by Julie Smith
She had yelled only once, as the Cadillac came into sight, but he hadn’t heard what she said. That was good. Maybe nobody else had either. Why she was quiet now he didn’t know, but he suspected it had to do with breathing. He could hear her gasping.
He said, “Sheila, you got to give us a chance. We helped Torian when no one else would, you know that. We don’t mean you any harm, girl. Just come back and talk with us.”
She glanced around briefly, and he saw the terror in her eyes. Okay, that wasn’t working. He stepped up his pace and jogged alongside her.
“You can’t outrun me, girl. You see that? Let’s say for a minute you’re right. You’re in big trouble, just like you think. Say I’m as mean as I look. I’m big, you can see that, can’t you? Say in a minute I’m gon’ reach over and grab you, take you back to Paulette’s and have a nice little talk with you and your girlfriend. Just for a minute say all that’s true. Then, what’s gon’ happen is this: I’m gon’ reach out and grab you and that’s gon’ be that.
“But I’m real, real mean. For every second you struggle with me, every sound you utter, and I do mean every sound …”
She screamed.
Apparently he’d given her the idea.
He reached out and hugged her close. “Okay, that’s one for your buddy Torian. Do it again and that’s two.”
He could see the fight ebb out of her. She collapsed against him, tears streaming, sounds coming out of her, but soft ones. Mostly, she was just trying to catch her breath. She’d probably never run that hard in her life. She was exhausted, apparently unable even to stand, and that was excellent.
It meant he could hold her like a little girl, helping her walk, a benevolent uncle rather than the neighborhood terror.
Still, someone might have seen and called the police. Unwilling to go to Paulette’s house, he put Sheila in his car, which was wedged between two others, so that reading the plate would be pretty hard. He peeled out of there and circled the block, coming in the back way.
When he got her inside she recovered her voice. “Where’s Torian?”
Daddy was sitting at the kitchen table, Paulette hovering, fixing him something to drink.
Daddy gave her a narrow-eyed, appraising look that found a world of fault. The “evil eye,” Potter might have said, if he’d associated the phrase with the man he worked for.
“Lock her up,” he said.
The girl was pathetic—hair wet and dripping, eyes darting. She looked frantically at Paulette, who gave her the same harsh look Daddy had. Then she nodded and reached out a hand.
“Here’s the key.”
* * *
“Okay,” said Steve Steinman, “so now you know why she ran away—some sort of trauma with a boy.”
“Steve, she might have been raped.”
“I didn’t mean to make light of it. I just don’t want to assume the worst.”
Skip smiled. A good quality, optimism. Steve could keep it up when she couldn’t.
“Yeah, that’s got to be it. It happened yesterday, she disappeared yesterday. She knew where Torian was— which wasn’t home—which meant she had some place to go. So she went there.”
“So if we knew where Torian was—”
“Listen, I want you to help me on this.”
He tried not to look too pleased—she could actually see the parade of emotions on his face—surprise, then pleasure, then his need to cover it up. There had been arguments in the past over his eagerness to help her. “Me?” he said. “Sure. I’ll do anything.”
“What I have in mind is right up your alley. First a little breaking and entering—”
“Hey, I’m not all that experienced.”
“Followed by some computer expertise.”
“Really?” His smile was like something on Christmas morning. Computers were his love.
“Really. We might need to copy some stuff. Do you need any disks or anything?”
“Depends. I only have the little ones.”
“How many kinds are there?”
“Two.”
“Better get both kinds.”
“Right.” He stood, saluted, kissed her hand, and left.
She dialed Jimmy Dee. “Who installed your alarm system?”
“Why?”
“Let’s put it this way—was it someone who might do a little illegal job in the interests of finding a lost kid?”
“Oh my God,” he said as he got her drift. “What’s going on, Skip? I’m going crazy over here.”
“Listen, I know why she left, and it has to do with a boy. I’ve got a plan to find her. Just bear with me, okay? I’ll explain later.”
He sighed. “I know someone who’s actually served time for little illegal jobs. Rodney Parrott.”
“Can I trust him?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve known him for years. I’ve got enough on him to send him to Angola for the rest of his life. Also, he owes me beaucoup favors. Let me give him a call and explain how he not only doesn’t mess with my best friend Skip for any reason, ever, he gives her a tape accepting all responsibility for certain jobs I happen to know about, and on which the statute of limitations has not expired. And then he does everything she says.”
Skip had rarely heard Dee-Dee so grimly serious. She said finally, “Since when do you consort with criminals?”
“His mom’s a family friend—I’ve done her some favors.”
He might have given her a bantering answer, but he hadn’t. “Dee-Dee?” she said. “It’ll be okay. Believe me.”
“You’re gonna love this guy. Cutest drag queen you ever want to meet.” That was more like him—if he’d been on the Titanic, he would have danced all night.
In five minutes her phone rang. “Rodney Parrott. Jimmy Dee said you had an emergency.”
“Yeah. Here’s the deal.” She explained what she wanted.
“When do you want to do it?”
“‘Tonight. Two places—or only one if we get what we want the first time out. An office and a church.”
“Woo. Are we in luck. No way in hell we could do it without a hurricane. But you know what? I see something beautiful coming together here; a crime of rare beauty and distinction; a crime for the annals of crime.”
“Hey, I just need a simple B and E.”
“Listen, we gotta get started right away. Where can we meet?”
“Here. Come on over.”
“Be there in an hour. Give me addresses on the targets.”
When she had, she said to Steve: “He doesn’t exactly talk like a common criminal. Or even your ordinary drag queen.”
“What does he talk like?”
“Professor’s kid, maybe.”
He was about an hour late, but well worth the wait. He looked like neither a professor’s kid nor a drag queen—certainly not bookish, decidedly not effeminate. First of all, he could have been a movie star. Second, he was black. He was stocky—buffed, in fact—and drop-dead gorgeous. He had dark, dark skin and close-cropped hair. Skip just couldn’t see him in feathers and sequins—and certainly not lurking in libraries.
Then she had another little surprise. She had simply thought of herself as chief of this operation. It hadn’t occurred to her that outside the department, democracy prevailed. Rodney roared in like a lion—a lion on speed, chain-smoking, talking nonstop, carrying pencils, pens, papers, and the tape Dee-Dee had promised, which he turned over immediately.
“Okay, we got to hit the church. The office building might be a much harder hit—might take some planning.” This would have been her call, but she resented Rodney’s making it—she and Steve had talked it out in advance and decided Jacomine would probably keep church records at the church.
Still she said, “Wait a minute. What if what we want’s not there?”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I got a backup plan. But we might have to wait till the power goes off.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
He looked at her with pity. “Sug
ar, are we gonna have a hurricane or not? You need this ASAP, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, we can probably get in the church by about nine-thirty—the other one’s problematical.”
“Keep talking.”
“See, the key to busting a security system is electricity, pure and simple. And phones, of course. You know why most burglars get caught? The halfway smart ones, I mean—not the crackhead amateurs. Because they forget the phone lines. Now what happens when your alarm goes off?”
Skip started to answer, but it became evident that wasn’t necessary.
“What happens is, your monitoring service is notified, and they in turn call the cops. Now, how is your service notified? Over the phone wire.” He checked out his audience, possibly expecting applause.
Skip and Steve contented themselves with appreciative nods, which seemed to be enough.
“So the first thing is to cut the phone lines. Fortunatement—” he gave the word a faux French pronunciation—”about eighty percent of those are outside. All you have to do is take your clipboard and you can get to ‘em—probably for both jobs—certainly for the church. Follow me so far?”
“We’re riveted. But what makes you so sure about the church?”
“ ‘Cause it’s done.”
“What’s done?”
“The lines are cut, everybody’s gone home, and the power’s off.”
“What?”
“Hey—this is Rodney. And this is the greatest job I ever pulled—bar none, I tell you. Bar none.”
“You want to explain?”
“Oh, man, a hurricane! I’m only working in storms from now on. I’ve got a whole new lease on life.”
“Are you forgetting I’m a police officer?”
“Sugar, you’re not about to turn me in—you’re committing the same felony I am.”
“Don’t get too cocky. Your word against mine, remember. Then there’s the tape.”
“Hey, I’m saving your kid. You’re going to be grateful the rest of your life.”
She stayed silent on that one.
“Hello? Okay, to explain. See, all alarm systems have a backup battery—even the cheapies. And churches usually put out good money for their systems—they go in for quality. The quick and dirty companies sometimes use four-amp-hour batteries. The good ones are seven-amp- hours—so you gotta figure on that. Meant I had to move fast, right? You want to save your kid and everything.”
Skip nodded, trying to keep her face neutral.
“So I said to myself, how many people are going to be working in a church when a hurricane’s on the way? One or two, maybe—skeleton staff at best. I figured whoever was there was just looking for an excuse to go home, and there was no chance in hell of getting a phone repair on Hurricane Hannah day. Sure enough, two people came strolling out two minutes after I hit the phone line. So then I reconnected it, and gave the church a call. Nothing. After that, I marched up and knocked. Nada.
“So I cut it again, got out my trusty bolt cutters, and cut the padlock on the utility room—just about all buildings have them, and inside’s the power switch. You just throw it, and voilà! Power’s history. Seven hours till blastoff.” He looked at his watch. “You roll at nine-thirty.”
“Well, now, I don’t want to seem picky, but what if we have to do the damned office building as well?”
“Naturellement, I checked it out. Trouble is, they got lots of rent-a-cops, and they’re probably monitoring closed circuit TV. Get my drift? Can’t really prowl the perimeter.”
“That’s a problem.”
“Ah, but not on Hannah night. A beautiful thing, isn’t it? All we have to do is wait till Mother Nature herself takes the power away.” He frowned. “ ‘Course the downside is, we have to wait seven hours after that.”
“Maybe not.”
“What you got in mind?”
“Well, if the phones are out, who cares if the alarm goes off? Sure, we have to work with a lot of noise, but who’s going to call the cops? All the phone lines’ll be out.”
“I am majorly impressed. You got a great criminal mind on you.”
Steve said, “You know what they say about cops and crooks. So all we have to do is wait, huh? And hit the church at nine-thirty?”
“How you going to get in?”
Skip said, “I’ve got picks.”
Rodney shook his head. “I don’t know. What if something goes wrong?”
“Nothing will.”
“I better go with you.”
* * *
The hardest part was waiting. But at nine-fifteen, they were assembled at Skip’s, all in dark clothes, Skip with her burglar tools and Steve with a backpack full of disks.
It was barely drizzling when they left the French Quarter, but raining hard by the time they got to Metairie. There was hardly anyone on the streets.
Rodney was exultant. “Man, would you look at this? I’m gonna pray for a hurricane every day.”
“How do we make sure the alarm’s disabled?”
“See? I knew you were gon’ need me.” He produced a flashlight, which he shined through a glass pane in the side door. “See that? It’s a dead key panel.”
“Meaning?”
“If the alarm were on, the red light would be blinking. Ergo, Rodney rules.”
“Hope you’re right.”
“Ah, ah, ah. Dis Rodney, and I don’t help you when you can’t work those picks.”
In fact, she couldn’t work the picks, though she was convinced it was because she was nervous, having a genuine burglar there. Expertly, Rodney took over and then said he’d stand guard.
Once inside, Skip again felt like a fifth wheel. She and Steve found what appeared to be an office, and Steve immediately set to work at the computer, cool as a master criminal. Skip busied herself with files, but she didn’t have much hope for them.
“Skip. Look at this.” Steve had turned up a list of church properties.
“Can you copy it?”
“Already have.”
Desultorily, wishing she had a skill for the occasion, she began to go through desk drawers—the property, she suspected, of some innocent secretary.
But there, right in the middle drawer, waiting to be mailed—was an envelope addressed to Potter Menard, with a Post-it attached. It was unsealed; the Post-it read: “cut check for hit.” Inside was a note: “Daddy asked me to send you a little bonus for a job well done. He wants to thank you for keeping the unpleasantness in the family.”
She was beside herself. Who would leave a record of a hit?
Someone so confident she’d gotten sloppy. Someone a little out of touch with reality, which of course was what happened to cult members.
And someone in Jacomine’s confidence. She’d have to find out who this secretary was.
The thing just might be real, and it might refer to Noel Treadaway—in fact probably did, given the timing. But she could think of absolutely no way—considering her own criminal status—of getting it into evidence. Yet it certainly told her where to look. Somehow it might be proved later on that Menard had gotten a bonus right after Treadaway was killed—there might be a record in the church checkbook, for instance. With other evidence, it might add up to something.
And the secretary might be squeezeable.
Steve said, “Oh, wow.”
“What?”
“Pay dirt. Check this out.”
It was a list headed inactive members. “As in ‘ex,’ “ Steve said. “Or anyway, let’s hope so. Anything else we need?”
“Sure. Let’s scour the whole damn system.”
“I more or less have.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s this way—Rodney just said we had sixty seconds at the outside.”
“Sixty seconds till what? Till he calls the cops?”
“Let’s go, dammit.”
I hate democracy. But she went.
And Rodney was having a small conniption. “Do you know how
long you were in there? Five and a half minutes. I can’t believe it—five and a half!”
It had seemed like half an hour, at least.
Rodney said, “ ‘Course nobody came by—who’d be out in this?”
“Then what are you so upset about?”
“Rules is rules. We do it again, and you toe the line or I spank you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
THEY DROPPED RODNEY off and started calling names on the “inactive” list. After two hang-ups, one “fuck-you,” and three “don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-abouts,” Skip decided to go visiting.
“How can you do that?” Steve protested. “It’s after ten o’clock.”
“I’m a mother whose child is missing. Is that an emergency or not?”
He shrugged.
“You want to be the father?”
Again, he tried to conceal his pleased look.
First they tried Betty Landry, who lived in Mid-City. It was pouring rain as they walked to her front steps.
A man opened the door, a black man about fifty-eight, Skip would have said, starting to go gray at the temples. He was a huge man, and the fact that he wore only jockey shorts made him look like a sumo wrestler. His belly was like a great black cauldron, so smooth and round it was all Skip could do not to reach out and touch it.
“We’re looking for Betty Landry. I know it’s late, but our daughter’s missing and …”
“She don’ know nothin’ ‘bout that.”
They heard a voice behind him: “Lemme talk to the people, James Allen.”
“You don’t want nothin’ to do with this.”
“Well, how do I know till I find out?”
He stepped aside for a woman in a pink flowered robe.
“Oh.” She looked very surprised. “I thought you were a lady I used to work for.”
Skip saw she was losing interest fast. “Our daughter’s only fifteen, and she’s been missing a week. We’re terrified, Ms. Landry. Somehow she got involved with this church that we understood—”