell tried to make hers that way, too. “You’d better come here.”

  “Where?”

  “He…he beat her to death.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She started to tell her story, a badly organized jumble she was only halfway through when he interrupted.

  His tone changed. “Lock yourself in the bathroom. I’m on my way.”

  “There’s no—”

  Click.

  Locking herself in the bathroom? That sounded scarier than not. Nell decided to stay where she was, by the phone. A second or two later, her gaze fell on a small digital recorder, about three inches by two; some money; a handwritten note.

  Hey. Heres the recording thing. Digital. Check out this inturvue with the cheif!!

  Nell picked up the recorder, her hand unsteady. She pressed play.

  Clay spoke: “Shh,” he said. From the tiny speaker, came a faint splash. Right there and then in Lee Ann’s air-conditioned apartment, Nell’s nostrils filled with the Bernardine stink. “Who’d be on this interview list?” Clay said.

  DuPree spoke. Nell jumped at the sound of his voice. “Don’t know,” he said.

  Clay: “How about me—would I be on it?”

  DuPree: “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

  Clay: “No inconvenience. Want to interview me? How’s right now?”

  DuPree: “I’m not, um, prepared.”

  Clay: “Don’t be shy. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  DuPree: “Thanks for the offer. How about a rain check?”

  Clay: “Your call. But I’m pretty s
ure you’ve got to be more aggressive to make it in the writing game.”

  DuPree: “I’ll try.”

  Clay laughed, a laugh so unlike him it terrified her. “This is a funny situation.”

  DuPree: “Yeah?”

  Clay: “Here I am telling you how to write your own book. When all along I’m perfectly aware that you’re off to a flying start.”

  DuPree: “I am?”

  Clay: “Sure. Take your interview—that’s what it was, I get it now—your interview with my wife.”

  DuPree: “Interview with your wife? I don’t know what you’re—” Then came a thud, followed by a cry of pain. A heavy thud: Nell knew for certain Clay had his gun out, had struck DuPree as DuPree had struck her. And she, too, had a gun in her hand. The civilized world was speeding away.

  Clay: “Careful, now. The interview.”

  DuPree: “You can call it an interview.” Now his voice was pinched by pain. “But she came to me.”

  Clay: “And?”

  DuPree: “She was sorry about what happened. I told her not to worry about it.”

  Clay: “How did you put that? The exact words.”

  DuPree: “Just like I said—don’t worry about it. I forgive you.”

  Clay: “You forgave her?”

  DuPree: “Why not? It was…it was in good faith.”

  Clay: “What was?”

  DuPree: “The ID. Naturally she’s upset about it, kind of wanting to know how it happened and all.”

  Clay: “And what did you have to say about that?”

  DuPree: “Not much. I told her mistakes happen.”

  Clay: “That’s it? Mistakes happen?”

  DuPree: “Yup.”

  Clay: “What about the tape?”

  DuPree: “Truth is I don’t know much about that. My lawyers are the experts.”

  Clay: “So you didn’t pass on any theories to my wife?”

  DuPree: “Not a one. Aside from mistakes happen. What I’m trying to tell you, Chief, is I just want to move on.”

  Nell heard another faint sound, maybe the fastening of a metal snap, the kind on a holster. Then Clay said, “Sounds like the right move. Two things to remember, Mr. DuPree. One—Belle Ville’s not the place for you. Two—the book’s not going to help you with moving on. Message clear?”

  DuPree: “Yup.”

  A key turned; an engine fired. Clay said: “Get out.”

  Then, after a long pause: “And there’s a third thing, so obvious it’s hardly worth saying.”

  DuPree: “What’s that?”

  Clay: “If you see my wife again, talk to her, make contact in any way, I’ll kill you.”

  And then silence. Nell didn’t understand. When had this happened? She needed some sort of timeline, maybe going back twenty years; it snarled in her mind before she could even begin. But way more important, Clay’s brutality knocked her completely off balance—she finally knew from hearing him on this recording that he was capable of murder. There was more: DuPree’s lies—they threw her, too. DuPree hadn’t forgiven her at all, so why would he tell Clay that he had? And what had he said about theories: that he hadn’t passed on any to her? What about that scene of Clay and him down in the cells? And when you’re locked up I hope she’ll be grateful. She’s one hot babe.

  Nell didn’t understand. She was missing so much. Was it possible she’d misheard the recording, or misinterpreted what she had heard? She hit the back button, then play.

  “Two—the book’s not going to help you with moving on. Message clear?” Was DuPree’s motive somewhere in there? Had there been a disagreement between him and Lee Ann, something that had set him off, caused him to—

  Nell heard someone coming up the stairs, very fast. She pressed off, tucked the recorder and note in her pocket, and turned, raising the gun. A man—not DuPree—ran through the open doorway, splintered door remains cracking under his feet. Clay? Yes, Clay: for a moment, she hadn’t even recognized him. Two men in full SWAT-team outfits charged in after him. They saw Nell, halted, snapped their rifles up, took aim. The Guernica reproduction fell off the wall with a crash.

  “Don’t shoot,” Clay said, waving the men back. And to Nell: “Drop that fucking gun.”

  She dropped it.

  Clay came closer. “Who’s here?”

  “No one. Me.”

  “I heard you talking.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  He faced her, probably looking expressionless to everyone else, but grim to her. “I told you to lock yourself in the bathroom.”

  Nell said nothing, just tried to stop shaking. She could hear the SWAT men breathing behind their face shields; their chests heaved.

  “Search the place,” Clay said, his eyes staying on Nell.

  “There’s no one here,” Nell said. “Except Lee Ann. She’s…she’s in the closet.” Clay watched her face; his expression didn’t change.

  The SWAT men hurried into the bedroom, rifles raised. Clay bent down, picked up the pink-handled gun. “This yours?”

  “Of course not—you know that,” Nell said. “It’s Lee Ann’s.”

  “Who got shot?” Clay said.

  “Nobody,” Nell said. “He…he beat her. I told you.”

  “Then what’s that?” said Clay. He pointed to a shell casing on the floor, bright and clear on the gleaming hardwood outside Lee Ann’s bedroom; how had she missed it? Clay moved closer to the shell casing, then spotted something else. Nell followed his gaze; and she spotted it, too: a drop on the floor, oblong, dark-colored—possibly a deep shade of red. And there were others, some bigger, some smaller, marking a trail to the front door. Clay had already taken that in. He moved into the bedroom. Sirens sounded, coming from all directions. Nell walked over to one of those deep red drops and touched it with the tip of her finger: not wet, or even sticky, but completely dry.

  Crime scene investigators came; and soon the M.E. They took photographs, took measurements, took Lee Ann away. The SWAT team searched the whole building. Clay ordered the duty captain sent over from One Marigot. For a minute or two, Clay and Nell were alone in Lee Ann’s apartment. He gave her a look, intimate and strange at the same time. Nell knew she was looking at him in the same way.

  “What happened to your arm?” he said.

  “I’m fine.”

  Clay opened Lee Ann’s freezer, approached her with an ice pack. He moved as though to lay it on her shoulder, but stopped himself and handed it to her instead.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded. Nell felt the weight of the recorder in her pocket. Like so many electronic devices, it seemed to have a primitive intelligence, but this recorder had developed some sort of will, too: she felt its desire to come out in the open, get handed over to her husband.

  Deputy Chief Darryll Pines walked in, a little breathless from climbing the stairs.

  “What are you doing here?” Clay said.

  Darryll looked surprised. “Didn’t you ask for the duty captain?” he said. “I was on, noon to eight.”

  A vein pulsed in Clay’s neck. “I want you to take Nell’s statement,” he said.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “And I’d like to listen in, if that’s all right with you,” Clay said.

  Darryll shrugged. “You can run the whole show, if you want.”

  “I told you what I want.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They sat in Lee Ann’s living room, Nell on the sofa, Darryll in an easy chair, Clay on a stool he brought over from the bar. Darryll took out a notebook, rested it on his belly.

  “So, uh, ma’am,” he said, “what was it brought you over here in the first place?”

  “Lee Ann and I were supposed to meet for lunch,” Nell said. “She didn’t show up and I couldn’t reach her. I got worried.”

  “This lunch date, what time was that?”

  “Twelve-thirty, at Foodie and Company.”

  “And you got here?”

  “Around five.”

 
“What happened then?”

  Nell told her story: the painter letting her in the building, finding Lee Ann’s door broken down, her first sight of DuPree, hunched over Lee Ann’s body, fumbling with her skirt.

  “Rape kit,” Darryll muttered to himself. He made a note, the pen tiny in his thick fingers. “And then?”

  “He saw me and said, ‘She’s dead.’”

  “Did you say anything to him?”

  “I accused him of murder.”

  “Yeah? What was his reaction?”

  “He said something about not letting me frame him again. Then he attacked me.”

  “What did he mean by that—not letting you frame him?”

  Nell felt Clay’s eyes on her. “I think he was referring to my eyewitness testimony in the Blanton case.”

  “Oh, right,” said Darryll. “Stupid of me.” He made another note; it seemed to take a long time. “The attack—now, how did that go?”

  Nell described the attack, not well. When she came to the part about the gun falling loose from the force of the blow, she glanced at Clay. He was watching her, no strangeness now in his expression, instead the husbandly expression of a man who cared. But he caught her glance and everything changed.

  “So once you got the gun, he booked?” Darryll said.

  “Yes.”

  “Any idea where he—”

  Clay’s cell phone rang. He answered, listened for thirty seconds or so, clicked off. “There are no bullet wounds on the body,” he said. “But the gun was fired.” He turned to Nell. “Was DuPree bleeding?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Any sign he’d been hit? Was he limping, for example?”

  “No,” Nell said.

  “Think she shot him?” Darryll said.

  “We’ve got a shell casing but no bullet hole,” Clay said. “And a bloody trail leading out the door.”

  Darryll nodded. “He come at her,” he said. “She put a bullet in him, but not in the right place, not enough to stop him. He did what he did, with a hammer or whatever, took it with him.”

  “Something like that,” said Clay.

  “I didn’t see a hammer,” Nell said.