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

by Julie Smith

  Steve nodded, looking serious. “Yeah. He knew too much. I’m sorry to say that sounds all too much like Jacomine’s form of craziness.”

  “Did I ever tell you about Nikki?”

  “Who?”

  “Nikki’s the woman from the church who told me all the stories about Jacomine—how he sexually abused his followers and tortured them. Remember?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, she’s dead. When I first started working on this, I tried to find her—she was my only witness. And I did, all right. In the morgue.” She sat back and looked at him. “So now we have two bodies.”

  “Oh, God. You must be terrified for Sheila!”

  “Who, me? Feel my heart.” He reached a hand out. “On second thought, don’t. We can’t lose any time here.”

  “Hey, I just thought of something. If Sheila knew where Torian was, someone else might too.”

  “Right. I was going to talk to her other friends today. That is, if I could figure out who they were. I guess I’ll start with the kids who came to her birthday party.” She picked up the phone and called Jimmy Dee. “Kenny. You still there? Listen, does Sheila talk about her friends at all? Did she mention anyone in particular in the last few days?”

  “I don’t know, I never listen to that crap. I mean … uh … excuse my French. Hey, some dude called last night. Hold it, I got a name.” He left and came back. “Joe Eddie. Does that help?”

  “He didn’t say his last name?”

  “You mean it isn’t Eddie?”

  “Go to school, kid.”

  She did the same herself, after she had cornered Jimmy Dee for the party guest list. The second kid she interviewed—an elegant blonde named Mallory—placed Joe Eddie instantly. Mallory tossed her white locks over her shoulder. “Well, yeah. He’s her boyfriend, I think. She talks about him all the time. Listen, she’s not getting in trouble, is she?”

  Skip thought, Now there’s an irrelevant question. She said, “Does he go to Newman?”

  “Uh … no.”

  “Well, where does he go.”

  “He . .. um … well, I don’t know.”

  “Mallory. How does she know him?”

  Mallory looked at her lap, aware she was tattling. “I think he just… um … from the deli.”

  “What deli?” Hardly any Newman kids lived in the Quarter. They couldn’t know what a way of life delis were.

  “I don’t know…wait! A new place. Does that help?”

  “On Dumaine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The sky was clear as she drove to the French Quarter. If the hurricane were really coming—and the forecasters were still saying it was—it would be squally all day. It would rain awhile and then quit, and then do it again. Each squall would get more intense, the rain more persistent, the wind faster and nastier, until it finally reached hurricane force—seventy-four miles per hour, or more if Hannah kept up her strength.

  * * *

  The deli was the one on Dumaine. Joe Eddie was due at work that afternoon at three. Skip, pulling out her badge for the occasion, had no trouble getting his address.

  She was delighted to hear he worked late. With any luck at all, it meant he slept till noon. So he’d be easy to find and if her luck held, a little groggy.

  She was right on almost all counts. Though she got there considerably before noon, Joe Eddie was most assuredly up—and smoking pot, if the dense atmosphere was any indication.

  Not one to pass up an opportunity, Skip said by way of greeting, “You been smokin’ pot?”

  “ ‘Course not.”

  But now she had the advantage. “‘Tell me about Sheila Ritter.”

  “Huh?” He looked stunned, but there was also fear in his face—as if he knew exactly what she meant, he just couldn’t believe she could know.

  She rapped her knuckles on the pine kitchen table—a table several steps up from one a struggling kid with his job would be likely to have. The other furnishings also exhibited stolid blue-collar taste. He probably lived with his parents, which gave her even more leverage.

  “Talk fast, or you’re going to Headquarters. Look, you’re due at work at three o’clock. You’re going to miss work, and you’re going to get fired. And your mom’s gonna find out what you smoke when she’s not home.”

  He looked absolutely incredulous, as if he’d somehow stepped into the presence of an amazing and astounding psychic.

  She said, “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Yesterday, okay?” He was as sullen as a five-year- old. “You know that, anyhow. We went for a walk, I said something she didn’t like, and she got mad.” He shrugged. “That was that. She tells you any different, she’s lying.”

  From years of experience and hundreds of war stories, Skip had come there with a pretty good idea of what had happened; she now considered it confirmed. She grabbed his hair and shoved him up against a kitchen counter, making sure it struck him squarely in the back; his head banged into the cabinet above. “Hey!” he yelled.

  “Is that what you did to her? Huh? Something like that? And then you unzipped her jeans—right?”

  “No!”

  “She yelled, but you hit her to make her shut up.” Once more, Skip banged his head against the cabinet. “Like that.”

  “She asked for it, goddammit. Little bitch been hus- tlin’ me for months now …”

  “So you just thought you’d rape her.”

  “Rape! Goddammit! I got a little affectionate, and she ran away. Shit! Lying little bitch!”

  Get a grip, Skip. Walk out, now. If he did rape her, he’s going to jail—and I don’t mean juvie. If he didn’t, whatever he did do’s at least going to cost him his job. You don’t need to beat him up. Okay?

  But she banged him one more time for good measure.

  “Where’d she go when she left?”

  “I don’t know. To Torian’s probably. They’re two of a kind. Little flirtboxes.”

  “Let me tell you something, Don Juan. You ever lay a hand on either of those girls, or any girl in the state of Louisiana you meet on that job of yours, and I personally will cut your nuts off. Understand?”

  He nodded sullenly.

  “Say it!”

  “Understood.”

  “Understood, Detective Langdon, ma ‘am.”

  He repeated it, but she left still fuming, not even remorseful for banging him around. She was toying with the idea of returning with a baseball bat.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  DADDY HAD HAD a breakfast talk followed by a meeting with some pol or other, and by the time he arrived, Potter had a wild woman for him. He was sitting in his own office, trying to cool her down, when he saw Daddy walk behind her, waving on the way to his office. Potter kept a poker face. Good thing the cop couldn’t see behind her or she’d have turned around and attacked. Potter excused himself.

  “I got some good news and some bad news.”

  “Gimme the good.” He didn’t like the look on Daddy’s face. Irritated. The meeting must not have gone well.

  “It’s done.”

  Daddy did not change expression, just blinked and nodded slightly, but Potter thought he saw a slight lowering of the shoulders, the tiniest sign of tension leaving the candidate’s body, and he rejoiced in it. “The bad?”

  “The cop’s here.”

  “Langdon? Here, in this office?”

  “Hello, Mr. Jacomine.” She was standing in the doorway behind Potter, had probably heard Daddy’s voice.

  “Detective Langdon, what on Earth can we do for you?”

  “Mr. Menard didn’t tell you?”

  “He hasn’t had a chance.”

  “I want Torian Gernhard and Sheila Ritter.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come on, Jacomine, I know you’re hiding them.

  “They’ve got problems, and you’re taking care of them. Harboring a minor is a criminal offense, as you will undoubtedly claim you didn’t know. Personally, I
don’t give a shit about that, I just want the girls. Now.”

  “Officer Langdon, I believe you’re on leave from the police department.”

  Potter could have sworn that surprised her. Daddy pressed his advantage. “Which makes me wonder what makes you think you have a right to be here.”

  “Call me a concerned citizen. Where are the kids?”

  “What kids?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Jacomine. Sheila and Torian.”

  “Oh. Those are the names of kids. I’m afraid I never heard of either of them.”

  Potter said, “May I show you out, Detective Langdon?”

  “Look, guys, it’s like this. You give me the kids and I never bother you again. Do you understand what I’m saying? I leave you completely alone. You don’t give me the kids and I report you for kidnapping.”

  Daddy actually laughed. Potter had to give him credit. “On what evidence, Officer?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Jacomine. You’re running for office; there’s lots of ways I could get to you—starting with the Times-Picayune.”

  “Have at it, Langdon. I have a thousand bigger fish to fry.” Potter held himself very stiff, to keep his muscles from twitching.

  The cop didn’t answer, simply turned around and left, but in a cloud of something Potter could almost feel. Anger, he thought. The cop would as soon bust up the office as not. He made sure she was gone, and then he rejoined Daddy.

  Lightning blazed from Daddy’s eyes. “Shut the door, Potter.”

  And when he had: “Who the fuck is Sheila Ritter?”

  “Uh … well … yes, Paulette called this morning. She’s … uh … she’s the kid Langdon’s landlord adopted.”

  “Langdon’s kid then.”

  “No, she’s …”

  “Don’t ‘no’ me. She’s Langdon’s fucking kid, the little bitch!” He lowered his voice and repeated the phrase, as if thinking. “Langdon’s fucking kid.”

  He raised it again: “Tell me she’s full of shit. Tell me Paulette doesn’t have her.”

  Potter raised his shoulders, trying to show the thing was out of his control. “The kid showed up at Paulette’s. Totally unexpectedly. Torian must have . ..”

  “Torian! Goddammit! What kind of fucking security do you have over there? None, right? None! What kind of operation you running, Mr. Menard? Is this a campaign or a motherfucking kindergarten?” His voice was so loud on the last word that Potter feared everyone in the office would hear. He was desperate to shush Daddy, but nobody shushed Daddy.

  “Do I have to draw you a picture? She’s a fucking spy, you idiot.”

  “With all due respect, Daddy, I don’t think so. She had some trouble with a boy.”

  Daddy was shaking his head, as if unable to fathom how Potter could be so slow.

  “I can’t believe you ever worked for the government. Sometimes I just can’t believe it. Langdon’s a cop who’s trying to bring me down; so she plants a mole in our organization. Her own kid, for convenience’ sake. But even she thinks that’s a little too obvious. So she comes by and kicks up some big stink, says she’ll leave us alone if we’ll just give up the kid—oh, shit, Potter, I don’t know why the fuck I keep you around.”

  Potter stared at him, astounded. Could Daddy be right?

  Surely not. Paulette had said the kid was pretty upset, and Paulette knew kids. But suppose this one had been coached.

  He was starting to feel foolish. The thing was starting to look as obvious as a pigeon drop.

  “Daddy, I… I don’t know what to say.”

  “You big fat idiot, Potter Menard. I swear to God I don’t know why I hired you. Biggest mistake of my life, I say this before Jesus. If you’d had one grain of sense, you’d have had that girl out of there and that detective out of our office. You’d have fucking taken care of it all by the time I came in. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Potter was wondering that himself. He hated it when Daddy got like this, it made him feel bad about himself; made him doubt his training. Daddy had instincts, intuition that Potter simply didn’t. Potter ran on rote learning. What he did, he was good at; he had no qualms about what he was trained for, but it just wasn’t enough. Things escaped him.

  The only thing to do was redouble his efforts.

  “Goddammit, let’s go to Paulette’s.”

  “What?”

  “Get the car, Potter. Just get the car.” Daddy was shaking his head, as if at a half-wit.

  Potter wasn’t quite sure why they were going to Paulette’s, but it wasn’t his job to question Daddy’s decisions. His job right now was to drive.

  Daddy didn’t say a word on the way over, and when they parked in front of Paulette’s, he simply got out of the car, slammed the door, and stalked up the walk, Potter at his heels like a puppy.

  “Paulette! Paulette, what the fuck is going on here?”

  “Daddy? What’s wrong?” Paulette came out of the kitchen wearing an apron. She’d probably been fixing lunch for the kids.

  “What in the name of God are you doin’ shelterin’ the spawn of the enemy?”

  Paulette’s face was gray. “What are you talking about?”

  “Miss Sheila Ritter, that’s what the fuck I’m fucking talking about.”

  Two white girls came out of the kitchen. A black one started down the stairs, then thought better of it and stopped halfway.

  One of the white ones was Torian, the other was much bigger—overweight and awkward. She looked like any kid—no smarter, no more evil—just a kid.

  Daddy raised a finger and pointed it—Jesus accusing the money changers. “Miss Sheila Ritter, I presume.”

  The girl, who had looked only confused till a moment ago, now turned to Jell-O. She looked around frantically for an escape.

  Potter saw instantly that Daddy was right. The minute he called her name, she knew the game was up. She panicked.

  “Sheila Ritter. Come here to destroy everything we’ve built.” The finger moved to Torian. “And you, Torian Gernhard—this is how you repay us. We give you shelter, and you strive only to bring forth our destruction.”

  Paulette said, “Daddy, wait a minute. Hold on.”

  “Traitor!” His face was an electrical storm. He pushed Paulette aside and strolled toward the white girls, now huddling together in terror.

  “Sheila Ritter, I demand to know who sent you and what your orders are.”

  “Orders? What kind of orders?” The girl looked at Potter, as if he could answer her question.

  “You tell me, you little spy.”

  Daddy moved closer to her, brushing aside Paulette, who deferred to him, though in truth she was taller than he was, probably outweighed him, and could certainly take him in a fight—at least Potter thought so.

  The girl took a step back, and so did her friend. They still clung together, as if one could protect the other.

  “Torian Gernhard, move out of my way.”

  White people were so transparent, the way their blood betrayed them. They either blushed or turned pale. Torian was the color of a calla lily—a pure, stark white. And so thin, her little collarbone sticking out at the top of her T-shirt. Potter felt for her.

  She didn’t move. “No! Sheila’s my friend.”

  “No? Excuse me, did you tell me no?” This was the one thing Daddy found intolerable. Did not forgive. “Did you say no to Errol Jacomine, soon-to-be mayor of New Orleans?”

  Sheila Ritter stepped forward. She had recovered from her initial panic—probably thought Paulette wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

  She squeezed her hands tight around something she was holding—what, Potter couldn’t see. Great red apples grew wild on her cheeks: she was furious.

  Look out, girl, he thought, and the thought surprised him.

  “Why shouldn’t she?” said Sheila. “You’re not the mayor yet, and what if you were? That doesn’t give you the right…”

  Daddy said, “Do you know who you’re talking to? Do you
really have any idea?”

  The girl stepped back, the apples fading, a new wariness settling in. He moved toward her, and Potter saw the wariness deepen to fear. Daddy grabbed her elbow, but she twisted away, stumbling backwards. “I am your Daddy!”

  The divine fire was in Daddy’s eyes.

  The girl made an inquisitive sound that ended up a whimper.

  “I am your father on this Earth!” He was using his preaching voice now, singsonging his words. It sounded sonorous and powerful from the pulpit, but this was a front hallway. Sheila was nearly as pale as Torian.

  Paulette stepped forward. “Daddy, I don’t think …”

  He turned on her: “Leave me be, whore! ‘Yours is a harlot’s brow and you are resolved to know no shame.’ “ When he got started on Bible verses, there was no stopping him. “ ‘Your adulteries, your lustful whoring, your wanton lewdness are an offense to me.’ ”

  He was trying to get past her, but Paulette had maneuvered herself between him and Sheila.

  The girl bolted.

  Ran right past them both as they struggled. Potter reached out for her, but she threw something at him—the something she had been holding. Not knowing what it was, wincing, he lost his opportunity.

  It was an open jar of mustard, which splattered him with rich, golden gunk. Further disconcerted, as if it were some kind of toxin, he hesitated another split second, enough for her to get out the door. Its bang woke him up.

  He yelled, “Stay here, y’all!” knowing Paulette, at least, would give chase and possibly Daddy would as well. The last thing they needed to do was present a roaring spectacle in Paulette’s mostly white neighborhood.

  Sheila was down the steps, heading across the street by the time Potter got out the door. It was pouring rain. As Potter got to the curb, she made the other side, and simultaneously, a white Cadillac bore down on him.

  He thought: Fuck! Chasing a kid in a residential neighborhood. What in hell am I doing?

  But it wasn’t like she ever had a chance. She was a somewhat overweight teenage girl and he was a trained agent. He simply loped the few paces it took him to catch up with her, but rather than do anything crude, he ran along behind her so he could reason with her. It was bad enough, a large black man covered with mustard chasing an underage white girl—he didn’t want to have to struggle with her, especially didn’t want to have to put his arm in her mouth to keep her quiet.