Authors: Julie Smith
"But I thought you just said—"
She smiled. "I'm just letting off steam, that's
all."
"Well, at least there's some good news today."
"But if I had anyplace to go, I'd go there."
"Listen, I've got to go see a thug. Who can I
take with me?"
"Can't it wait? Everybody's out right now. You
think we had a heater case before."
"
This dude gave me Turan's name."
"Oh—I'll get somebody."
"Never mind. I'm not exactly sure where to find
him. Let me do some work on that first."
Cappello lowered her eyes again. "Okay."
"I almost forgot. The kid I found the mug shot
of—can we schedule a lineup?"
"You make it sound so easy—you know where to
find him?"
"
No. But I figure with all the manpower we've
got on this, somebody'll get him by noon. Not me, though. Delavon's
my special little project. The kid's name is Augustine Melancon."
She went back to her desk, and found a message from
the desk officer: someone else to see her. Sugar Hebert.
Puzzled, she went out to the anteroom. "Mrs.
Hebert? You wanted to see me?"
"
Could we talk a few minutes?"
"
Sure. Come in." She led her into Homicide.
Sugar's eyes strayed to a sign someone had posted:
THOU SHALT NOT KILL. Skip sat her down. "What can I do for you?"
Sugar looked distinctly uncomfortable—and seriously
out of place; but downright good for a woman who'd just lost her
husband. She wore a white silk suit with a black silk rose pinned to
the chest, and a black straw hat. Skip wondered if the hat and the
flower were meant for mourning.
"
I think I might have some information for you."
Skip smiled, invitingly, she hoped.
You
probably don't even know we've got a cop on the critical list. Would
you please spit it out and get out of here?
She kept smiling, even nodding her head in encouragement.
Sugar fidgeted. Finally, she said, "I think I
might know who killed my husband."
Skip went right on smiling and nodding. "Oh?"
"Arthur's girlfriend would have—well—a
motive, right?"
"Arthur's girlfriend?"
"
Yes."
"I don't think you mentioned her before."
And I'm going to strangle you.
"
I was too ashamed to talk about it. Well, and I
guess I didn't really know for sure. I mean, I couldn't face facts.
But I've been thinking about the way he'd suddenly hang up the phone
when I came into the room; or if I picked up, not knowing he was
talking, I'd hear a woman's voice—and he'd get mad and tell me to
get off."
"What makes you think this meant he had a
girlfriend?"
"Well, it wasn't the first time." She acted
insulted, though why, Skip wasn't sure.
Because I impugned her detective skills?
Probably not. just general defensiveness. I wish I
could feel sorry for her, but there's something about her . . .
"Do you know the Womans name?"
"Anne. That's all I know. Sometimes I'd hear him
call her that."
"And why do you think she had a motive?"
"Well, you know. He wouldn't divorce me."
She tossed her head like a teenager, dislodging the hat a little.
"Isn't that the usual thing?"
Skip said, "I'll check it out."
Seeing her out, she thought,
This
is a woman with too much time on her hands.
Or else, that's what she wants me to think.
Still, it had to be checked. She called Nina
Phillips. "Did Arthur have a girlfriend?"
"
Not that I know of, and I worked with him
pretty closely. May I ask why?"
"Mrs. Hebert seems to think he did—someone
named Anne."
"Oh, Anne. Oh, for heaven's sake. That's just
like Sugar."
"I beg your pardon?"
"
Anne's his lawyer; Sugar probably heard them on
the phone or something. "
"Anne who?"
"Ebanks. Anne Ebanks."
"
Thanks a lot."
Skip hung up shaking her head. Sugar was a piece of
work, but what kind, she couldn't be sure. The one thing that looked
obvious was that her idea of mourning was a bit on the unconventional
side.
Now how to find Deluvon? Nothing to do but go back
to square one.
She headed once again for Jeweldean's run-down
apartment.
"
Hey, it's me again."
"
I'm a night worker; haven't you heard?"
"
I've got something for Tynette." She had
stopped and picked up a stuffed toy and a book; she'd also gotten an
extra fifty out of the bank.
Jeweldean came to the door clutching an ice pack to
her head. Skip said, "You don't look so good."
"I got mugged last night."
"Oh, God. The whole city's gone crazy."
"What you talkin' 'bout? I'm not the first
hooker ever got mugged." She let Skip in and took her into the
kitchen. "Some kid was waitin'. Soon as I turned around to
unlock the door, he hit me with something and grabbed my purse."
"How do you know it was a kid?"
"'Cause who else pulls that kind of shit? It was
some baby crackhead knew I'd be home late. Fact, I think I know whose
kid it was."
"That's so sad. To have to be afraid of your
neighbors."
"Who's afraid? I'm not afraid. I'm gettin' me a
purse phone is all—from now on, when I'm comin' home, I'm callin'
Biggie and he' gon' be out here waitin' for me. Any kid messes with
me, Biggie blows him away."
"He's got a gun, does he?"
"
Now don't be axin' impertinent questions.
Anyway, it prob'ly won't happen again. Biggie might have already had
a talk with somebody or other. This is some neighborhood, you know
that?"
"
They all are."
"Yeah, you right. But a thing happened yesterday
nearly broke my heart. My friend Lanita, lives downstairs, lost her
boy 'bout two weeks ago—he was shot down not all that far from
here."
"My God." Skip's mind was reeling at the
matter-of-fact way Jeweldean accepted violence as a fact of life.
"
Two days ago they arrested some kid lives down
the block, turns out it's Lanita's best friend's boy. So yesterday
the friend was over here cryin' and carryin' on, sayin' she hoped it
wasn't gon' ruin their friendship, just 'cause her boy killed
Lanita's. Now tha's pathetic."
"
Things are getting out of hand." Skip was
aware of a depression within her that was always just beneath the
surface, that had nothing to do with her own life; it bubbled to the
top on occasions like this, when it was brought home to her how truly
out of hand things were getting.
Cuppellos right
, she
thought briefly.
"Here's some things for Tynette," she said,
thrusting them into Jeweldean's hand.
"
You go give 'em to her yourself. She be glad to
see you."
Reluctantly, Skip went into the living room, where
the little girl lay on the couch. She had seen a lot of misery lately
and it was starting to get to her—Justin Arceneaux, Tynette, Jim.
But the little girl smiled. Tynette was happy to see
her; and she was so thoroughly delighted with the stuffed monkey Skip
had been unable to resist, and the book about the rain forest, some
of which Skip read to her, that the depression started to lift.
She heard Jeweldean making phone calls. When all was
quiet in the kitchen, she went back in. "You think Biggie could
get me to Delavon again?"
"
Sure don't. Why?"
"
I need him bad. Look. Maybe I could talk to
him."
"He ain' here." Jeweldean was momentarily
sullen. Skip thought she didn't like the idea of Biggie's consorting
with Delavon.
"Here's all I ask. Just have him tell Delavon I
want to see him—he can name the place and time, I don't care."
She put the fifty on the table. It would buy the favor and then some.
She was counting on the lagniappe to soften Jeweldean's heart.
Jeweldean didn't answer.
"You take care of that little girl," Skip
said, and left. Almost the minute she hit the sidewalk, two kids
stepped in front of her. One of them had a knife.
"Oh, shit."
One of the kids, the one without the knife, held out
his hand for her purse. She slipped it off her shoulder, but instead
of handing it over, she swung it so it smacked him in the groin. The
one with the knife lunged, but she smacked him too. Because her gun
was in the purse, both hits were a lot harder than the average mugger
had a right to expect.
"She's a cop, guys," a voice said.
Jeweldean's, from her balcony. The two kids took off.
Skip knew she could call in a 27-64—attempted armed
robbery—but it would only be a waste of time unless she could find
out where the kids lived.
"Hey, Jeweldean," she yelled. "You
know those punks?"
"
Uh-uh. They just some kids."
"Come on. They must live around here."
"
I don' know 'em. Why I got to know 'em?"
Skip was pretty sure she did.
14
She fumed all the way back to the office, partly at
her bad luck in getting mugged, partly at Jeweldean for protecting
the punks. She wasn't even sure Jeweldean was going to give Biggie
the message about Delavon, much less that Biggie would deliver it if
she did, or that Delavon would call if he did.
What a shitty, shitty day, she was saying to herself
as she walked into the detective bureau.
The minute she stepped in, she realized it had just
gotten a lot worse. The quiet she hadn't noticed that morning had
fallen. People's faces looked contorted. One man was wiping his eyes.
Cappello walked out of her office, her face a grim white mask.
"
Skip . . ."
"
Jim died."
"We just got the call."
Skip nodded, to show that she had heard, and walked
to her desk on legs of Jell-O. She sat down, feeling a strange
distance between herself and the world, as if the air had solidified,
so that it formed a barrier around her.
She wasn't going to cry. There was no question of
that at all.
She didn't even feel sad, just vaguely miserable, as
if there were news of war from far away.
What she had to do was make herself believe this.
Understand that Jim Hodges no longer existed, that she wouldn't be
joking around with him, wouldn't be working with him anymore.
She thought of Jim's two wives and four children—and
how they were going to feel. His death seemed cataclysmic to her, yet
out of reach, ungraspable.
Nothing she seemed to be able to do was helping her
wrap her mind around it. Thinking didn't work at all—she couldn't
think. She thought of saying something over and over to herself,
something like "Jim is dead," to make it sink in, but she
couldn't bring herself to do it.
She simply sat at her desk running her hand through
her hair again and again, disoriented, her mind a blank.
"He wouldn't be dead if it weren't for you,
Langdon."
At first she didn't think she'd heard right. She knew
the voice. It was the voice of a man who was perfectly capable of
saying that, but she couldn't believe he actually had.
"Didn't you hear me, Langdon?" Frank
O'Rourke was standing over her now, too close, invading her space.
She only stared, unable to answer, still
uncomprehending.
"
You stupid bitch. If it weren't for Joe
Tarantino, you wouldn't even be in Homicide—you'd be back in some
district, where you damn well belong."
She felt her mouth fall open, was unable to close it.
"I got no idea in hell why Joe puts up with
you—his idea of affirmative goddamn action, I guess. And now your
incompetence has finally gotten somebody killed, just like it was
bound to. How does that make you feel, Uptown rich bitch?"
Skip stood, noticing her legs were still like Jell-O,
and struggled briefly to keep her balance. And she smacked him in the
jaw.
Or rather, she noticed that she had.
She hadn't meant to do it, couldn't remember moving
her arm, just felt the sting, as if she'd suddenly recovered
consciousness, and found herself staring into the furious eyes of
O'Rourke, but for only a split second. He hit her back. The blow
landed on her jaw and knocked her over, so that she sat down hard on
the floor. Three men were now holding O'Rourke, she saw, and she felt
someone grab her shoulders from behind. She heard shouting:
"Hey, cut it out, you two."
"Goddammit, O'Rourke."
"Oh, shit."