The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (34 page)

Torian tried to hear when the news came on, wondering if her disappearance, or Sheila’s, would be reported.

But why should it?
she remembered.
I disappeared days ago. And I called Sheila’s house to let them know where she was. Nobody knows we’ve been kidnapped.

She wondered where Adonis was.

“Hurricane Hannah is expected to hit New Orleans at approximately three-thirty a.m.” said the announcer. “The storm is traveling at twelve miles per hour with winds up to eighty miles an hour.”

Torian felt another of the fear leaps that were beginning to seem familiar, but then she thought,
What the hell do I care? We’re not even in New Orleans. We couldn’t be.

She didn’t have the least idea where she’d be at three- thirty a.m. Or if she’d be alive.

* * *

Next on Skip’s list was a Gloria Holmes, who lived in the French Quarter.
Funny I don’t know her,
she thought.

Holmes was on Burgundy Street, near Orleans. She lived in a neat Creole cottage with three units— three units, three doorbells, all unmarked. Skip pressed them all.

A door opened near the gate. A tousled man in shorts and a white undershirt stood there, not speaking, just squinting into the night.

“We’re looking for Gloria Holmes.”

“Shit, it’s raining,” he said, and closed the door.

Skip shrugged and kept pressing the other two bells, knowing that, because passing drunks love to punch butt tons, French Quarter residents often don’t answer unless they’re expecting someone.

Finally a female voice called, “What?”

“We’re looking for Gloria Holmes. It’s an emergency.”

“St. Ann.” Loud and irritated. A door slammed.

Skip was about to lean on the buzzer again, but Steve said, “The deli?”

“Oh, hey. Maybe so.” He gave her one of his pleased- but-hiding-it looks.

She slipped her hand in his as they walked the two blocks to the deli, scurrying in the rain. “You’re semi- useful, you know that?”

“Don’t get all carried away.”

The St. Ann Deli was known for its bountiful, frequently quite decent food, and in Skip’s experience, snail-like service. Whether Gloria was a slow server, slow cook, or patient customer remained to be seen. It even occurred to Skip that maybe her roommate said “St. Ann” whenever Gloria was missing, on the theory that she was probably sitting there waiting for her order.

The woman behind the counter had some kind of tooth around her neck and about eight ornaments in each ear, nicely displayed with the help of a buzz haircut. She wore a faded lavender T-shirt that announced she was gay and proud, and that barely covered a pair of free-swinging breasts too large to be wrestled into a bra. Skip knew her by sight—they always exchanged greetings when they ran into each other.

“Are you Gloria Holmes?”

“Uh-huh. You live up the block, don’t you?”

“On St. Philip. I’m Skip Langdon.”

“What can I do you for?” Her voice was hearty, said she was ready for anything.

Skip liked the setup. They were in a public place so Gloria couldn’t slam any doors on her.

“We’ve got a little problem we hope you can help us with. Our daughter has disappeared and …”

“Oh. You’re from P-FLAG. Sure. Be with you in a minute.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

Steve turned to Skip: “We’re from pea flag?”

“Beats me. All I know is, she hasn’t threatened to call the po-lice.”

Gloria came back with someone’s corn chowder. When she had served it, she said, “You can’t be Susan’s parents—you don’t look any older than she is.”

“Listen, please talk to us for a minute. We’re desperate.”

Gloria nodded, all sympathy. “I know. It’s really hard when you first find out—”

“We think she’s mixed up with a man named Jacomine.”

“Oh shit. You’re not from P-FLAG.”

Steve said, “What’s pea flag?” making Skip impatient again; she hated getting off-track.

“Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. Too bad. If your kid was a dyke, I’d know what to do. But the Blood of the Lamb? That’s something else again. Kidnap her, deprogram her, and move to another country. That’s my advice.” She strode back into the kitchen, clearly enjoying the way her body moved.

Besides the T-shirt, she wore a pair of baggy khaki shorts and lace-up boots with heavy socks. Her hips probably wouldn’t fit into a smallish chair, and her butt jiggled. Her leg hair would have flapped in the breeze if there’d been one.

“Pinch me,” Skip said. “She didn’t haul out the garlic and crucifixes.”

“Probably sneaking out the back right now.”

But she came back with a burger and a plate of red beans and rice, served them, and rejoined the ersatz parents with a grin.

Steve said, “We really have to thank you. You’re the only person we’ve talked to who hasn’t threatened to call the police.”

“Oh, honestly. They’ve got this ex-members’ support group that’s more like a cult than the Jacomeanies. They think every stranger’s a spy for the church. Does paranoia breed paranoia, or what? Of course what do I know? I was never really in it myself—I just went with my mom sometimes. See, my dad was a butt about me coming out, but Mom was great. Went to P-FLAG, and got right with the program. So when she joined this liberal, progressive new church, I tried to support her.

“She said the reason it attracted her was they had lots of gays—the Rev talked to her about me being gay and— you know—was cool about it. I mean, kind of aggressively cool. Well, Mom was probably vulnerable to anything that might help her deal with it—but anyway, she didn’t last long either. I mean, it was pretty obvious it was a cult.”

“What tipped your mom?”

“Oh, the usual, I guess. They wanted too much time and too much money. And I guess it got kind of old having to call Jacomine ‘Daddy.’ Oh, yeah, and she never did buy the healings. Simple laying on of hands, yes, no problem, she said. But when he pulled tumors out of people, it kind of compromised credibility.” She shrugged. “The truth was, neither of us ever got deep into it. It was no more than an episode.”

“We think they’ve got our daughter someplace. Do you know of any—I don’t know—runaway programs they have? Anything like that?”

“My mom might. Want me to give you her number?”

“Please.”

Gloria scribbled something. “Her name’s different from mine. Sauter. Sylvia Sauter. You can call her now if you like. She stays up all night—her clock’s backwards or something.”

“Thanks,” Skip said, though at this point she hadn’t the least concern about Mrs. Sauter’s sleep habits.

She and Steve went to her house to make the call. As advertised, Mrs. Sauter seemed ready and happy to talk. She said they hadn’t disturbed her, she was just ironing. “Errol Jacomine. A bad man. A very bad man.”

“Why do you say so, Mrs. Sauter?”

“He got people’s money. Old people’s. Mine—he got some of mine, in fact. With his phony healing and his seductions…”

“You know about that?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. It happened to friends of mine.”

“Listen, do you have any idea where my daughter might be? Is there some kind of quasi-legal shelter they run?”

“You know it’s strange you brought it up. My friend Paulette … and the other thing, too.”

“Could you say all that slowly?”

“Well, they used to list their projects every Sunday at church, and you were supposed to pick the ones you wanted to contribute to. So I picked several, including this sort of little shelter they had—I mean, basically it was just one woman—Paulette Thibodeaux—and I took her some food one day, for the kids.”

“Why is it strange that I’d mention her?”

“Oh. Because there were rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Listen, I really don’t want to be that kind of person. Would you let me off the hook, by any chance?”

Since you ask so nicely—and since I don’t care anyway.
“Sure. Can you remember where she lives?”

Mrs. Sauter gave her the address.

“Okay, Steve. Commando raid. Let’s look sharp.”

“What’s our plan?”

“Good question. Sheila’s been gone twenty-four hours. We could get the police in on this. I could call in a favor or two.” She thought a minute. “You know what? I don’t see any way around it. Forget the commando raid.”

She called a friend in Juvenile to meet her there.

The place was on the other side of town, near Audubon Park, but they were there in about twelve minutes. The block was dark, including the Thibodeaux house. It was raining harder.

The officer rang the doorbell—getting no answer. The three of them looked around the house, then in the garage. No car. No one home.

They all left.

In the officer’s absence, Steve said, “What now?”

“Now the commando raid.”

“Another B and E? Two in one night?”

“You up to it?”

They broke a window in the back and went in. In one bedroom, they found a pair of earrings lying on the bureau—Sheila’s turquoise studs.

Or rather, earrings like hers—inexpensive, mass-produced turquoise studs of a type that could be purchased at any store in America that catered to teenagers.

Sheila said the posts were so cheap they hurt her ears. She was always taking them out and leaving them on the bureau.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“LET’S TALK TO the neighbors. You take the left side and I’ll take the right.”

“Are you crazy? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Forget it—I’ll do it. Wait for me in the car.”

He did it, of course. Skip was rather enjoying working with him. He did things efficiently and well—he simply wasn’t used to the privilege a cop enjoys.

And face it, he doesn’t have confidence yet.

She could remember all too well when she didn’t have it either. Now it was like a muscle she’d built up— something that came in handy and felt great when you had to swim or leap a fence.

Most people on the block either hadn’t been home or hadn’t seen anything—one or two knew Paulette Thibodeaux and said she ran a “halfway house for delinquents.”

One had seen Sheila arrive the other night—either Sheila or a girl a lot like her. The neighbor had taken special notice, because most of “Paulette’s kids” were black.

“‘These people are a lot nicer than the religious fanatics,” Steve said when they had finished and met back at her car.

“People love to help. It can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

“I hope you didn’t mean anything personal.”

She had to smile. Steve’s helping instincts had often been a pain.

He said, “Listen, I got something. The lady across the street saw Sheila cross to her side this afternoon. I mean a girl who looked like her.”

Skip perked up, “Really?”

“Apparently, she was being pursued by a black man in a suit. She ran a long way, but he caught up and ran with her awhile, evidently just talking to her. Then she stopped and let him help her back to Paulette’s.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. The neighbor said she didn’t call the police because she knows Paulette works with delinquent kids—”

“Really great cover story—it explains any erratic behavior on the kids’ parts, and lets the adults do anything they want.”

“—and Sheila wasn’t screaming. I wonder why she wasn’t.”

“One of life’s little ironies. When I think of all the times she’s screamed for no particular reason…” Skip stopped, realizing she was getting angry, and seeing no point in it. “What about the black man—any more description?”

“‘Tall, thin, glasses, that’s about it. He looked real respectable, she said—another reason she didn’t call the cops.”

“Potter Menard. It’s gotta be.”

“Who?”

“Jacomine’s hired thug. The good reverend calls him a ‘campaign aide.’ ”

“So what does all this mean?”

“She must have been here. And sometime between this afternoon and now, they moved her. Presumably Torian, too.”

“Moved her where?”

“Maybe to some other ‘home for delinquent kids.’ Shit.”

“What about Potter Menard?”

“I already ran a check on him. He’s Mr. Clean. Wife and two little kids—I don’t think they could hide two white teenagers. And no point waking him up in the middle of the night. He’s not going to invite us in to take a look around. Someone from Juvenile might take a gander, but not tonight—we need something more definite connecting Sheila with Jacomine’s group.”

“We’ve got Paulette. What more do we need?”

Skip really didn’t want to talk about it. Her instincts told her that the more policemen who came around knocking on doors, the more paranoid—and thus the more dangerous—Jacomine was going to get. He was already several steps ahead—had probably moved the girls before the church break-in. She had to catch up somehow.

“Let’s stop at a pay phone.”

Steve didn’t ask questions, just drove to the nearest K&B. Skip got out and called Mrs. Sauter again. “Do you know of anyone else in the church who was doing the same kind of work Paulette was?”

“Why, no. I don’t think anyone was.”

“Look, Mrs. Sauter. Paulette apparently left in a hurry—with my daughter. Does the church have—what would you say?—safehouses? Something like that? Where would Paulette take her?”

Mrs. Sauter mused. “I don’t know about safehouses. Maybe they have them. There were lots of things I didn’t know. But I know a little about Paulette, and I can tell you exactly what she’d do.”

Skip’s stomach hopped. “What?”

“Wherever Jacomine told her to.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Sauter.”

But she had a thought: Suppose he just said, “Get those kids somewhere safe; I don’t care where, the farther from the church the better.”

When you get down to it, Paulette’s my only lead—unless you count Potter, and he can’t be tackled till tomorrow.

Without much hope, she dialed Homicide, thinking that the way things were going, her nemesis, Frank O’Rourke, would pick up the phone. Instead a man named Myers did, someone just transferred in. She asked for her buddy, Adam Abasolo.

His lazy voice came over the line, and her heart pounded. Something was working right. “Hey, baby. What’s all that noise in the background?”