“He’s from New York City, too.”
“New York is a real small town, Sheriff, only eight million people. And you’d think we all know each other on a first-name basis, but we don’t.”
“What about the man that owned this?” The sheriff fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pocket watch. “Louis Markowitz? That name ring any bells?”
“Never heard of him,” said Riker, denying the friendship of three decades, and never going for the bait – not looking directly at the golden disk swinging from the chain in the sheriff’s hand. He made a mental note to rag Mallory about the sentimental mistake of not ditching that watch with the rest of her identification.
“If you think this Markowitz is from New York, I’ll run the name through the department and see what they turn up.” New York had more Markowitzes than Israel did. Riker was confident that he could find one who had not been the former commander of NYPD’s Special Crimes Section.
“Thanks, Riker. I’d appreciate that. But you are here about the prisoner.”
“I’m here because you sent the FBI a serial number on a Smith and Wesson revolver. NYPD has a match. The gun was used in a fifteen-year-old homicide.”
And that much was true. Riker remembered the day, four years ago, when Mallory had pocketed the revolver during a rookie’s tour of the evidence room. She had wanted a gun that would make bigger holes than her police-issue.38. “It’s an unsolved case.” And that was a lie. The case had been closed when both robber and victim had died in a deli shoot-out.
The sheriff seemed skeptical. “Riker, if your homicide was fifteen years ago, it couldn’t be my prisoner. She wouldn’t have been but nine or ten years old then. I can’t see a little girl doing murder with a gun.”
“No, of course not,” said Riker, with somewhat less conviction. He pictured Mallory at the age of ten, when he was still allowed to call her Kathy. Yeah, he could see the kid with a gun. However, Inspector Markowitz and his wife had eventually broken their foster child of all the worst habits and crimes against humanity. “I’d like to talk to your prisoner and ask her where she got that revolver.”
“And of course, you’d like to have the gun back. That’s a lot of paperwork.”
“NYPD doesn’t want any noise, Sheriff. Nothing over the computer, nothing on the phone and no paper trail. The old homicide could be federal jurisdiction. If the FBI finds out that gun is connected, they’ll be all over this town, and they’ll have a warrant for your prisoner. I don’t think you want that any more than I do.”
And now he could see that the sheriff did not want that, not at all.
Riker knew he could always count on mutual law-enforcement contempt for the martinets of the FBI, though he owed one of them a favor for withholding Mallory’s fingerprints. He was only a little uneasy about the payback on that highly illegal good deed.
“I can’t help you, Riker.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Don’t like to waste words, do you? Well, I can see your interest in – ”
“Save the folksy crap for the tourists.” Riker leaned over and smashed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “You bet your ass we have an interest. Now I’m not gonna play village coot with you.” He stood up with the pretense of stalking out. “You don’t want to give us the gun? Fine! If you make my life miserable, then maybe I’ll call in the feds myself. You think I won’t push back?”
The sheriff smiled and exhaled a lazy stream of smoke. “The prisoner and the gun are gone. You wanna join me for a drink, Riker?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Deputy Lilith Beaudare waited until the sheriff’s car pulled away from the Dayborn Bar and Grill. Tom Jessop was alone at the wheel, so the man from New York must still be inside.
She stepped out from the doorway and crossed the narrow side street to look through the front window. The room was filled with men. There was not one female in sight. So this was still the place where men went to be with their own kind. She suspected that had always been her father’s attraction to the bar. Each time her mother had asked why he would go to a dive like that, he had smiled with a guilty secret. It was not a place where his wife would have gone, nor any of her sex.
Lilith walked in the door, and the conversations all around the room fell off as men turned their heads to have a long, hard look at her – all of her. She didn’t belong here. She knew it, and they knew it.
Then the mantalk resumed, silverware clattered on plates and glasses thumped on the tabletops.
Some of Guy Beaudare’s best stories had originated here. This was the first time she had ever seen the interior, though she knew what it would look like, even down to the details of the fish tank behind the bar, the sawdust and the peanut shells on the floor. It smelled of sweat, tobacco and beer. The jukebox played a Cajun fiddle tune, and against her will her body picked up the lively rhythm of the music as she moved among the men, causing them to lift their faces and follow her with their curious, probing stares. She knew what they were doing to her as she passed each table, naked now, disarmed, undressed and barefoot in their eyes.
She was looking for the man Bobby Laurie had described, a New York cop disguised as a bum. She walked up to the unshaven man at the bar the man with the messy suit and the bad slouch.
“Detective Riker? I’m Deputy Beaudare.”
He smiled amiably, flesh crinkling at the corners of warm brown eyes. “Well, pull up a stool, Deputy.”
“You think we might sit at a booth? Doesn’t look right, sitting at a bar in my uniform.”
“Sure, kid. Come on.” He picked up his glass and led the way to a padded booth at the back of the room where the daylight petered out. Most of the illumination came from a candle in the neck of an old Jack Daniel’s bottle.
She took the seat opposite him and waited until he was settled comfortably into his drink. “It’s about your friend.”
“What are you – the second team? I’ve been through this with the sheriff. This guy Charles Butler may be from New York, but – ”
“No, not him – the prisoner.” She looked around her, making sure there was no one within earshot. “Mallory.”
“So now the prisoner is a friend of mine?” And his smiling face said, Fat chance. “Your act needs work, kid. The sheriff does it better. He ran that one by me, too.”
“Then how do I know she’s a rogue cop?”
He threw up his hands in surrender, still smiling, as though he thought she might be the best joke in the world. “I give up, Deputy. How do you know? The sheriff says he has no idea what Mallory’s been up to for the past seventeen years.”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“Meaning you do?”
“I know she’s a cop.”
“How do you figure that?” He put a small cloud of cigarette smoke between them.
“My mother says it’s rude to tell people what they already know.”
The man was silent. He was letting her hang out in the breeze, just watching the show and appearing to enjoy it a lot. This was not the scenario she had rehearsed in her head. Lilith sat back, not rushing her words any. “Mallory never mentioned you by name, but I know you work with her in New York City.”
“The prisoner told you she was from New York?”
Lilith nodded, secure in the belief that she lied very well.
“If she talked like a New Yorker, I think the sheriff would’ve picked up on that,” said Riker. “He spotted my accent five words into the conversation.”
“But she doesn’t have any accent. She sounds like the television news-people from Nowhere USA.”
“Deputy, I hope you’ll excuse me for being rude and pointing out the obvious. The sheriff tells rne her prints haven’t come back yet. Now that should tell you something, unless you’re a rookie fresh out of the slot. If the prisoner was law enforcement, they would’ve had a match on her prints a long time ago.” He drained his beer glass and set it on the table less than gently. “That’s
it, kid. School’s out.” He was looking toward the door.
“She’s a cop,” Lilith insisted.
Riker shook his head. “The sheriff would’ve known. Take my word for it, that bastard is smart.”
“Not where she’s concerned. He still sees her as a little girl. She used to live in this town with her mother.”
“I know. The sheriff told me the whole story. In fact, he told me a lot more than I ever wanted to know about this town. Ask me any damn question about Dayborn. No, really, go ahead. I even know this is the freaking bar where Babe Laurie had his famous syphilis party – quaint custom.” He slumped back against the padding of the booth and spread his hands, palms up with questions. “No trivia quiz? You don’t wanna play? Okay, let me ask you one. Did you ever tell Jessop this theory of yours about the rogue cop?”
“Detective Riker, do you trust the sheriff?”
“So you didn’t tell him.” There was a slight disapproval in his voice. “Why tell me? What are you after, kid?”
“I might be looking for a job in New York City. So I help you, and you help me.” Slow down, she told herself, you’re gushing. She took more time with her next words. “You don’t know this part of the country – I do. I can find her, and you can’t.”
He looked so tired when he smiled, as if he had heard all of this before. “Deputy, I don’t think you’d like New York City.” His voice was softer now. “Whatever mess you’ve made here, I’d advise you to stay and clean it up.”
She sat up ramrod-straight. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
He shook his head. “No, kid, I didn’t read your mind,” he said, reading her mind. “Rookie cops think every screwup is the end of the world. I guess we’ve all been there. Whatever it is you’ve – ”
“I can help you, Riker.” Was that high pitch in her own voice? “You need me.” Did she sound a little desperate? Shit! She lowered her tone. “The sheriff won’t have to know I’m working with you.”
“Stupid move, kid. If the sheriff can’t trust you, why would I? Why would any cop trust you?”
And now that he had hit her between the eyes with that bat, he leaned in close to complete the kill. “You’re young, Deputy. I guess I can overlook one small indiscretion. We’ll just keep this between the two of us. The sheriff doesn’t have to know you were gonna sell him out. I think we understand each other, don’t we, kid?”
Yes, she did understand.
She had just sold herself to the cop from New York City, and she had gotten nothing in return. But Riker had not done so well either, for he was only getting sloppy seconds from the feds, who had bought her first with promises – all lies, if Mallory could be believed.
He was rising from the table, gathering up his cigarettes and matches. “If you do run into Mallory, ask her where she got the gun. Tell her I’ll make a statement at her arraignment on the jailbreak charge. It’s a standard deal. Any judge will give her points for cooperation.” He pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it on the table for a tip. “And if I need anything else from you, I’ll let you know.”
She followed his progress across the bar and through a bright rectangle of daylight. Then the door closed behind him, and despite the crowd, she was alone in this place, dim and dank as a cave, watching clouds of smoke expelled from the lungs of men. She inhaled their secondhand breath with the mingled smells of their bodies and the leavings on their plates. The music from the jukebox died.
Lilith stared at Riker’s half-filled glass and then slid it over to her own side of the table. She sniffed the liquid.
Bourbon.
She tasted it.
Cheap bourbon.
Over a graduation drink in a New Orleans bar, her father had told her that cheap liquor was the mark of an honest cop. And Guy Beaudare had this on the word of his old friend, Tom Jessop, so he knew it must be true.
Lilith downed the glass in one long draught.
It wasn’t the stifling air of the bar or Riker’s bad bourbon that made her sick.
CHAPTER 16
Jimmy Simms passed through a patch of soggy ground, but one of his father’s overlarge shoes had not moved on with him. It was stuck fast in the mud. He dropped a bulky laundry bag in the grass at the side of the road, and then he did a crane dance on one foot as he pulled the shoe out of the muck and slipped it back on. He settled down beside the cloth bag on the grass and tightened the shoelaces, as though that would help much.
And now he eyed the heavy bag, a gift from Darlene Wooley. If there was a God in heaven, there would be a pair of Ira’s castoff shoes in there.
He had helped Darlene change the oil in her car, doing all the messy work at her direction. Then she had taken him into the house and cleaned his hands, as though she thought he could not do this for himself. Or maybe she thought he was as lame as Ira.
And perhaps he was.
No matter. He had relished this warm, mother contact, closed his eyes and made believe that his own mother was doing this small service for him. Darlene had scrutinized the oil spots on his clothes, lamenting that those stains would never come out. She had then sat him down at the kitchen table and made him a cold lunch. She had admonished him to drink all his milk, while she stuffed the bag with laundry-faded clothes, saying Ira wouldn’t wear them anymore. All of Ira’s shirts and socks must be bright red, she told him, and her boy would only wear dark blue jeans.
Darlene had also given him a crisp five-dollar bill. He had used part of it to buy a treat for Good Dog. A fine square of cooked meatloaf from the Levee Market was still warm in his pocket.
Jimmy riffled the bag, hands roaming over T-shirts, jeans and socks. He grasped one white leather running shoe and pulled it out, examining it in amazement. There was not one sign of wear. It was not even scuffed. He quickly found its mate, but there was nothing amiss with that one either. What had Darlene Wooley been thinking of? This pair was just a few months shy of new. He pulled off one of his father’s shoes, and slipped on the new-old shoe of Ira’s.
It fit. It was nearly new and just the right size.
He didn’t want to muddy them, so he put his father’s shoe back on and carefully tucked Ira’s pair into the bag with the rest of his treasure.
Jimmy was unreasonably happy, and he was crying. Not wanting the dog to see him this way, he wiped his eyes as he made his way along the dirt road, limping on the foot with the worst of the blisters.
When he was standing in the yard of Cass Shelley’s house, he found the bowl of food and the pan of water were empty. The dog was nowhere in sight.
“Good Dog,” he called, over and over.
No response.
But the dog never strayed from the house – never. Well, Kathy had broken out of jail. Maybe the animal had gone off with her for a while.
He left his gift in Good Dog’s bowl, regretting that it would be cold when the dog found it, and hoping that the old black Lab would know where the meatloaf had come from.
And now Jimmy wondered about the commotion in the cemetery. The voices were excited. Prayers and hallelujahs carried through the trees and up the winding road.
A few of the remaining people from the tour group were still snapping pictures of the statue. Betty had quit the scene, running past Charles and Henry and not even noticing them.
Henry explained, “She has to be first to tell the story of the miracle. Her reputation for gossip hangs on it.”
Charles stole a quick glance around the corner of a tomb. More people were coming into the cemetery, and some had brought rosary beads. “This is going to upset Malcolm – a miracle with no admission charge.”
Henry handed him a piece of cold meat from a wicker picnic basket Charles bit into the crispy cold skin and he was reborn. “This is wonderful. Is it one of your own chickens?”
Henry nodded.
“Does Augusta know you’re killing birds?”
Henry put down his lunch to talk with his hands, to tell Charles that as a bird lover, Augusta
was no purist, not when it came to chickens. “She doesn’t recognize them as true birds. She calls them ‘gumbo ingredients.’ One thing Augusta and I agree on – the only good chicken is a dead one.”
Charles was looking at the roof of Trebec House and seeing it in the new light of Betty’s tour ramble. “I had no idea Augusta’s father disinherited her. But still, I can’t believe she’s allowing that beautiful mansion to decay just for spite. Was Betty right about that, or is there more to it?”
Henry shrugged. “The house is Augusta’s business. She can do what she likes with it.”
“Can you at least explain Augusta’s animosity toward the sheriff?”
“She blames him for the death of an old friend.”
“And who was that?”
“The man Tom Jessop could have been, if only Cass had lived.”
“There was something between them?”
Henry nodded. “Ira’s not the only one who communes with the angel. I’ve seen Tom out here late at night. And I’ve heard him too – sloppy drunk and sorry for all the things he never said to her. But he’s said it all to the angel. In a way, there is more between Tom and Cass now than there was when she was a living breathing woman. But the love of stones is highly unnatural, and from what I have seen of it, I don’t recommend it. I hope nothing happens to Kathy… for your sake.”
Charles pulled his long legs back behind the stone house as another straggle of pilgrims passed down the alley of tombs on their way to a miracle. And now he noticed one woman standing alone at the edge of the cemetery.
For a moment, his eyes had been fooled into believing that she was real. The statue stood well apart from the other monuments, deep in the lush shadows of dense foliage, picking up a green cast of life in refracted light. This was the statue of a wingless, mortal woman, small and slender, wearing a long dress and standing on a broad pedestal. She lacked the angel’s drama and the baroque quality of motion and flowing robes. She appeared to be only pausing among the trees. So great was the sculptor’s talent, her stance evoked the feeling that she might eventually continue on her way through the woods.
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