by Julie Smith
She went back to finish the afternoon’s work, feeling not nearly so choked. The frog started to leave her throat, her voice to return to normal.
She finished out the week at the oil company because Lovelace was conscientious by nature—and because she needed the money.
Meanwhile, she read the ads and even applied for a restaurant job or two, but she knew she wasn’t going to get them—she didn’t know how to fake the references.
She also felt weird about trying to fake the work itself. How did you translate little quantities into big ones? Just for openers. She was sure there was a lot of professional stuff she’d be expected to know that she didn’t. But it occurred to her she didn’t have to work for a restaurant. All she needed was a job cooking. Maybe for an old lady or an old man who couldn’t manage anymore. She daydreamed about the kind of house her employer would live in—ten thousand square feet in the Garden District, perhaps; rooms no one had entered for years; dust an inch thick on the ancestral brocades; a garden that was a tangle of ancient climbing roses choking out sedate camellias.
Of course, she’d probably have to cook on a woodstove.
But who else would need a cook?
Maybe a young family with a mom like hers—one who was never home. A divorced lawyer or doctor, somebody like that. White canvas at the windows instead of precious tatters. Maybe she could even live in.
On Sunday the ad ran in the Times-Picayune for exactly the kind of job she wanted: “Part-time cook for family of four. No Louisiana dishes. Low fat.”
Her heart pounded like John Henry’s hammer. She didn’t answer the ad.
Eleven
ONE GOOD THING about working with the FBI—they were everywhere. Skip and Shellmire stayed in Atlanta while special agents in Chicago checked out Lovelace Jacomine. Skip was waiting in a conference room when her partner came in. “She’s not at Northwestern. Her dad told them she’d come home unexpectedly.”
“Daniel phoned them?” It sounded far too pat.
“He’s her dad, right?”
Skip was irritated. “Well, where’s home?”
“Fort Lauderdale, according to their records.”
“And have your crack agents been there yet?”
“We should have a report in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, they did talk to her roommate, whom they found uncooperative. They think she knows somethin’.”
“What’s her name?”
“Michelle Greene.”
“They just questioned her a little and took no for an answer? That was it?”
“Not exactly. That’s where we come in. Apparently, she never reported Lovelace missing—what does that say to you?”
“She knows where Lovelace is.”
“Yeah. She’s so hinky they didn’t want to let her go, but what were they gonna do? She hasn’t committed a crime or anything. They want to know what we want to do about her.”
“Are you kidding? I’m going to see her. Want to come?”
He laughed. “I kind of thought you’d say that. But no thanks. You’re the Jacomine expert.”
She called Cappello to say she was going—didn’t ask; told her. There was no question of being sent—the department didn’t have the money for a trip like this. Skip would have to pay for it herself, and, given that, Cappello wasn’t about to put her foot down.
She got lucky and got a flight almost right away. The agent who met her in Chicago had a report on the Fort Lauderdale end—the neighbors said no one was home, and apparently no one had been for weeks. He took her to Michelle Greene.
Shellmire had briefed her on everything in Michelle’s school records—she was from Charlotte, North Carolina, where her father was a banker and her mother was a lawyer. She’d been a straight-A student in high school and president of the student body. At Northwestern, she was doing well, and in her spare time, she did fund-raising for AIDS research. In short, she was the kind of girl who probably had no reason to think she didn’t own the Earth.
Still, if anyone could intimidate her, it was the FBI.
She was a bit crumpled right now, at least so far as her posture went. But her blond hair still looked shiny, her eyes were bright, and the close-fitting T-shirt that came just to the top of her jeans was fresh as ever. It was chartreuse.
Skip could see the girl’s exhaustion, but she didn’t have an impression of much else before she introduced herself—all she knew was that something changed immediately. Michelle sat up straighter, seemed suddenly alert.
She had said, “Hi, Michelle. I’m Detective Skip Langdon, New Orleans Police Department.”
She wondered if Lovelace had known about her, remembered her from the earlier case involving her grandfather, and mentioned her to her roommate. “You know me?”
The girl shook her head, looking confused.
“I thought Lovelace might have mentioned me.”
“No. May I see your badge?”
“Sure.”
Michelle examined it in detail. Hardly anyone ever did that. It was New Orleans, then—perhaps that meant something to her.
Playing the hunch, she said, “You know who Lovelace’s grandfather is?”
Michelle stiffened, and seemed to grow paler. She nodded.
“He’s wanted for murder. You know that.”
The girl only blinked.
“He kidnapped my niece and almost had her killed.”
Once again, she saw Michelle react. Her body swayed backward slightly, as if she’d been struck by an invisible fist.
“What is it, Michelle?”
The girl shook her head.
“Listen, this is no time to keep girlish secrets. Lovelace isn’t in trouble, she’s in danger. This is not a guy who messes around.”
The last sentence was true, anyway. As for the rest, for all Skip knew, Lovelace was even now cleaning her rifle, having mowed down Nolan Bazemore.
“What sort of danger?”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“You know what I hate about cops? You expect everybody to spill their guts and you never give anything away.”
“Okay, that’s off your chest. It’s the nature of the job, and there’s nothing either you or I can do about it. I repeat, your friend’s in danger. You want to help or you want to waste time we could use trying to get her out of it?”
The girl looked almost sheepish for a second and then regained her composure. “I prefer being treated with respect.”
Skip chose to take it as a bargaining point—to give the girl what she asked for, as she might give another witness a cigarette. She had a feeling this one was dying to talk—all she needed was an excuse.
She sat down. She’d been standing, in fact standing close, invading Michelle’s space and making her look up. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “Listen, let me tell you something about myself and what I think. I’ve had several encounters with Michelle’s grandfather and he’s slightly less dangerous than Hitler, I’d say, but quite a bit nastier than Charles Manson, whom he resembles in certain ways.”
“What ways?”
Michelle was trying to take control of the interview, and Skip was willing to let her have it for a while. There was no harm repeating public information. “He’s a nasty little man with a strange charisma I don’t understand—but that seems to attract people who want to be told what to do.” She smiled. “Nobody like you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not everybody sitting in an interrogation room at the federal building is quite so uppity.”
Michelle blushed. “Well, I—”
“You’re obviously an intelligent person in charge of her life, and you’re right—I should treat you like one. So here’s the story—he’s wanted for murder, and anybody he’s close to or who he’s ever been close to could be in danger. You could be in danger, just because you know Lovelace.”
“What about Lovelace’s dad?”
“What about him?”
“Where does he fit into this?”
/> Somewhere, Skip thought. Or else why’d you bring him up? She said, “You asked me to treat you with respect and I’m going to ask the same thing of you. Frankly, I think you mentioned him because you know more about that than I do. Look, Michelle, your roommate’s been gone for days and you never reported it to anybody.”
“I told your—colleagues—” she said the word as if it were “servants” “—that she told me she was going home for a while. To me, she wasn’t missing. So why would I report her missing?”
“Why would she go home in the middle of the semester?”
“She needed a break.” Michelle looked uncomfortable, as if wondering how far to go.
“About that respect you mentioned—excuse me, how dumb do you think I am?”
“That’s what happened.” Now she was sullen, a little girl who’d been lectured.
She’d been telling the same story for hours and didn’t seem about to deviate. Skip did what every police officer hates doing almost more than anything else—gave her a piece of information: “No one’s home in Fort Lauderdale. Where do you think she is?”
“How would I know?” She flailed her arms, irritated.
That was the wrong reaction. “Aren’t you surprised to hear she isn’t where she said she was going?”
“She could have gone there and left.”
“Look, maybe you think cops are dumb.”
“No, I—”
“You aren’t surprised because you already knew. You know where she is, Michelle. And she’s very likely in danger. Very likely. I don’t care what she told you about her grandfather, or about anything she’s doing—the plain truth is, he’s a homicidal maniac. Is she your friend or isn’t she? It’s that simple. If she is, talk to me.”
“You really think it has something to do with her grandfather?”
“You think it has something to do with her dad. He called the school and said she was at home. She isn’t. He’s a man with no known address. Am I getting through to you?”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“She’s in over her head, Michelle. She needs somebody to pull her out.”
The girl put her hand to her mouth and nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
Skip waited, not saying anything, letting the girl gather her thoughts.
“Her dad kidnapped her and drugged her. But she got away. She’s okay.”
“How do you know that, Michelle?”
“She called and told me. And said not to tell anyone. To keep it quiet.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“She had … problems, once. She was depressed. Spent time in a psychiatric hospital. She thinks her dad can use that against her any time he wants—he can just say she’s suicidal or something, or she’s crazy, and people’ll believe him instead of her.”
“Look. The FBI isn’t trying to track her down because her dad says she has mental problems—that should be obvious, shouldn’t it?”
“Yeah. Yeah. It doesn’t make sense.” She was finally working it out.
Skip said, “Where is she, Michelle?”
“She’s with her Uncle Isaac. In New Orleans.”
“Her Uncle Isaac?”
“Yeah. Is he—uh—involved with her grandfather?”
God, I wish I knew. She said, “Do you have an address for him? A phone number?”
Michelle shook her head, holding her shoulders with arms crossed over her chest.
“Tell me about him.”
“Tell you what?” She evidently didn’t know where to start.
“What does Lovelace say about him? Does he live alone? Is he married?”
“I think he does live alone. She hasn’t mentioned anyone else.”
“Go on.”
“He’s an artist. He wears white all the time.”
“What kind of artist?”
“Well, now, I don’t know. That’s funny, she didn’t say—but then she was talking so fast. Like she didn’t have much time.”
“What’s the white about?”
“Some kind of religious thing, I guess. Lovelace says he meditates a lot, and everything in his house is white. Also, he cleans house a million times a day and take showers all the time. Maybe he’s got some kind of thing about purity. He doesn’t talk. I forgot about that.”
“Doesn’t talk? He’s mute?”
Michelle frowned, apparently puzzled. “I’m not sure. All I know is, crazy Uncle Isaac doesn’t talk much.”
“Much? Or at all?”
She bit her lip. “Not sure.”
“Has she only called once?”
“Yes.”
“If she calls back, call us instantly, and try to talk her into calling us.”
“Okay.”
Skip asked a few questions designed to reveal Isaac’s living arrangements, but Michelle didn’t seem to know whether he had an apartment or a house, or what neighborhood he lived in.
And then Skip asked the question that was really bothering her: “Why did her own father kidnap her?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. She doesn’t know.”
Skip was fitful on the plane going home. She stared at the picture of Lovelace and Michelle the feds had given her, Michelle at least having cooperated to that extent. Lovelace was quite a bit taller than her friend, and somewhat heavier. She had almond-shaped eyes and a conventionally pretty face, except that it was still round with baby fat. Her hair was light red, pulled back on the sides with a barrette, left hanging in back. More or less a Campbell Soup kid. She looked nothing like the granddaughter of a homicidal maniac.
This thing was gnawing at Skip. Her mind raced the way it used to when she was new in the department. There were hardly any threads to pull at. And when she had pulled them all, she might have nothing. She might race around like some kind of Type A and still come up with nothing.
That night she barely slept. She would doze, and then she would dream of something chasing her, and she would scream and Steve would wake her up—she wouldn’t have screamed at all, just made the little gasps of nightmares.
Around seven she fell into a sweaty torpor and awoke two hours later—it was Saturday and Steve had taken pains to let her sleep. It was Napoleon who woke her, barking at birds in the courtyard.
She turned over grumpily and tried to go back to sleep. She was too groggy for mind-race now, but she had a residual panic. She was almost afraid to try anything lest she run out of things to try. She felt paralyzed.
How in the hell to find a man who was “an artist,” whatever that might be, and about whom she knew nothing else except that he liked to wear white. What kind of white? Jeans? Ice cream suits? Robes?
She looked him up in the phone book, and then threw it across the room, frustrated.
Who knew him? Other artists, maybe. That was a thought.
His parents and siblings. Only, two of those were missing and he didn’t talk to the other one.
It might be Saturday, but she was going to work on this thing until she dropped—which would probably be about noon, the way she felt now.
She opened her home Jacomine file and fingered the People magazine piece Aunt Alice had given her—the one about Rosemarie Owens. After talking to Irene Jacomine, Shellmire had said he’d send someone to interview her.
But had he?
Skip thought, I hate this national case shit. I’d rather do it myself.
Idly, she dialed Dallas information and asked for Owens. You could have knocked her over when the robot spat out a number. Frantically, she scrambled for a pencil and ended up having to call back.
She got a recording: “This is the voice mail of Rosemarie Owens. If you are interested in the rights to my story, please call Natalie Rosenbusch at ICM in L.A. I am not giving interviews at this time. I am not investing any money, nor am I contributing to any new nonprofit organizations, nor am I able to raise my usual contributions to old charities, nor am I interested in discovering any new relatives. This is an informational tape only. It
will not be checked for messages.”
Even in her nasty humor, Skip had to chuckle. “These Texans,” she said to herself and dialed ICM in L.A.
Failing to rouse anyone, she checked information for Natalie or N. Rosenbusch and came up with an “N.”
It was two hours earlier in L.A., and N. Rosenbusch was obviously still out cold.
“Sorry to wake you,” she said. “But this is Detective Skip Langdon in New Orleans and I have an emergency. I need to call Rosemarie Owens about her granddaughter.”
Suddenly Natalie got a lot more lucid.
“You’re really pissing me off. She doesn’t have a granddaughter—you heard her message. She doesn’t want to talk to you, and I don’t appreciate being waked up with bullshit stories.”
“She has a son named Daniel and a granddaughter named Lovelace who may be in grave danger.” She considered using the Jacomine name but decided that would make Rosemarie too angry. “Her ex-husband is wanted for murder and may try to contact her. She really needs to call me right away.”
“Lady, you are so full of shit.””
She hung up.
It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. I should have done it from the office, Skip thought, and called Headquarters to say she was expecting a call from Natalie Rosenbusch, just in case.
Fat chance, she thought, throwing on a pair of slacks barely passable for office wear.
It took her less than half an hour to get there, and Natalie hadn’t called—but she was probably still home in bed. Skip called back and left a message for her: “I forgot to leave my phone number.”
In a moment her phone gave a little half ring, and she had to smile, figuring Natalie had done exactly what she would have done—dialed Headquarters, asked for Detective Langdon, and hung up quickly when it turned out she was real, the call was going through. Ten minutes later Rosemarie called.
“Detective Langdon, I got an odd call from Natalie Rosenbusch.” Her voice was lightly accented—Southern but somehow almost British—one of those unplaceable accents self-invented people have. It sounded stiff, almost starched, as if she were holding it tight, keeping it from trembling.