Louisiana Bigshot

by Julie Smith

  There was almost a no-go when Jimmy Dee said they’d have to leave the dogs behind—Steve’s shepherd, Napoleon, and the kids’ mutt, Angel—because they couldn’t go in the park itself and it was too hot to leave them in the car.

  But in the end the three kids—Dee-Dee’s two and Steve—rose above it.

  They went in two cars, the uncles and Sheila in one, Kenny with Skip and Steve. There was a reason for this—Kenny, being in his early teens, hero-worshipped Steve. The two uncles could have gotten their feelings hurt, but had the sense not to bother. The average fourteen-year-old preferred baseball to opera; metaphorically speaking, it was that simple. And Kenny was such a gentle soul, even as a teenager, that no one could imagine he’d ignore anyone on purpose. Sheila was another matter. She’d probably chosen to ride with the uncles just to snub her younger brother.

  Spilling from the cars, they stepped onto the natural levee that ran along Bayou Coquille and instantly heard the silence of the swamp. It was louder than the bullfrog croaks and insect ditties and bird songs and animal slitherings that, in fact, were a concert in themselves. The two conditions were like stereo—you could listen to either or both, and the effect was like being on another planet. As the trail descended to the flooded forest of the swamp, the noises grew louder and so did the silence. The air, though it was nearly ninety in the French Quarter, here seemed fresh and soft with breezes. It was too late for the wild irises, which bloom in great fields of purplish blue, but a few of the pale lavender water hyacinths, to some more beautiful than orchids, still floated on the water, gorgeous to look at it, but in fact choking out the life of the bayou. In its way, the water hyacinth—imported from South America rather than Asia, is as deadly as the termites. A single plant can produce 50,000 others in one growing season, killing the native plants, thus reducing available food for animals.

  Yet to Skip, the day was so beautiful, the views so tranquil, the natural mix so seemingly harmonious that it was possible to forget un-harmonious nature—weed-against-weed, man-against-bug, cop-against-thug. People were oddly quiet as they walked the trail; even Sheila, given to complaining about the personalities and intellectual capacities of her companions, was as sunny as the day, which would have been perfect even if they hadn’t happened upon a Cajun band on the way home, playing at an outdoor restaurant where people danced under a shed. They stopped and had iced tea, enjoying the dancers, some of whom wore shirts from a Cajun heritage organization, and one of whom wore a masterpiece of taxidermy on his hat—an entire duck, feet and all, intact except for its innards.

  Afterward, they went home and barbecued. While Layne cooked, the other grown-ups sat in the courtyard Skip shared with the Ritter-Scoggin family, drinking gin and tonics while the kids watched television, Napoleon snoozed, and Angel tried to wake him up. The air was velvety, with a little breeze, and the mosquitoes weren’t yet biting. It was absurdly familial. Skip was completely, deliciously happy, a feeling she sometimes distrusted.

  But that night she dreamed, and the dream was like life. In the dream, she had a beautiful house, and then a tiny hole appeared in the wall; out of the hole came swirling hordes of termites, traveling in vortexes like tornadoes. More and more swarmed until the air turned black, and then there was no air, only chaotic, moving, living walls, trapping her and invading her nose, her ears, smothering, strangling…

  Steve shook her awake and she told the dream, still moaning, shivering though it was late spring, unnerved out of all proportion.

  “They aren’t that bad,” he said. “It’ll be okay. But thank you for your empathy.”

  The dream wasn’t about his termites. Someone could have said it was about him, about her fear of their relationship, her dread of becoming engulfed. But she knew it wasn’t that. She knew what it was about, and she knew why she couldn’t stop shaking.

  It was about fear of dropping her guard, of looking away for even a second, of forgetting the danger that always lurked.

  She had been happy too long and something was happening to wake her up, to alert her to be wary. Yet the task was impossible. She couldn’t be wary every second of the day. She couldn’t protect even herself, let alone those she loved. No wonder she had dreamed of a pulsating monster, a force of nature that overwhelmed and smothered.

  Fear was like that, a shrink might have said. But that wasn’t it, not quite. Her enemy was like that.

  Nearly two years ago, Errol Jacomine had disappeared, but he would not stay gone. She knew this; she had destroyed two of his careers—twice thwarted his attempts to win control over his fellow human beings, to gain a following and to dominate. He would be back and he would try to kill her sooner rather than later. To forget it for a day in the woods, for an evening in her courtyard, for a moment, for a millisecond, was dangerous and possibly deadly.

  Jacomine’s son, Daniel, had been arrested, charged with half a dozen crimes, and eventually convicted of murder as the result of one of Jacomine’s schemes. He was due to be sentenced in a couple of days.

  How that would affect his father Skip couldn’t know, but it had probably precipitated the dream. Jacomine might not even notice, perhaps having written Daniel off. He could do this—he seemed sometimes to have no feelings.

  On the other hand, he perceived himself at the center of the universe. He might feel proprietary towards Daniel, no matter how unlikely he was to have true paternal feelings. And if he did, he might… what?

  Surface. Treat it as an occasion to make himself known. Trade an eye for an eye—kidnap Kenny and demand Daniel.

  Anything.

  That was what the dream was about.

  She left for work feeling hunted, and resentful of her psyche for rubbing her nose in it. She knew all that, and what could she do about it? Exactly what? she asked herself angrily. Later, the dream seemed more a premonition than a warning.

  That morning as always, she walked the few blocks to the garage where she kept her car, pointed the remote at the automatic door (a process that never failed to give her childlike pleasure), and waited for the door to raise itself high enough to allow her ingress. Instead of the familiar rumble, an explosion ripped through the quiet morning, followed by a loud ping, like a beer can hitting a metal drum.

  She felt an arm around her waist, another at her back and then she felt herself falling, a great weight upon her. She tried to fight it, but it was too heavy—she was helpless. Her head hit the pavement.

  It took a second to put it together. The explosion had been a shot, the ping a ricochet.

  Another shot blasted the momentary peace, a second bullet thunked into the sidewalk. Closer. She felt her muscles contract, involuntarily seeking shelter.

  She heard a woman scream, and she held her breath, but a shocked hush had enveloped the corner.

  After a moment, a man said, “Owww.” The man on top of her, she realized. Someone was shooting at her, and he had pushed her down, remained on top of her so that she couldn’t move.

  When she had waited long enough to be sure the shooting had stopped, she said to the lump atop her, “Police. Are you hit?”

  The man rolled off, and she saw that he was a light-skinned black, well-muscled, wearing jeans and white T-shirt—laborer’s garb. He said, “You’re po-lice?” Her detective status meant she wore no uniform.

  She didn’t see any blood. “Are you all right?” She was frantic.

  He was examining himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right. That was real close, though.”

  A crowd was gathering around them. Unless the sniper was in it, he no longer had a clear shot. Skip scanned the rooftops, wondering where the shots had come from.

  The idea of asking what happened made her feel shamed somehow. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to get it together, and the man said, “Somebody just tried to kill you.”

  “You saw him?”

  “No. I was right behind you when I heard the shot. Didn’t stop to look around—you understand?”

  “Thanks. I appre
ciate what you did. But how did you know he wasn’t shooting at you?”

  The man shrugged. “I didn’t ax no questions. Just hit the pavement.”

  When they paced it off, she could see that the man wasn’t really right behind her—he’d had to run a step or two to tackle her. She’d been facing the garage door, and the bullet had hit it immediately to her right. She was between it and her rescuer.

  There was no doubt in her mind it was meant for her. She grabbed for her radio.

  After that, it was chaos. A sniper in the French Quarter was a big deal, shots fired on a police officer an even bigger deal. But when it was Skip Langdon, it was nearly enough to declare a state of emergency. Everyone in the department knew Jacomine was as likely to come for her as get up in the morning and put on his clothes.

  He might even come in person, and catching him would be as big a coup as discovering the whereabouts of D.B. Cooper.

  Certainly her sergeant knew all this—her good friend and sometime partner, Adam Abasolo. Skip knew he was going to call for the works investigating this one, and the works was what Skip got. In minutes, District cars blocked the whole place off, the streets crawled with cops and the downside—TV cameras for days.

  The poor man who saved Skip’s life was treated like a threat to society, taken over to the Eighth District, questioned and bullied until he well and truly understood that no good deed goes unpunished. Skip made a mental note to thank him somehow, but wondered how. What did you do for a perfect stranger who risked his life to save yours, and then found himself in a living nightmare? He’d obviously been on his way to work—maybe he’d even get fired.

  She was having an extremely pessimistic day.

  It seemed she’d barely picked herself up when Turner Shellmire turned up, a rumpled, pear-shaped figure in the midst of all the glamour of sirens and flashing lights. Shellmire was an FBI agent she’d worked with on the Jacomine case—or cases, actually. Though he came from the agency the New Orleans police liked to call Famous But Incompetent, he wasn’t either. Certainly not incompetent. He was one of the best cops she’d ever worked with, and he was a straight shooter. They were as close to being friends as a police officer and an FBI agent possibly could be.

  She played it light. “Hey, Turner. Slow day today?”

  He didn’t return her grin, instead examined the dented door and sidewalk. “He almost got you.”

  “What about the kids?”

  “I’ve sent people to get them. Also Jimmy Dee, Layne, and Steve.”

  “Layne? Even Layne?” He’d only married into the family; it didn’t seem fair to him.

  Shellnrire nodded. “Jacomine would go for him.”

  Skip knew it was true. Jacomine played mind games. If he couldn’t get at her through somebody really close, he’d try for someone once removed, knowing that would pile guilt on top of her other emotions—guilt and the rage of the person who was closest.

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  He opened his arms in exasperation. “That’s the problem. We can keep them safe for a day, maybe, but they’ve got to have a life.”

  At the end of the day, when all the questions that could possibly be asked had been asked, the lifesaver—a man named Rooster Blanchard—had finally been released, and still the sniper hadn’t been found and not a single fact more was known than the kind of gun he’d used and the angle the bullets had come from, Skip went to see her sergeant. “AA, my nerves are shot. I’ve got to get the sonofabitch.”

  “You sound like you’re asking for a leave of absence.”

  “Just a transfer. I want to go to Cold Case for awhile. Please. Just let me try it.”

  “Skip, he’s a needle in a haystack. And furthermore, you can’t just work on one case.”

  “At least I could work on it some. That’s all I ask.”

  The sergeant’s eyes went shifty on her. “Langdon, you’re not the person to work on this. You know that. Anyway, I can’t spare you.”

  She ignored his last sentence. “Oh, come on. I wouldn’t be working the shooting—just the cold case.”

  “Did you hear me? I can’t do it. I’ve got to have you for the cemetery thefts. I want you to head the task force.”

  Here in the Third District, where Skip had been sent when the department was “decentralized” and the Homicide Division disbanded, things were usually pretty quiet. But the cemetery thefts were big—about as high profile as a case that wasn’t a triple murder could get in New Orleans.

  Somebody—probably a ring of professional thieves—was removing cemetery statues and selling them through the lucrative antiques market. In a city that took its saints and angels as seriously as it did its pre-Lent festivities, this was big, bad crime. A department that stopped it was going to be a popular department. Heading the task force was a handsome plum.

  Still, to Skip’s mind, it was trivial compared to getting Jacomine. She said, “AA, I’m flattered, but…”

  “The Superintendent asked for you. Says it’s the mayor’s idea. Two City councilmen have also called—at the mayor’s request, probably.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  He could have made a crack about the price of fame, but Abasolo looked as downcast as she probably did. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Skip. Wrap it up fast and we’ll see about the transfer.”

  The next novel in the Talba Wallis series is LOUISIANA LAMENT.

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