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

by Julie Smith

  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?”

  “Just rain and stuff. I’m at a pay phone.”

  “Don’t you have enough sense to get in out of a hurricane?”

  “Listen, Adam, I need you to run a sheet on somebody.”

  “I’m not even going to ask why.”

  “Well, I’m going to tell you. It looks like Sheila’s been kidnapped.”

  “My God. You’ve reported it?”

  “Yes on missing—no on kidnapped. The way I found out wasn’t exactly legal.”

  He sighed. “I sure hope you’re wrong. Listen, I see a free computer. Whose record are we checking?”

  “A Paulette Thibodeaux.”

  “Back in five.”

  It was more like ten. “Couple of arrests for prostitution. That’s about it. Want her address?”

  “Sure.”

  “Looks like she’s on Martin Luther King near South Rampart.” He gave her a number.

  “Isn’t that the corner they call the Kill Zone?”

  “Uh-huh. But big deal. You’re gonna have a lot more trouble with Mother Nature than the neighborhood gangsters. Know what my advice to you is? Go home and batten your hatches.”

  Back in the car, Steve put an arm around her. “Any luck?”

  “Not to speak of.”

  “Let’s go get a few hours’ sleep.”

  She started the car. “Great idea—for you. I personally intend to run around like a chicken with my head cut off.”

  “Oh, well, I guess I will, too.”

  “Uh-uh. I’m sending you home in a taxi.”

  He protested, but their deal was she gave the orders, and she could see that he was flagging. He wasn’t used to the grind of police work—and also Sheila wasn’t his kid.

  Those arrests for prostitution worried her. She could just see Paulette recruiting and training a corps of baby hookers under the guise of helping runaways.

  As she transferred Steve to a cab, she noticed the wind was getting stronger. She wanted desperately to go home with him.

  On Martin Luther King, a male voice answered her knock.

  “Whatchew want?”

  The man was clearly asleep and clearly not thrilled to be disturbed. He probably wasn’t going to let her in unless…she hesitated only a moment. “Police.”

  There followed a great banging, as if the man wanted to make the point that he really couldn’t get out of bed without falling and that the police were a great inconvenience.

  “Yeah?” He was short and scrawny, and he wore only shorts.

  “I’m looking for Paulette.”

  “Paulette? That white bitch been gone two-three year. Ain’ nothin’ here for you.”

  Skip couldn’t believe she’d actually made contact with so
meone who knew Paulette—she’d half expected an abandoned building. “Oh, yes, there is,” she said, and wedged her foot firmly in the door. “Where is she?”

  “I’m tellin’ you she ain’ here. Foxy here, though. Say hello, Foxy.”

  A very young-sounding girl said hello, probably from a bare mattress.

  “I ain’ seen’r in so long, I wouldn’ know her ugly face no more. Whatchew want with her?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mitchell Taylor. What yours? Paulette about your size.”

  “I’m Skip Langdon.” She paused to take a breath, about to tell him how desperately she needed his help, but he seemed to be on a tear.

  “Can you believe me and Paulette…I mean, she so tall and…big and everything…”

  “You were her pimp.”

  “What you know about it, Miss Smarty-Pants? Yeah, I was her pimp. So what? Think I didn’ care about Paulette? Think she didn’ care about me? She be my main woman, that one. But we look pretty funny together. Paulette, she had a real unhappy life.”

  “What do you mean ‘had’ ?”

  “Back where she come from. Her daddy screwed all the kids or somep’n. I never did know quite what. But somep’n make her real unhappy. Well, she got Jesus now. Hallelujah … that be her life now. Maybe she happy, I don’ know. She be back, though. Paulette be back. She care too much about ol’ Mitch not to come back. We got somethin’ special together.”

  “I thought you said she was ugly and a white bitch.”

  “Oh. Well. That just be the way I talk.”

  Since he had on nothing but shorts, Skip couldn’t grab him by the shirtfront. She settled for taking a step forward, getting right in his face. (Though in this case that more or less meant putting her breasts in his face.) “Is she here, Mitchell?”

  “You just axt that, you cain’t remember? No, she ain’ here. You crazy or somethin’, Miss White Po-lice? I swear you don’ get outta my face I turn yo’ ass in to Public Fuckin’ Integrity.” With some editing, that was the new name for Internal Affairs.

  “You’re a spunky little devil, I’ll give you that.”

  “Been arrested much as I have, get to know ya rights.”

  “Where’s Paulette from?”

  “Whatcha mean where she from? How I know somep’n like that?”

  “The place where her daddy screwed the kids.”

  “We didn’ talk about nothin’ like that.”

  “Does she have any good friends? Somebody she’d go to if she needed a place to stay?”

  “Yeah. Me. She need a place, she come right here.”

  “We’ve been over that one. How old’s Foxy, anyhow? Fifteen or sixteen? Maybe I better find out.”

  “Okay, okay. Lemme think now. ‘Nother girl used to work for me—thousand years ago. Turned up at that same church Paulette did. They be real close, over there, in the fuckin’ God-box. I try to get Paulette back, she send Miss Nikki over, threaten to break my kneecaps; maybe toes, I forget which.”

  “Nikki?”

  “Yeah. Nikki. Hope she die a horrible death.”

  Skip shivered. “Last name?”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Pigeon—like the bird. I remember specially ‘cause she call it ‘P’jhone,’ like she think she the Queen of Fuckin’ France.”

  Nikki Pigeon was the first of Jacomine’s followers Skip had met—the one she’d seen the video of in the coroner’s office.

  * * *

  “She’s fucking disappeared? A fucking six-foot woman and four fucking kids? Potter Menard, I swear to God I’m gonna kick your sorry ass to kingdom come. When the fuck you gon’ start to earn your salary? You are the sorriest excuse for an employee I’ve ever had in all my life—I pay you premium wages, and this is what I get? I might as well hire teenage girls. Why, little Abby’s a better detective than you are.”

  Daddy had fits.

  Potter was used to that. He didn’t let it bother him, knew Daddy was under more pressure than any human could take. He’d just let it dissipate, and then he’d do something to remind Daddy how good he was, and he’d get a pat on the back. Daddy seldom apologized—Potter could remember only once or twice—but he’d do something to show he was sorry, and let Potter know he appreciated him. Sometimes it took the form of a little bonus in Potter’s pay envelope, which was especially nice because Daddy most certainly didn’t pay premium wages. Potter did this for love, and Daddy knew it. He just said things like that when he was upset.

  Nonetheless, Potter found himself feeling defensive. Usually he prided himself on riding out the storms—that was part of his professionalism—something he could do that very few others could. Yet this morning, this particular morning, Daddy’s tirade felt like too much.

  He’d worked for hours, concocting a plan for those kids—he knew exactly what to do. Leave it to Potter, and they’d never be heard from again, never be traced—and neither would Paulette Thibodeaux. It was simple, it was neat, above all it was clean. Better, it was ingenious. Potter had truly outdone himself this time. And then when he’d called, no one was there. He’d gone over— with tropical storm-force winds already blowing—and discovered it was worse than he thought. Not only was no one there, somebody’d been there who wasn’t supposed to be.

  Potter didn’t know what to make of the break-in. There were no signs of violence, which might mean it occurred after Paulette left. And if she left on her own, that meant she was one step ahead of him. Maybe Daddy was right, maybe Potter was an idiot. Maybe he should have locked them all up when he left yesterday.

  Yeah, he should have. Daddy was goddamn right. This shouldn’t have happened. Potter had moved too slow. The kids and Paulette should be history by now.

  He’d been so full of himself and his little plan, and God had sent him this to teach him humility. Well, it worked. He was humble now.

  “You listening to me? Potter, goddamn it. I don’t think you’re even listenin’. I don’t know why I don’t just fire your ass right now.”

  “Daddy, you’re right. You’re right. I don’t know why you don’t.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you why I don’t. It’s because I don’t have anybody else to do your sorry job. I’m gon’ tell you one damn thing and I’m gon’ tell you right now. You gon’ get us out of this mess. You got us in it and you gon’ damn well get us out of it. And you gon’ do it now! Before this night is over. Is that clear, Potter Menard?”

  “Yeah, Daddy.” His voice sounded grim even to him. “I’m going to get us out of this or die tryin’. Tonight. Hannah or no Hannah.”

  “Who the fuck is Hannah?”

  “The hurricane, Daddy.” Potter was sorry to have mentioned it, knowing Daddy had more important matters to think about.

  “Potter, I want to spell somethin’ out for you. I’m within a hairsbreadth of bein’ mayor of this city, do you understand that?”

  Potter nodded.

  “You realize what that could do for race relations? For social justice? For all the things we’ve worked for? This is the moment we been workin’ years to get to. If you don’t solve this, that moment’s lost. Do you take my meaning, Potter?”

  “Yes sir, I do.”

  “I want those three people dead, you hear me? I want ‘em never heard from again. Paulette Thibodeaux and the two witnesses. You find Paulette and you’re gon’ find Sheila Ritter and Torian Gernhard. I repeat—those girls are witnesses. I told you I was gon’ spell it out, and I am. Those three people, and the other two girls if they’re there. I want ‘em dead. That’s as plain as I can make it.”

  “I understand, Daddy.” Sometime during the evening, after much praying and soul-searching, Potter had come to the conclusion that this was the only way out. He hated it, but it was the way it was. “I need your help.”

  Daddy opened his arms, as if offering a kingdom. “Anything, son.”

  “We need to plot some strategy.” He knew Daddy loved that word. “I think what happened is, Paulette realized what w
as in the cards. In other words, I think she left of her own accord, taking the children with her. The question is, where would she go?”

  “We got a dossier on her?”

  “Yes sir, I have it right here. It just doesn’t have very much personal information in it.”

  “She had some kind of sweetheart, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t know much about that.” What he did know was that she’d been Daddy’s favorite for a while, but it wasn’t his place to bring that up.

  “Maybe she went to see him.”

  “I wonder how I’d find out who he is.” Other than the Daddy story, he knew absolutely nothing about Paulette Thibodeaux’s personal life—in fact, hadn’t really thought she had one outside the church.

  “Ask her friends.”

  “It’s funny. I never think of her as having any.” He hated the position he was in. It made him look like a bad detective.

  The hell with it, he decided. If she was anybody else, I’d just come out with it. That’s the professional way to handle it.

  “Daddy, I’m wondering if she confided anything in you—anything that might help me.”

  “Paulette Thibodeaux? Are you crazy, boy?”

  “Any kind of thing like—you know—who her friends are. Just little things I could use to jump off from.”

  “Now why would Paulette Thibodeaux talk to me about personal matters?”

  He’d done it, and Daddy was mad. “I guess she wouldn’t.”

  “You must have had some reason for thinking that.”

  “Well, you’re a minister and all, I thought what we’re talking about might cancel out confidentiality. I mean if she came to you for pastoral counseling.”

  But Daddy wasn’t letting him off the hook. “Now that wasn’t what you thought, was it, Potter? You heard some rumor or other and you believed it, wasn’t that it?”

  Actually, among other things, Potter had stood guard outside Daddy’s parked car while Paulette gave him a blow job. Had Daddy forgotten that?

  He said, very formally, treading on eggs, “No, sir, you brought me into your confidence on that matter.”

  “What matter? What matter, Potter Menard?” Daddy was shouting. “I am a minister and must be above reproach. Did you forget that for one tiny minute?”