by Julie Smith
Okay, she couldn't hold his hand, but she could stay close. She could send him healing wishes or something.
In the end, she couldn't find the energy in herself to will him to heal, just to keep living, which he did, which he kept on doing, until finally they sewed him up and took him upstairs.
There were policemen in the waiting room, and a black woman with them, with two children, about ten and twelve, a boy and a girl.
When the policemen rustled, the woman realized instantly who Skip was, and rose. "I'm Dionne Hodges."
Skip thought that if she had to categorize this woman in one word, it would have been "pleasant." She was average height—about five-feet-five—and a little plump, so that her cheeks and chin were rounded. Her hair was about ear=length, styled for business. She could have been anything—schoolteacher, receptionist, high-level executive; her clothes might have given a clue. But at the moment she was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, probably just pulled on when she got the call about her husband.
She didn't introduce the children, and Skip was glad. She didn't want to look at their faces too closely, to see their fear and misery, to have it remind her of her own. Dionne seemed a little ragged, but at least she was still in one piece.
Skip said, "Did the doctor talk to you? Jim's holding his own."
Dionne breathed deeply. "No, he didn't. This is the first I've heard."
"Well, they didn't stop to fill me in, but I think he's out of danger for the moment. They took him upstairs." Anxiously, she swiveled her head. Where was the doctor? Skip felt strongly that this was no job for a cop, particularly one as utterly exhausted as she was.
"What happened?" asked Dionne
"Maybe we should talk privately."
"Why?"
Because I don't want to talk about it in front of his children. What's wrong with you?
Dionne seemed way too distracted to catch on. Skip was trying to formulate an answer that might fly when another woman approached the little knot of policemen. She was black as well, wearing white slacks, a little taller, a little older than Dionne, and accompanied by two girls who looked to be juniors or seniors in high school—they were probably a year apart.
"Excuse me," she said, "I'm Jim Hodges's wife. Do you have any word?"
"Oh, shit," said Dionne, and Skip turned to look at her, alarmed.
But Dionne showed no signs of fainting or flying into a rage. A tear floated slowly out of each eye and she whispered something:
"I should have known."
Skip felt lead in her chest. She could go no further, couldn't say another word to Dionne or anyone else for a long while. She walked briskly out the emergency entrance and stood there gulping air.
13
The back of her neck was clammy when she awoke after three hours' sleep. She had given her statement to Cappello and then gone back to the Iberville—with other officers—and they had spent most of the night trying to turn up anyone who'd heard or seen anything.
Nobody had. Not only that, nobody knew Turan Livaudais, or had even ever heard of him. They surely hadn't seen him or anybody else selling drugs in the Conti Breezeway that night or any night.
That morning, she awakened feeling vulnerable, almost panicked. Her first real thought was: Steve: Is he here?
He was.
Her second was: Jim: Is he alive?
She knew she could call to find out, but she didn't want to deal with it over the phone. She hardly felt up to brushing her teeth. She pulled on a peach-colored blouse and a pair of white pants that made her think of Jim's second wife—or first, probably; she seemed the older one.
Oh, God, even if he makes it, his life's not going to be worth living. Why'd he do a stupid thing like that? A smart guy like Jim?
Love, I suppose. It makes everyone stupid.
She felt for Dionne and for the other woman too—she hadn't stayed long enough to get her name—and for all the Hodges kids. There might be eight or ten of them for all she knew.
She envisioned scenes with both women trying to hold Jim's hand during his convalescence; and others—worse ones—in which both of them dumped him.
Today, she thought, she could look at mug shots. She'd gotten a good look at the kid who hit her, and there was something distinctive about him—his lower lip was larger than the upper, and hung down slightly, as if his mouth were open.
She entered the detective bureau with trepidation, but everything sounded okay. There wasn't any unusual silence. "Any word on Jim?" she said to the desk officer.
The woman shrugged. "Not yet. Someone's waiting for you."
She pointed with her chin at the little waiting area. Tricia Lattimore was there, in a linen outfit, more dressed up than Skip had ever seen her.
"Skippy, I just wanted to apologize."
"Tricia, that was some scene. I was pretty worried about you."
"It was horrible what I did—attacking my oldest friend. Listen, I'm really sick about it. I just wanted you to know that."
"Well, I know it wasn't you that attacked me. That was the drug. And that's why I'm so worried about you." She knew the repetition was a little school-teacherish, but she couldn't stop herself.
"I knew you would be, and I didn't want you to worry. That's another reason I'm here. I want you to know I don't do crack. I don't even do crystal, except once in a great while. I was just in a mood."
Oh, sure. "You better be careful with that stuff."
"Oh, I am. I never touch crack for any reason—and the other stuff . . . I don't know, I just get a whim now and then."
"I thought you were in AA."
"Did I say that?"
"Maybe not. Maybe you just said you used to have a drug habit—so I assumed it."
"Oh, AA—they think you can't ever do it."
"Thanks for coming by, Tricia."
"Skippy, listen, I'm really sorry. I just wanted to tell you."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
"We should get together sometime."
"Sure."
During Lorena Bobbitt's presidency.
Skip went in, got herself a cup of coffee, and called Charity. Jim was still on the critical list.
Well, hell. At least he's alive.
Next, she looked at mug shots, and found a pretty good candidate—a nineteen-year-old named Augustine Melancon. The kid she'd seen looked younger, she thought, but she'd only gotten a glimpse.
She went to find Cappello. "Sylvia, I found a kid who looks like the one I saw."
"Skip. Did you have a bad day yesterday."
"Not as bad as Jim."
"I swear to God if he dies I'm out of here. I can't stand this fucking crap." Cappello almost never swore.
"I'm feeling pretty down. I don't know if it was worth it, what we did. What were our chances of finding Dennis, anyway?"
"For Christ's sake, don't start, Skip. Until Jim got shot, that was our biggest case of the year. Are you kidding? Arthur Hebert, who's about as important to this town as Aaron Neville, was gunned down in his dining room. Good God! Do you know how much pressure Joe's been getting to put every guy in Homicide on that one? You know why he hasn't? Because there's nothing for them to do. You had exactly one lead and you followed it. You did what you were supposed to do."
"I forgot it was a heater case. On some other case, understaffed like we are, it would have been a waste of manpower—even if nobody got hurt. Doesn't it strike you there's something wrong with that?"
"You're damn right it does. That's just the kind of crap I'm talking about when I say I'm getting out."
"Where are you going, Sylvia?" Skip thought she might as well face reality.
Cappello had been scanning papers on her desk even as she ranted. She looked up at Skip through round, horn-rimmed glasses that Skip thought quite elegant. "Going? I'm not going anywhere."
"But I thought you just said—"
She smiled. "I'm just letting off steam, that's all."
"Well, at least there's some good news toda
y."
"But if I had anyplace to go, I'd go there."
"Listen, I've got to go see a thug. Who can I take with me?"
"Can't it wait? Everybody's out right now. You think we had a heater case before."
"This dude gave me Turan's name."
"Oh—I'll get somebody."
"Never mind. I'm not exactly sure where to find him. Let me do some work on that first."
Cappello lowered her eyes again. "Okay."
"I almost forgot. The kid I found the mug shot of—can we schedule a lineup?"
"You make it sound so easy—you know where to find him?"
"No. But I figure with all the manpower we've got on this, somebody'll get him by noon. Not me, though. Delavon's my special little project. The kid's name is Augustine Melancon."
She went back to her desk, and found a message from the desk officer: someone else to see her. Sugar Hebert.
Puzzled, she went out to the anteroom. "Mrs. Hebert? You wanted to see me?"
"Could we talk a few minutes?"
"Sure. Come in." She led her into Homicide.
Sugar's eyes strayed to a sign someone had posted: THOU SHALT NOT KILL. Skip sat her down. "What can I do for you?"
Sugar looked distinctly uncomfortable—and seriously out of place; but downright good for a woman who'd just lost her husband. She wore a white silk suit with a black silk rose pinned to the chest, and a black straw hat. Skip wondered if the hat and the flower were meant for mourning.
"I think I might have some information for you."
Skip smiled, invitingly, she hoped. You probably don't even know we've got a cop on the critical list. Would you please spit it out and get out of here? She kept smiling, even nodding her head in encouragement.
Sugar fidgeted. Finally, she said, "I think I might know who killed my husband."
Skip went right on smiling and nodding. "Oh?"
"Arthur's girlfriend would have—well—a motive, right?"
"Arthur's girlfriend?"
"Yes."
"I don't think you mentioned her before." And I'm going to strangle you.
"I was too ashamed to talk about it. Well, and I guess I didn't really know for sure. I mean, I couldn't face facts. But I've been thinking about the way he'd suddenly hang up the phone when I came into the room; or if I picked up, not knowing he was talking, I'd hear a woman's voice—and he'd get mad and tell me to get off."
"What makes you think this meant he had a girlfriend?"
"Well, it wasn't the first time." She acted insulted, though why, Skip wasn't sure.
Because I impugned her detective skills?
Probably not. just general defensiveness. I wish I could feel sorry for her, but there's something about her . . .
"Do you know the Womans name?"
"Anne. That's all I know. Sometimes I'd hear him call her that."
"And why do you think she had a motive?"
"Well, you know. He wouldn't divorce me." She tossed her head like a teenager, dislodging the hat a little. "Isn't that the usual thing?"
Skip said, "I'll check it out."
Seeing her out, she thought, This is a woman with too much time on her hands.
Or else, that's what she wants me to think.
Still, it had to be checked. She called Nina Phillips. "Did Arthur have a girlfriend?"
"Not that I know of, and I worked with him pretty closely. May I ask why?"
"Mrs. Hebert seems to think he did—someone named Anne."
"Oh, Anne. Oh, for heaven's sake. That's just like Sugar."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Anne's his lawyer; Sugar probably heard them on the phone or something. "
"Anne who?"
"Ebanks. Anne Ebanks."
"Thanks a lot."
Skip hung up shaking her head. Sugar was a piece of work, but what kind, she couldn't be sure. The one thing that looked obvious was that her idea of mourning was a bit on the unconventional side.
Now how to find Deluvon? Nothing to do but go back to square one.
She headed once again for Jeweldean's run-down apartment.
"Hey, it's me again."
"I'm a night worker; haven't you heard?"
"I've got something for Tynette." She had stopped and picked up a stuffed toy and a book; she'd also gotten an extra fifty out of the bank.
Jeweldean came to the door clutching an ice pack to her head. Skip said, "You don't look so good."
"I got mugged last night."
"Oh, God. The whole city's gone crazy."
"What you talkin' 'bout? I'm not the first hooker ever got mugged." She let Skip in and took her into the kitchen. "Some kid was waitin'. Soon as I turned around to unlock the door, he hit me with something and grabbed my purse."
"How do you know it was a kid?"
"'Cause who else pulls that kind of shit? It was some baby crackhead knew I'd be home late. Fact, I think I know whose kid it was."
"That's so sad. To have to be afraid of your neighbors."
"Who's afraid? I'm not afraid. I'm gettin' me a purse phone is all—from now on, when I'm comin' home, I'm callin' Biggie and he' gon' be out here waitin' for me. Any kid messes with me, Biggie blows him away."
"He's got a gun, does he?"
"Now don't be axin' impertinent questions. Anyway, it prob'ly won't happen again. Biggie might have already had a talk with somebody or other. This is some neighborhood, you know that?"
"They all are."
"Yeah, you right. But a thing happened yesterday nearly broke my heart. My friend Lanita, lives downstairs, lost her boy 'bout two weeks ago—he was shot down not all that far from here."
"My God." Skip's mind was reeling at the matter-of-fact way Jeweldean accepted violence as a fact of life.
"Two days ago they arrested some kid lives down the block, turns out it's Lanita's best friend's boy. So yesterday the friend was over here cryin' and carryin' on, sayin' she hoped it wasn't gon' ruin their friendship, just 'cause her boy killed Lanita's. Now tha's pathetic."
"Things are getting out of hand." Skip was aware of a depression within her that was always just beneath the surface, that had nothing to do with her own life; it bubbled to the top on occasions like this, when it was brought home to her how truly out of hand things were getting.
Cuppellos right, she thought briefly.
"Here's some things for Tynette," she said, thrusting them into Jeweldean's hand.
"You go give 'em to her yourself. She be glad to see you."
Reluctantly, Skip went into the living room, where the little girl lay on the couch. She had seen a lot of misery lately and it was starting to get to her—Justin Arceneaux, Tynette, Jim.
But the little girl smiled. Tynette was happy to see her; and she was so thoroughly delighted with the stuffed monkey Skip had been unable to resist, and the book about the rain forest, some of which Skip read to her, that the depression started to lift.
She heard Jeweldean making phone calls. When all was quiet in the kitchen, she went back in. "You think Biggie could get me to Delavon again?"
"Sure don't. Why?"
"I need him bad. Look. Maybe I could talk to him."
"He ain' here." Jeweldean was momentarily sullen. Skip thought she didn't like the idea of Biggie's consorting with Delavon.
"Here's all I ask. Just have him tell Delavon I want to see him—he can name the place and time, I don't care." She put the fifty on the table. It would buy the favor and then some. She was counting on the lagniappe to soften Jeweldean's heart.
Jeweldean didn't answer.
"You take care of that little girl," Skip said, and left. Almost the minute she hit the sidewalk, two kids stepped in front of her. One of them had a knife.
"Oh, shit."
One of the kids, the one without the knife, held out his hand for her purse. She slipped it off her shoulder, but instead of handing it over, she swung it so it smacked him in the groin. The one with the knife lunged, but she smacked him too. Because h
er gun was in the purse, both hits were a lot harder than the average mugger had a right to expect.
"She's a cop, guys," a voice said. Jeweldean's, from her balcony. The two kids took off.
Skip knew she could call in a 27-64—attempted armed robbery—but it would only be a waste of time unless she could find out where the kids lived.
"Hey, Jeweldean," she yelled. "You know those punks?"
"Uh-uh. They just some kids."
"Come on. They must live around here."
"I don' know 'em. Why I got to know 'em?"
Skip was pretty sure she did.
14
She fumed all the way back to the office, partly at her bad luck in getting mugged, partly at Jeweldean for protecting the punks. She wasn't even sure Jeweldean was going to give Biggie the message about Delavon, much less that Biggie would deliver it if she did, or that Delavon would call if he did.
What a shitty, shitty day, she was saying to herself as she walked into the detective bureau.
The minute she stepped in, she realized it had just gotten a lot worse. The quiet she hadn't noticed that morning had fallen. People's faces looked contorted. One man was wiping his eyes. Cappello walked out of her office, her face a grim white mask.
"Skip . . ."
"Jim died."
"We just got the call."
Skip nodded, to show that she had heard, and walked to her desk on legs of Jell-O. She sat down, feeling a strange distance between herself and the world, as if the air had solidified, so that it formed a barrier around her.
She wasn't going to cry. There was no question of that at all.
She didn't even feel sad, just vaguely miserable, as if there were news of war from far away.
What she had to do was make herself believe this. Understand that Jim Hodges no longer existed, that she wouldn't be joking around with him, wouldn't be working with him anymore.
She thought of Jim's two wives and four children—and how they were going to feel. His death seemed cataclysmic to her, yet out of reach, ungraspable.
Nothing she seemed to be able to do was helping her wrap her mind around it. Thinking didn't work at all—she couldn't think. She thought of saying something over and over to herself, something like "Jim is dead," to make it sink in, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.