Lost River (31 page)

He was all but staggering along the Spain Street banquette when he saw her approaching from the other direction. Behind her, what appeared to be the same Buick he had seen on Basin Street was pulling away. He was confused, but his brain was too frazzled to puzzle it out. He was just glad to see her, glad to know that at least she hadn't packed her bags and moved out.

They arrived at the street door, an encounter that swam in the wide window of the import office. Regarding each other carefully, they both waited for the other to break the silence. Without a word, Valentin unlocked the door and held it open for her.

Upstairs he was relieved to find that no notes had been slipped under the door. Justine wandered into the bathroom, and he sat down on the divan and took off his shoes, feeling as dull as a rock. She stepped out of the bathroom and directly into the bedroom.

He waited until she appeared into the doorway and said, "Are you coming to bed?"

The maid out of Josie Arlington's found him on her way home. He was lying on his back, his arms flung wide as if reaching to hold himself from falling into a pit, his dead eyes staring up at the starless blue night. Black blood had spread like a puddle beneath him.

She said, "Good lord almighty," and took a few steps closer. She had heard the talk going around the houses, and there it was, just like they said, a thin line scratched into the flesh of the poor man's brow.

She let out a low moan, then ran back the way she had come, calling for someone to help.

The telephone rang at Captain Picot's tiny house on St. Ann Street, and he sat up, blinking. Few people had his number, and he kept it out of the directory. He swung his legs off the bed and lumbered like a sailor on a pitching deck into his living room. Snatching up the handset, he grunted irritably, then listened. Within a few seconds, his sour face became a rubbery mask of delight.

He could barely keep from crowing his orders. "It's the six hundred block of Spain Street. He keeps rooms over an import office there. I'll be down in an hour."

He dropped the handset into the cradle.
Finally,
he told himself,
after all this time. I've got him now, goddamnit. I've got that son of a bitch St. Cyr, but good.

This time instead of the telephone, it was a pounding of footsteps up the stairwell and then an urgent banging on the door. Valentin felt himself grabbed and wrenched out of the darkness by the sound of someone yelling his name, loud but muffled. With a groan Justine came awake, pulling a pillow over her head as he stumbled from the bed.

Now he could hear Each calling urgently and shivering the jamb with the force of his hand. Valentin jerked the door open.

"You got to get out!" the kid sputtered. "The coppers are comin'!"

Each gave it to the detective in a few quick sentences. Another victim had turned up, this one found lying out on Bienville Street, shot in the chest and cut, just like the others. William Brown was not the killer, and Picot had sent a squad to apprehend St. Cyr all over again. Tom Anderson wouldn't be able to come to his rescue. He was officially targeted for arrest, and the New Orleans police were minutes away.

Valentin gaped, stupefied by this news. Justine stepped into the bedroom doorway to listen, her face grim as she tied the sash of her kimono. Each was too unnerved to steal his usual hungry peek at her.

Valentin didn't waste a second, grabbing the kid by the shoulder, turning him around, and ordering, "Watch the street." He bolted for the bedroom.

Justine stood in his path for a moment, her face unforgiving. A brief second passed and she stepped aside. He dressed in a flurry, all but jumping into his de Nimes trousers, high-topped walking shoes, and work shirt. He came out of the bedroom to find that Justine had gone into the closet for his old railroad jacket, and he gave a nod of thanks, still avoiding her eyes.

Stuffed into one of the pockets was an old wool driving cap, and once he donned it, he looked like a common laborer.

"There's a car at the corner," Each called from the balcony. "I think it's coppers."

"It is," Valentin called back. There was rarely any traffic in the neighborhood at that hour.

In another minute or so, a second car would arrive at the other end of the block. Patrolmen, closing along the banquettes, would have him hedged in on all sides, including the alley in back, on their way to pulling a net around him. He could all but see Picot's grinning face and dirty hands behind the web.

Each was reporting a second car as the detective snatched up his sap and stiletto. The police had confiscated his Iver Johnson, so he dug out his ancient Colt Bisley model. Justine lingered at the bedroom doorway, her face cool and impassive. There was nothing for either of them to say. Valentin jerked his head, and he and Each raced to the kitchen and then out the door onto the back stairs.

Once the lock clacked, Justine spent a few seconds swallowing her anger, then stepped quickly into the kitchen and shoved a mop, broom, and sack of rice against the door. Turning off all the lights, she returned to the bedroom and slipped under the covers. Only then did she allow herself to curse Valentin St. Cyr.

The rear stairwell was the only way out. Mr. Perrault, the owner of the import business, had given Valentin keys to the first floor in case of an emergency. The detective and Each now hurried through the storage room and unlocked the back door, which opened onto a narrow loading dock. Stopping in the darkness, they could hear the activity from Spain Street: the gurgle of idling engines, muted chatter, shoe leather slapping on the boards of the banquette.

Valentin saw no one moving around the back lot. He grabbed Each's sleeve and led him across the alley as the silhouette of a copper appeared at each end. They dived into the shadows of the lot on the other side and crept around the building to arrive on the banquette in front of a closed St. Roch Avenue cafe.

Each was nearly shaking with excitement. Valentin whispered instructions for him to get back to Storyville. He was to stay out of sight until he got there, then let himself be seen.

"Where you going to go?" the kid whispered back. His voice was thin with strain.

Valentin shook his head and waved him away. Once he had run off, the detective cut a jagged path through the alleys to St. Ferdinand Street, then made a turn toward the river, losing himself in the jumbled maze of shipping warehouses, small factories, and shops for the outfitting of vessels that spread out for four blocks on the other side of the tracks.

Two detectives appeared at the door. They showed Justine their gold badges and raked her with cool cop gazes. The older, shorter one said his name was Weeks and introduced his partner as McKinney. They had a warrant for the arrest of Valentin St. Cyr on a charge of murder.

Justine gazed between the two of them as if she didn't understand. "He's not here."

"Where is he?" Weeks said.

"I don't know. He left."

"When?"

"Yesterday," she said. "He was on his way to Union Station."

"He say where he was going?"

"He didn't." She kept her voice and expression flat, and the junior officer was struck in that moment by how much she resembled the Creole detective. She wasn't about to give up anything, either.

"We're going to look around, then," Weeks said.

Justine stepped back. "Look."

The pair split up and covered the four rooms within a matter of minutes. While Weeks ignored her, she caught curious glances from the one named McKinney. It was he who poked around in the kitchen, then came out to report to the senior detective.

"Nothing," he said.

"Then he's gone." Weeks treated Justine to a cold glance. "And you ain't got no idea where he went?"

Justine shook her head. The senior officer gave her a harder look. "You know we can take you in as a material witness," he said.

Justine stared back, her eyes blank. "Witness to what?"

Weeks started to say something back, then stopped. After a moment's stiff pause, he said, "Just so you understand, he's wanted on a murder charge. It ain't no joke. So if you hear from him, tell him he needs to come in. Only way it's going to get settled. Otherwise..." He let it hang.

"Otherwise what?" Justine said.

McKinney spoke up for the first time. "He's a fugitive, ma'am. That means if he runs, he could end up being shot." He saw her eyes widen and said, "It'll be better if he comes in." He fished in his pocket and handed her a card. "That's got the number of the desk at the precinct on it. In case you do hear from him."

The detectives made their exit. McKinney gave her a polite nod before closing the door behind him.

Captain Picot was pacing in his office when Weeks and McKinney arrived back. Though it was the dead of night, he was dressed all natty, as if on his way to a wedding or some other formal affair. An astonished Detective McKinney realized that the captain had gone to this trouble expecting to make a big show of the arrest of St. Cyr.

Picot came to an expectant halt when the cops stepped to his door.

Weeks threw up his hands. "We missed him."

"You what?" Picot's olive-tinged face turned an angry shade of red.

"He was gone by the time we got there. We searched all the rooms. Nothing."

Picot slammed a fist down on his desk and papers went flying.

"We've got men all around the neighborhood," Weeks said, swallowing. "Maybe they'll nab him."

Picot rolled his eyes. "No, they won't
nab
him," he said. "He was tipped off, and he ran." After a moment's dark pause, he said, "Well, I guess that means he's guilty, then, don't it? As if there was any doubt."

He glanced at McKinney, as if expecting a challenge. The detective kept his mouth shut and expression blank.

"Did you bring her in?"

"Bring who?" Weeks said.

"His woman."

"Those weren't our orders."

"Well, they are now," Picot said. "Go back and pick her up."

The two detectives exchanged a glance. McKinney said, "We've got nothing on her, sir."

Picot treated him to a foul stare. "Did you hear me? And while you're at it, go ahead and put out an alert on that damn Beansoup character or whatever he calls himself now."

"'Each,'" Weeks said. "He goes by 'Each.'"

Picot said, "Him, too. Find him and drag his ass in. As soon as the morning shift comes on, we'll cover every house in Storyville. Let them all know that St. Cyr killed the wrong man and then ran away. Get the word out that anyone helps him will get trouble." He flicked a hand. "Go ahead, then."

The detectives filed out. Captain Picot turned to his window and stared out at his corner of the city, knowing in his bones that wherever the Creole detective had gone, he hadn't left town and likely wouldn't. Picot preferred it that way. The two long-time rivals—make that
enemies
—were going to engage again, another battle in a war that had been going on for the better part of ten years.

Picot had come close to snagging St. Cyr before, only to have him slither from his grasp like the snake he was. This time it was different. The Creole detective had slipped, an amateur's blunder that he never would have committed had he stayed in Storyville and kept his skills sharp.

He'd lost his edge working for those St. Charles Avenue lawyers and so ended up shooting the wrong man dead. Now no one could save him, not Tom Anderson, not the madams in their mansions down the line, not any of his old cronies. Unless he could perform some feat of magic, he was as good as done.

If he was smart, Picot reflected, he'd leave New Orleans and never return, losing himself in the great muddled morass of some other city or in some nameless hamlet far away. He wouldn't, though; he was bound to this place and would linger here, even if it brought him to ruin.

The only detail the captain had to sweat was where St. Cyr had gone to ground and how long it would be before he came out into the open, as he surely would, and into the clutches of the New Orleans Police Department. It could take a day or a month. The Creole couldn't hide forever, and they'd be waiting.

In those years every city in the land contained at least one jungle, a vile, filthy, and perilous warren that sane people knew better than to visit. Such neighborhoods were beyond the pale, festering like open sores on the fringes of decent society. Most often they were located near the water, convenient for sailors and other misfits arriving and dead bodies departing, and were too poor, dirty, and disease-riddled to serve as anything except dumping grounds for dregs. The denizens were the worst humanity had to offer: thieves, rapists, hopheads, drunkards, and killers, every one of them stupid or crazy, scrabbling in the muck to stay alive for another day.

Such an enclave had grown up at the south end of Charbon-net Street, below North Peters, in the small tangle of alleys that huddled against the levee, more an encampment than a permanent quarter. It fell into the gap between New Orleans and the town of Arabi, and in another five years it would be gone like a bad memory.

They called it Brown Bottom, and it was there that Valentin decided to lose himself for a while. Shadowy, scurrying figures were the norm, and he knew no cop would come poking around there without a small army of fellow officers.