The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (9 page)

“Just so I don’t have to meet them.”

“Well, I don’t know whether you have to or not.”

“They probably have to lay on hands or something.”

Kenny said, “I want to go if you go to a coven meeting.”

Skip was surprised. “Why? Are you expecting vampire makeup and black fingernails? Believe me, it’s not like that.”

“Oh, Auntie, I know what a witch is.” He sounded disgusted. “We had one come in and talk to our class. They’re into goddesses and myths.”

“And you like that?” She would have thought a thirteen-year-old boy would prefer some fantasy form of Satanism.

He shrugged. “Yeah. I think it’s cool.”

Jimmy Dee ruffled his hair. “I think you’re cool.”

Kenny was the gentlest of children, unlike Sheila, who could be rambunctious. As a result, he got more rewards from adults, which bothered Skip sometimes—she hated seeing him work so hard to be perfect. “Why do you think it’s cool?” she said.

“All those stories. Mythology and stuff. Oh, yeah, and magic. Everybody likes magic.”

“Okay. I’ll see if I can get you in.”
He really is too cute for words.

Dee-Dee sighed. “You’re going to call them?”

Layne sneezed again. “Yes. She is.”

The Crabmeat Extravaganza was something with cheese and eggplant and artichokes (besides crabmeat, of course): “My own concoction,” Dee-Dee said proudly, but Kenny left half of it on his plate.

When he had begged to go, been chided for failure to eat, and finally been excused, Layne said, “Oh, well. Sheila probably wouldn’t even have pretended.”

“Where is she, anyway?” said Skip, who had been invited at the last minute, on grounds that they had too much because Sheila was out.

“At Torian’s.” Dee-Dee and Layne exchanged a look.

Skip noticed they’d been doing that more and more lately, like married people.

“What is it?” she said.

“What did you think of Torian?” Dee-Dee asked.

“Nice. Shy but nice.” She shrugged, trying to figure out what he was getting at. “Inoffensive. Why?”

“I don’t know. I just notice Sheila’s getting weirder and weirder lately—maybe since she started hanging with Torian.”

“More obstreperous, you mean. That’s called adolescence, Dee-Dee darling. They just get that way.”

“I don’t know. I think she’s less obstreperous. She’s even a little withdrawn; she spends a lot of time in her room.”

“Teenagers are like cats—they have important business that doesn’t involve mere humans.”

Layne said, “Tell her what’s really bothering you.”

“Oh, all right.” Dee-Dee turned to Skip. “That business with Darryl the other day. What’s with that child?”

“Oh, that. Well, you’re right. She went too far.”

“You know how I feel about Darryl—”

Layne said, “I don’t want to hear about it.”

Dee-Dee gave him a flirtatious look. Skip said, “Quit being cute, you two.”

“Darryl’s the man I’d marry if it weren’t for Layne—”

“He handled it really well.”

Dee-Dee nodded. “A gentleman to the core. But she can’t make a habit of that shit.”

“So why are you telling me and not her?”

“My, don’t we cut to the chase.”

“Uh-oh. I don’t like the way you said that.”

“The poor child has no mother. Who’s going to give her motherly little talks?”

“You are, Dad.”

“How about some chocolate cake? I’ve been baking all day.”

“You have not. And don’t think you can bribe me.”

“Hush or I’ll give yours to Kenny.” He plopped a huge slice in front of her. “Of course I’d never dream of bribing you. But I know you’re as concerned about the girl’s welfare as her mother and I are—isn’t that right, Laynie?—so naturally you’ll do the right thing. I offer cake merely to fortify you.”

Skip sighed. “I don’t have to talk to her tonight, do I?”

“She’s not even coming home tonight. She’s sleeping over at Torian’s.” He made a fist and slammed it gently against his forehead. “God knows what those two are plotting.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. I don’t know when or how—and I’ve got no earthly idea what I’ll say, but if you want a completely unqualified cop on the case, you’ve got it.”

“You’re not unqualified, you’re a woman.”

Layne said, “Just tell her we’re going to beat her butt if she doesn’t stop it.”

Skip laughed. Sheila at fifteen was nearly as big as Skip—over five-eight and a hundred and forty-five pounds. Layne was an inch shorter and probably weighed less.

“I’ve got to go, guys. Got a phone call to make.”

Dee-Dee said, “You go hug that bear,” knowing she was about to call Steve Steinman, her long-distance beau.

* * *

It was two hours earlier in Los Angeles, about seven o’clock. “Hang on a minute,” said Steve. “I was just making some pasta.” When he got back, he said, “You okay? How are you feeling?”

She was taken aback, having almost forgotten he’d been worried about her. “Better.” She thought about it. “I’m actually feeling better.”

“Fantastic! What’s happened?”

“Oh my God. I don’t know where to start. First of all, I’m on leave from the department.”

She heard him breathing in. “Is that really a good idea?”

“I lost it when I saw a kid whose father got killed. People saw.”

“Yikes. Not good.”

“Cappello said she’d make me go to Cindy Lou if I didn’t do something drastic, so I went to Cindy Lou myself—not officially, I mean, just as a friend. And she said take a leave and go to a shrink.”

“It must be working. You sound a hundred percent better.”

“Well, in a way it is, I guess. But the therapist dumped me. What happened was, the first session was great. She got me thinking about what I ought to be doing, and that worked out so well I almost feel…” she stopped to assess “… well, not my old self, but better than I was. But then, because of all that, she dumped me.” She realized she was more or less gibbering. The whole Jacomine thing scrambled her brains.

“You’re not making sense.”

“I know. I just caught on.”

“But you do sound more upbeat.”

“I really think I am.” She took a breath. “Okay, let me start from the beginning. Remember that preacher-man I met last year? Errol Jacomine?”

“Sure. He’s running for mayor.”

“Right. I’m trying to kick his ass.”

“That’s what you got out of therapy?”

“Well, yeah. She hypnotized me, and I realized that’s what I wanted most in the world.”

“I thought you wanted to be with me.”

She laughed. She had been withdrawn for weeks, and he had put up with it and gotten past it in his own mind, understanding it had nothing to do with him.

“Then I went back for my second appointment—having done quite a bit of work already, I might mention—and she said she couldn’t see me anymore—her husband’s his press secretary.”

“She should have thought of that before.”

“He only got the job the day I saw her.”

“Sounds fishy, doesn’t it?”

“Everything about Jacomine’s fishy. That’s why I gibber when I try to talk about it. It’s like some giant kids’ game run amok.”

“I don’t see what you mean.”

“See? I’m not making sense again. I mean it’s like the way kids play fantasy games. They agree to play certain parts to keep the game going. Jacomine’s getting people to play parts—like that time when I met him and all those people stood up together. Each one was a recovering something-or-other his precious church had saved from the gutter.”

“Isn’t that ‘testifyin’ ‘? I thought it was an old Protestant tradition.”

“I can’t explain it. My brains are scrambled.”

“Exactly how do you plan to kick Jacomine’s ass?”

“Using my police skills, of course.” She was suddenly sick of the whole subject. “Listen, how’s the project going?”

“So glad you asked. I’m coming into town next week.”

“You are? When?” She heard excitement in her voice, and she wondered at it. Not even Steve Steinman had been able to make her voice rise for a long time.

“You sound like you might be glad to see me.”

“I’m always glad to see you. What day are you getting here?”

“How about a week from today?”

“Fantastic! Still have your key?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. Tell me about the project.”

“I think I want to do two things—all part of the same piece. Kids who’ve been shot by other kids.”

“And the kids who shot them.”

“You got it. What do you think?”

“Powerful. Depressing.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you can have one without the other.”

“Yes.” Her voice was almost a whisper. There were times when it took only a nuance of thought to swing her back into sadness. Her life before her depression had been powerful; she was paying for it now.

* * *

The next morning she awakened with a sense of something unpleasant to do. Rolling over, she thought of it—go tell Nikki Pigeon’s sister that Nikki was dead; try to persuade her to make a positive ID.

It can wait, she thought, and turned her mind once more to Steve Steinman, her favorite early-morning diversion. She liked to think of him in the zone between sleep and full awareness—she reveled in his voice; his laugh; his happy, kind face.

His body, heavy against hers.

She wasn’t ready to come out of her trance when the phone rang.

“Skip? Cappello here.”

“Sylvia. What is it?”

“You tell me.”

“What?”

“Nobody can get through the switchboard, we’ve had so many calls about you.”

“Calls about me? From whom?”

“From people trying to get you fired. They say you’re a racist, and a cop has absolutely no business in politics, and how dare you try to tear down a good man like Errol Jacomine.”

“What?”

“What are you doing, and why? You’re home because you’re supposed to be resting. What the hell is going on here?”

“Sylvia, who’s getting these calls?”

“Me. Joe Tarantino.” Her lieutenant. “Every other lieutenant in the building. Every captain. Every officer who anyone’s brother-in-law knows. The superintendent. And the mayor. And guess who
they
all called? Joe.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You’re jeopardizing your job, Skip. Tell me you’re not working on Perretti’s campaign.”

“Of course not. But—how to say this?—I’ve been trying to get something on Jacomine. Not for any candidate. Just because the guy scares me to death.” She realized how lame that must sound to a working police sergeant—people didn’t do things for free, certainly not scratch for dirt on a candidate. The concept of “concerned citizen” hardly applied in a state as corrupt as Louisiana. “Look. This is the one thing in the world I want to do right now. I met him last year and it shocked the hell out of me. We talked about it—remember?”

Cappello ignored the question. “Did I mention you’re supposed to be taking a rest? You need to go to the beach and cool out.”

Skip was silent, trying to think what to make of all this. “How many calls have there been?”

“I don’t know. Dozens. Call after call since seven a.m. No letup.”

“Doesn’t this strike you as an organized campaign?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“‘Tell me the truth. Have you ever seen or heard of anything like this?”

“No. But the guy’s running for office—what do you expect? And you’re vulnerable right now.”

“Sylvia, this is scary as hell. Political candidates aren’t this organized. These people are a bunch of robots.”

“I really don’t think it’s up to me to comment on that. I’m telling you as a friend that people here are hot under the collar. Think about it. Our lines are tied up, and people’s time is being wasted. And you’re doing what you’re not supposed to do—”

“I’ve got a right to …”

The sergeant raised her voice. “Skip, I’m telling you as a friend. I really think you should listen.”

How to make them stop?
she thought.
I haven’t even started yet. How do they even know about me?

There could be a leak somewhere—maybe in the coroner’s office.

Surely not. But what else? How else could they know?

Jamal Broussard. The note in the mailbox.

But to know about that, they’d have had to follow me.

She got dressed and went to the towing company where Broussard worked.

* * *

He was slightly shorter than she was, and a body builder. He had a neck like a five-gallon can and a chest like a fence. His hair was short, but he had a mustache, which gave him a bit of Aaron Neville sensuality.

“Skip Langdon,” she said, and realized she couldn’t produce her badge. For a moment she was tongue-tied. Finally, she said, “Did you get my note?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t?”

“Lady, I got a job to do. You want to tell me what you want?”

“I wonder if I could talk to you about Nikki Pigeon.”

“I don’t know no Nikki Pigeon.”

“Her sister says you do.”

“I don’t know her, and I don’t know her sister, and I don’t know you. What you mean comin’ down to my place of bi’ness, tryin’ to get me fired?”

“She’s dead, Mr. Broussard.”

“Who dead?”

“Nikki.”

He gave her a long look. She thought she saw something flash in his eyes, just for a second, something more like fear than sorrow. “I don’t know no Nikki, and I don’t appreciate you comin’ down here. You gon’ go now?”

“I know you were friends, Jamal. Don’t you even care how she died?”

“You get out of here.” His voice became a roar. “You get out of here
now.
“ He’d gotten so angry so fast there had to be something there.

He could still be in the church, she thought.

* * *

Tanya Pigeon came to the door in dirty khaki trousers that hung on a frame that looked ten pounds lighter than a day or two ago. Her T-shirt had been pulled on with no bra, and her hair hadn’t been combed. Skip didn’t think she was going to live long.

“You gon’ give me some money?” she said, and she sounded half-loaded.

“Why should I give you some money?”

“ ‘Cause I’m hungry. I ain’t had nothin’ to eat all day.”

“Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.”