Authors: Julie Smith
Steve was home, already showered, dressed in clean shorts and T-shirt, and drinking a beer in the courtyard. This was getting to be a regular homecoming sight, and she liked it.
If it weren’t for Napoleon going for my throat, I could be pretty happy,
she thought.
There’s always some damn thing….
Steve stood to greet her, drawn by the fragrances emanating from the Five Happiness bags. She said, “This is a lot prettier sight than the courtyard last night.”
Steve pointed with his beer. “All quiet in the Big House. We could have those goodies out here if you like.”
“Maybe Napoleon could go in for a while.”
Steve frowned. “I used to think you two were going to end up finding common ground.”
“Only if we’re both buried in it.”
He sighed. “If you’d just try a little…”
“Me! He goes for my throat every time he sees me.”
“He just smelled the food, that’s all. Why don’t you go take a shower, and I’ll set the table.”
“Let’s put the food in the oven for a while. I feel like a drink.”
By the time she got out of the shower, the damn dog had settled down and so had she. It was a soft, summery evening, with a light breeze and hardly any mosquitoes. She and Steve sat in the courtyard and sipped, thinking that on nights like this, New Orleans was a good place to be.
Steve said, “Kenny and I had a little talk while we walked the dogs last night.”
“I figured you did.”
“Well, I need your advice. I don’t exactly know what to say to the parents. All this acting out’s about them.”
“Oh, big surprise.”
“It’s a really weird thing. You know how Dee-Dee says they like Layne better? Well, they do, sort of. But they’ve got a problem with him.”
“What? I’m dying to know.”
“Well, Kenny didn’t exactly put it like this, but I guess the bottom line is, they’re jealous.”
“How exactly did he put it?”
“Oh, about the way Sheila did. It was the context that made it clear what it was all about. I just said, ‘How are things going since Layne moved in?’ and he went through that whole business about how terminally cute the guys are. And you know that’s not like Kenny. That’s probably about it for Sheila, but I think Kenny’s got something else going on as well.”
“What?”
“Masculinity issues.”
Skip got that punched-in-the-stomach feeling she sometimes felt when she’d heard a truth. “Oho. The tough-guy thing. Is that what you mean?”
“Yeah, a real need to prove he’s not gay, now that he’s surrounded by people who are.”
“The only thing is, that doesn’t exactly explain the earring.”
“Oh, yeah, I think that was a mistake. He got it because it was weird, and then he was afraid it made the wrong statement. So he shaved his head.”
“What could be simpler?”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No. It’s just that it’s anything but simple.”
“Well, Kenny’s a complicated little person. I feel sorry for him. If I were in his situation, I’d probably have tattoos all over my body.”
“I’d go ahead and tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
“Wasn’t that what you asked? What to tell the parents? I wouldn’t hold back—just be straightforward. They can handle it—you know how they are. They like to get in there and parent.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. Maybe they should just leave the kids alone and let them work it out.”
“Okay, so don’t tell them.”
For some reason, both Skip and Steve loved to go on like this, discussing the relative merits of some tiny point of human behavior. Skip particularly liked this subject, because Steve hadn’t always gotten along with Jimmy Dee, and when the kids first arrived had been utterly indifferent. These days he seemed to consider them family as much as she did.
The two of them continued minding other people’s business for a while and eventually got around to their Chinese delicacies, which they polished off with gusto, still sitting out in the courtyard. It was getting on toward ten o’clock, and the mosquitoes were starting to come out when Skip said suddenly, “My pager. Damn.”
“Double damn.”
She went in to call, though it was a number she didn’t know. “Skip Langdon,” she said. “Did someone page me?”
“Oh, Detective Langdon. Thanks so much for calling back, I—uh … didn’t know who else to call.” It was a woman’s voice, and the woman was frantic.
“Who is this, please?”
“This is Deborah Cavignac. Bebe gave me your number. I’m calling because my husband hasn’t come home.”
Skip felt a sudden flush of alarm. “You’re Beau Cavignac’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“What time does he normally get home?”
“Oh, between five and six. Six-thirty if he has a drink first. This has never happened before—and we’ve been married seventeen years. Bebe said you’d know what to do.”
“Have you heard from him today?”
“Yes. He called before he left work and said he was going to stop for a drink at the Marlin Bar. And that he’d be home by six-thirty. Come to think of it, he actually said that.” She started to sob. “Oh, my God. I’m so worried.”
Under the circumstances, Skip couldn’t really blame her.
“Have you called the hospitals?”
“Why, no.”
“Well, why don’t you start there, and then I’ll see what I can do.”
“I don’t know …” Cavignac’s voice was uncertain, as if she really couldn’t be expected to make the calls herself, but Skip hung up before she had time to argue.
She called the coroner’s office, which, happily, had nothing to report. She could hear, somewhere in the distance, that Steve had turned on the television.
She joined him for fifteen minutes of mindlessness, and then the phone rang again. “Nobody’s got him,” said Mrs. Cavignac.
“That’s good news, isn’t it? He must not have been in an accident.”
“Well, where is he now?”
A very good question. One which she, in good conscience, had to try to answer. She said, “Let me make a couple of inquiries for you.” Having already checked the morgue, she called the jail. Beau wasn’t in it.
This had a deja vu kind of quality about it, but Skip had a bad feeling Beau wasn’t in Fort Lauderdale. She made her apologies to Steve, then slipped out of her shorts and into a pair of rayon work pants.
The Marlin Bar was more or less hopping—some say the weekend begins Thursday in New Orleans—but eventually Skip caught the bartender’s eye. She said simply, “Has Beau Cavignac been in tonight?”
“Beau?” The man’s head swiveled, made a quick survey of the place. “He left an hour or two ago.”
Skip had no desire to flash her badge, but it looked as if the time had come. She palmed it, hoping no one would see but the bartender, and said, “One or two?”
“Something wrong, Officer?”
She smiled. “Not that I know of. How about you?”
A hush had fallen among the nearby customers, the ones who’d seen the badge. One of them heaved his body around on the barstool to get a better look at her. “More like two,” he said. “Beau left two hours ago.”
The bartender shrugged and went back to work. Skip held out her hand to the man. “Skip Langdon. Are you a friend of Beau’s?”
“Bill Tyler. I just see him in here—we talk about sports and the weather.”
“Did you talk to him tonight?”
“Yeah, a little bit. He had a beer or two and then said he was going home to dinner.”
“Did he come in with anyone?”
“Came in alone. Left alone.”
“Talk to anyone else?”
“Just Joe.” He pointed with his chin to the bartender.
Knowing it was too much to hope for, she asked if Tyler knew where Beau parked.
“In a parking lot, I guess—he works for United Oil.”
“That sounds right. You know what kind of car he drives?”
“Afraid not.”
“Okay, thanks.” She tried to give him a grin of gratitude, but she couldn’t get her face to move properly. Her heart was picking up speed.
She retrieved her flashlight from the car and walked back toward the United building, trying to cover the same ground Beau would have covered, shining the light in every doorway, playing it over every sleeping body. Most of the bodies stirred, and those that didn’t weren’t Beau either.
She was glad to see a guard in the lobby of the building, and he was glad to help out a police officer, but unfortunately he didn’t know Beau’s car. He let her use the phone to call Deb Cavignac. “His car?” Cavignac was getting steadily more hysterical. “Why, do you know something? “
“I’m trying to find him.”
Finally someone else snatched the phone, a daughter presumably. “It’s a white Lexus, last year’s.”
He probably hadn’t parked it on the street then. She said, “Does your mother know where he usually parks it?”
The girl conferred with her mother and came back on the line. “In a parking lot. Fairly near.” She gave directions.
Skip was on her way to the lot, still searching doorways for bodies, when one of the bodies spoke to her. “You lookin’ for the dead guy?”
The speaker was a white male, maybe thirty, maybe sixty, his body thin and stringy with alcohol abuse. His eyes remained closed.
“What did you say?”
“Dead man over there.” The body didn’t move.
Skip said, “Open your eyes and look at me.”
“Don’t have no interest in women.”
“Get up. Now. I’m a police officer.”
He opened a pair of eyes decorated with red nets. She almost wished he’d kept them closed.
But something about her must have impressed him. Laboriously, he sat up. “Knew you wanted the dead guy.” This time he got up the energy to turn toward downtown and point. “Over there. Behind the garbage.”
The street he indicated was little more than an alley. Someone had left a lot of trash on the narrow sidewalk in front of one of the buildings. From where Skip stood, you couldn’t see what was on the other side.
“Okay, show me.”
“I just showed you.”
“Come on. Let’s go.” If this guy knew something, she sure wasn’t going to run the risk of losing him.
“Shit. You try to be a good citizen and this is the shit you get. Can you beat that, man? This is the shit you get. What kind of shit is this, man?”
He unfolded himself very slowly and carefully. She herded him over to the place he meant, disregarding his mumbled complaints, which didn’t cease for a second. As soon as they got close to the first of a number of discarded boxes, she saw the foot, a well-shod one obviously not belonging to a street person. She edged forward a little more.
Her informant was nodding vigorously. “They hit him and stabbed him both. Killed him two different ways.” He nearly collapsed laughing, seemingly so incapacitated that she risked getting closer to the man on the ground. He was lying on his side and wearing a suit.
“Beau?” she said. He didn’t answer and didn’t move.
She said to the witness, “What’s your name?”
“George Trulock.”
“George, do you have some ID?”
“You kiddin’?” George fell into another of his laughing fits.
“Okay, come with me.” She walked him to the nearest car and handcuffed him to the door. “Hang out here a minute, will you?”
“You can’t pull this shit on me. For Christ’s sake, I ain’t done nothin’…”
She tuned him out, bent over the body, and turned it far enough over to see the face. It was Beau.
Dead. Dead with a hole in his jacket and blood all over his chest.
George might well have been right—he could have been hit and stabbed.
Skip called for backup.
After an eternity, a district car arrived, its young, eager driver ready to kick butt. They waited for more help, the coroner, and the crime lab. This was the Eighth District, whose homicides would normally be investigated not by its own detectives but by Cold Cases, which was all that was left of Homicide. She’d worked with these guys, and anyway, they had no reason to be territorial—she’d have no trouble getting assigned to the case.
She turned back to George. “What happened here?”
“I told ya. They killed him twice.”
“Who did?”
“Black kids. Who else?”
“What’d they look like?”
“How would I know? I didn’t see it.”
Damn. She should have known. “You must have some reason for thinking that black kids killed him.” Sure he must. He’s stoned out of his gourd and probably a racist. That’s two reasons.
But he said, “Henry saw it.”
“Who’s Henry?”
“Ol’ black dude. Shoppin’ basket.”
“Where’s Henry now?”
“I don’t know, man. Am I s’posed to keep track of every wino on the street?”
She got as many details as she could for a bulletin on Henry, but she didn’t hold out much hope for it. Unless there was physical evidence like hair or fibers, this case needed a reliable eyewitness. If Henry did turn up, he probably couldn’t convince a jury it had twelve members. George was bad enough, and he didn’t even have a shopping basket. If Henry had dreads, that was it—the killer walked.
When the formalities were complete, she let the bright-eyed kid take George in to sober up and wait for questions later. Quickly, she canvassed the neighborhood, a chore which took very little time, as no one lived there; and then she went back to question the men in the bar a little more carefully.
Finally, since there was no way to put it off any longer, she went to break the news to Deb Cavignac. Deb said what Skip had heard before, maybe every third time she had to inform someone: “Why? Why my husband?”
For once, Skip thought she knew—though a lot of good it did her.
Twenty-three
WHEN HE HAD drunk as much of the Scotch as he could get into his body without an IV, Russell dragged himself to bed and flung himself on it. At some point, he woke up, registered briefly that he found himself disgusting, pulled off his clothes while remaining supine, and dozed all night in the fitful fashion of drunks who haven’t quite managed to pass out.
He woke up early and often, finally deciding at about seven-thirty to get up and take a walk, maybe get some coffee. He felt like a sack of manure.
After brushing his teeth for about twenty minutes, he gave up on making progress in that area and drove to the beach.
This truly was the most beautiful thing about Fort Lauderdale—maybe the only beautiful thing—and this morning the play of clouds and sun and green water was so stunning he simply sat on the sea wall and watched the show for a while. He got some coffee and came back and did it some more. The caffeine gave him such a lift he actually did start out on that walk he’d promised himself. He worked up a sweat in about ten minutes, but he was so weak it took all he had to continue for another ten.
Okay, twenty minutes. Some experts say it’s plenty
, he told himself.
He moseyed across the street and found a hotel restaurant serving breakfasts of eggs and bacon and hash browns with sour cream on top. Plenty of butter on the toast. And a whole lot more coffee.
He tried not to think of Dina while he wolfed it. Not to obsess about whether he had truly blown it once and for all.
Surely not
, he thought. She was just in a mood, momentarily pissed off and confusing him with the T-shirt-wearing cads and bounders she met in bars with too many television sets. If such was the case, though, a peace offering was required, and it should probably be some nice flowers.
Florists weren’t open yet. Or maybe they were, but he wasn’t up to picking up the phone. He headed for home and a nap, first stopping at a 7-Eleven for
The New York Times
—as long as World War Three hadn’t broken out, it should make a nice soporific.
Days like this
, he thought,
you kind of wish you watched the soaps.
He made himself yet more coffee and sat in the cockpit with the paper. He was starting to carve out a sense of comfort and well-being, full of grease and flying on caffeine, when he saw a story about New Orleans: The city was having one of its record crime weeks. Once there had been fourteen murders in a week—or was it nineteen in three days? Actually, Russell had forgotten the numbers, just that crime had run rampant. And here we were again—a dozen in four days. Maybe the piece was premature, he thought—why not go for fifteen in five?
He started to skim the story, but got no farther than the second sentence before he felt his body go rigid: “The latest victim was identified as oil company executive Beau Cavignac.”
No
, he thought,
not Beau. Not sweet Beau who was my only link with home. This can’t be—I just talked to him.
And then it occurred to him that the two events might be connected. He shivered in the light breeze. This could not be happening. They had killed Beau—or more likely, had him killed. His two best friends, Douglas and Edward. They had killed their buddy to save their own sorry asses.
Or one of them had.
And whoever it had been was probably going to kill the other soon. He’d killed Beau because Beau wanted to come clean. Now he’d have to kill his other buddy because he was the only one who knew he was a murderer.
Not my problem
, Russell thought.
Those two can duke it out any way they want.
Still, surely he owed Douglas something. He had some feeling for Douglas—less as the years went by, but something. They’d done a lot together.
So had he and Edward, but the trouble with Edward was he was a pompous ass.
Fuck it,
he thought.
Just fuck it. I wouldn’t cross the road to save either one of them. What goes around comes around.
Of course, if that were the case, Russell Fortier, aka Dean Woolverton, wasn’t exactly safe either. But then again, he was. No one had the slightest idea how to find him.
He went to make himself some more coffee and found himself staring out the windows of the galley—just staring, trying to put this thing out of his mind.
Poor Beau—so unremarkable in life, finally getting his fifteen minutes of fame. As a murder victim.
What was he thinking of? His best friend had just been killed by his other best friend (or friends). Surely he had to go talk to the police.
And yet, what for? The Skinners were parasites. If they wiped themselves out, so what?
There was definitely room for argument. Unless they killed each other in a duel, there was going to be only one left standing—and that one was going to be not only a parasite but an assassin.
Russell was struck with a choice of matching clichés, as Ms. Smart Dart Dina would probably say: To go back and face the music, or to get the hell out of Dodge.
This
, he thought,
must be what’s meant by the fight-or-flight instinct.
He had an almost uncontrollable urge to talk to Dina.
He got up and paced the deck, looking out at the horizon, staring at water and sky, at the things that always calmed him, and failing to be calmed. Today, they only made him feel small and alone. He felt the muscles of his throat constrict as he took in his situation, looked for the first time at what he’d really done to himself.
I’m alone in the world
, he thought.
By dumping everyone I ever knew or who ever cared about me, I’ve cut myself off completely.
He realized with shame that he had been so stunned by the revelation of Allred’s murder that he hadn’t remembered to ask Beau to get a message to Eugenie. He didn’t even deserve to have a daughter, and he couldn’t call her, anyway—his current situation was nothing a child could deal with. Bebe was out of the question, and his parents were dead. He’d always regretted having no siblings, and never did he regret it more.
It would be comforting
, he thought,
if someone cared whether I lived or died.
And he found he absolutely could not resist the urge to make someone care, to grab the only line he saw and see if it would hold. Against every ounce of judgment he had, he called Dina, thinking that if she hated him, at least they could get that squared away and he could start thinking about suicide.
“Dina? Don’t hang up … I’m really sorry about last night.”
“Dean. I was about to call you. Listen, I acted like a jackass. I’m the one who should apologize.”
He felt his throat constrict again. “I need to see you.”
“Uh … okay. I’ll cook dinner.”
“No, I mean now.”
“Now?” He could see her in his mind’s eye, looking at her watch, calculating. “It’s almost noon. I’d cancel my lunch date, but…”
He didn’t let her finish, simply pretended he’d heard something different. “Great. I’ll pick you up in ten.”
Then he waited for her to call back and set him straight, and when the phone didn’t ring, found himself grinning. He got in the car, thinking,
What in hell am I going to tell her?
He took her to Indigo, where they could sit outside and not be overheard. And when he had talked her into having a glass of wine and while they were waiting for it to come, she said, “You look like shit.”
“I didn’t sleep. I felt really bad about the way I’ve treated you…”
“Oh, come on, it’s not like you hit me or lied to me or something.”
“Uh… you’re making it worse.”
“It is like one of those things? I think I know which one. My name isn’t really Dean Woolverton. I’m not even a lawyer.”
The waiter set down two glasses of wine and almost before his hand was out of the way, she picked hers up. “Oh, really?” She sounded utterly unfazed. “What are you?”
“I’m just an asshole who left his wife and job. And former life.”
“Just picked up and left? No note, no nothing?”
“It’s not a pretty story. I did some pretty bad stuff.”
“Involving your wife?”
“Involving business.”
She nodded. “Oh. The export/import business.”
It took him a minute to catch on to what she meant. “No, no. Not drugs. This was about a kind of fundamental dishonesty—of a corporate kind, say. And then a couple of years ago, I had a sort of revelation about the way I’d lived and how stupid and immoral it was. And how much I wanted to leave it behind.”
Her eyes flooded with sudden sympathy, and she grasped his hand, which was nervously demolishing a shrimp chip. “But my wife didn’t… get it.” Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to mention that Bebe knew nothing about either the Skinners or the revelation. “We grew apart, she started seeing someone…”
At least, that part was true. Dina squeezed his hand. “… and I left at the first opportunity.”
“Whew,” she said. “I was afraid it was going to be a lot worse than that.”
“Well, it is. I’ve left out a few details.”
They had drunk their wine by now, and could manage a laugh. He told her about the Skinners, just the bare outlines, disguising the company and even the town. And then he detonated the bomb: “Two people have been killed.”
“You lied. It is drugs.”
“No, I didn’t. It’s what I said it was. But understand—I know enough to…”
“No! No, don’t go back. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That you could go back and tell the police what you know? What would that accomplish?”
“Well, there are more people involved. Two of them could get killed.”
“How about you? You could get killed, too.” Her steamed vegetables had arrived and she tucked into them with relish, not speaking for a minute. Then she said, “Wait a minute. I’ve got a great idea. Remember that wonderful old movie,
Three Days of the Condor
? Why not just go to the press and tell them everything—then nobody’ll have a reason to kill you or anybody else.”
Russell shook his head vigorously. “Can’t do that. Uh-uh.”
“What’s the big deal? Why not?”
“My wife’s a very high-profile woman—it would do her irreparable harm.”
Dina’s voice got kvetchy. “Oh, come on. How high-profile can she be? Is she the mayor or something?”
He nodded. “She’s in politics. She might be mayor one day—if this stuff about me doesn’t come out.”
“You still love her, don’t you?”
He searched for her hand. “Things between us didn’t work out. I’ve been trying to face that for a long time—I wouldn’t have left if I thought we had a ghost of a chance as a couple.”
“Ah, ‘it is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.’ “ She gave him an ironic look, but he drew a blank. “It’s from a book,” she said. “Oh, never mind. The point is, you’re a liability to her right now. But on the other hand, people might die if you don’t speak up. Is that it in a nutshell?”
He nodded. “That’s about it.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Please. That’s why I’m telling you.”
“How about an anonymous tip?”
“Hey.” He chewed on it a bit, along with some seaweed that came with the seared tuna. “You might have something there. Why couldn’t I just write a letter detailing the whole thing and FedEx it to the police? And not sign it?”
“Not bad. Not bad at all. But even if you don’t sign it, they might figure out who sent it. Who are you, by the way?”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Russell Fortier, my dear Ms. Wolf. Late of Louisiana.”
“Enchanté. If they figure out Russell Fortier sent it, they’ll know where he is.”
“Yeah. Damn. I wish I could get out of the country. But I have no papers—either as Russell or Dean.”
“You need some forgeries.”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to do that. The problem is, I’m the new kid in town. I suppose you wouldn’t know where the bad guys hang?”
She was silent for a moment. “Let me make a phone call.”
“Huh?” He was staggered.
“My brother’s a probation officer.”
She borrowed some change and left. It was a good ten minutes before she came back. “You have to call him.”
“What? I don’t get it.”
“Well, first I had to swear on a stack of Bibles I wouldn’t go with you to get the papers. Then in the end he refused to give me the address. You have to call him to get it.” She gave him a number on a scrap of paper. “Go do it now.”
There was no name on the paper. He dialed and said simply, “I’m Dina’s friend.”
“What’s your name?”
Not knowing what she’d told him, he said, “I have two names.”
“Yeah. Russell Fortier’s the real one. Russell, you’re a dead man if I find out Dina’s been to Miami with you.”
Russell was unaware that probation officers talked so tough.
He said, “Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to your sister.”
“My sister? Is that what she told you?” He got a huge laugh out of that one. “Look, here’s what you do. You got a boat? Dina says you got a boat.”
“Pearson thirty-eight.”
“Save it. I don’t know from boats. Sail it on down there and tie up at Dinner Key. Be there at four o’clock today and somebody’ll meet you. You got twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You got it or not?”
“I can get it.”
“Cash only—half up front. The guy’s name’s Lou.” He hung up, and when Russell returned, Dina wasn’t there.
She’d left a note: “Sorry to say I’ve got a secret or two myself. Hope things work out for you.”
Damn, the woman was mercurial. He went to get $25,000 out of the bank before setting sail, mentally composing the anonymous letter he was going to write.
She might be weird, she might be strange, she might even be a Mob princess—but she sure was smart. This was a solution that would protect Bebe and might even give Russell a choice or two.
***
Skip’s lieutenant called her in the morning, after Beau’s murder. “How’re you doing on the Fortier thing?”
“Great. Fortier’s alive and living in Fort Lauderdale—or, at least, he passed through there. Frankly, I don’t think he killed Beau or Allred, because why go to Fort Lauderdale and then come back?”
“Who did kill them?” Kelly McGuire was wearing an emerald green blouse perhaps a tad too bright for her paleness. But other than that, she was, like Cappello, the very personification of crispness—pink-red hair pulled back on the top and left long in back, tube-shaped silver earrings that made her long face longer, the merest touch of pinky-coral lipstick. You wanted to call her Madam Chairman, just for the way she looked. And she could stare you straight in the face and say, “Who did kill them?” like she might say, “What time is it?” Like she expected a serious answer. Something about the woman was scary.