Crescent City Connection (Skip Langdon Mystery #7) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  “Excuse me, Officer Langdon. The Federal Bureau of Investigation has had some experience in these matters.”

  Stung, she crossed her arms and glowered.

  * * *

  Jacomine called back. “Penny, I want to meet you.”

  “Well, let’s talk about that.”

  “I have something for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a Polaroid picture of Shavonne. We just took it.”

  “I’d like that, Reverend. How about if you let me speak to Shavonne a minute?”

  “You don’t trust me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’d just like to be able to reassure her mother, that’s all.”

  “Penny, you must really underestimate me. You really think I’d call you up and not let you talk to Shavonne? Sure, I’m gonna let you talk to Shavonne. Shavonne, honey, come on over here and talk to Miss Penny. Okay. Say hello.”

  A childish “Hello” galvanized the room.

  “Shavonne? Hi, honey. How’re you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Your mama says to tell you she loves you.” Ferguson was improvising here. “You want me to tell her anything for you?”

  For a moment there was no answer, and then some sibilants, like whispering. Finally the child said, “Tell her I want to come home real bad.”

  Jacomine spoke again. “Okay, Penny, how long will it take you to get down here?”

  “Not long—a few minutes, maybe.”

  “I’m gonna send a pregnant lady out with the picture. She’ll be unarmed and so will you.”

  “I thought I was going to get to meet you, Reverend.”

  “Well, I’d love that, Penny, I really would. But I’ll be watching you from inside. It’ll be just like we met.”

  “I’m coming myself; I want you to come, too.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, honey. Be there in ten minutes if you want the picture.” He hung up.

  “Dammit!” The Ferguson underneath the VNL was starting to show. “It’s pretty fucking hard to negotiate with someone who isn’t there.”

  Once again, Jacomine called back. “Oh, yeah. One other thing. Bring my granddaughter.”

  “Are you ready to give up Shavonne?”

  “We’re not at that stage yet, Penny. Here’s what’s happening now—I’m giving you a picture of Shavonne; you’re giving me a look at Lovelace.”

  “Well, now. Reverend, what if Lovelace doesn’t want to see you?”

  He yelled through the phone. “Well, goddammit, ask her! You goddamn, incompetent, motherfuckin’ bureaucrat! This is how the taxpayers’ money gets spent? You be there in ten minutes. With my granddaughter.”

  Goerner said, “Fine. Let’s give him a picture of her. We get one of Shavonne, he gets one of Lovelace.”

  “Wait a minute, I’ve got a great idea.” Skip spoke like a cheerleader—anything to get them to listen. “I accept the fact that you won’t send me in there. But why not let me impersonate her out on the street? Why don’t I get made up and come with Penny and talk to him—tell him I don’t want to join his stupid movement.”

  Ferguson said, “We might get some mileage out of that.”

  Goerner drummed his fingers—now that Taylor was gone, it seemed someone had to do it. “We might. We might.”

  King looked wary.

  “I’m worried about the voice problem,” Shellmire said. “You sound like you and she sounds like a young girl.”

  “Maybe I don’t have to speak. At least at first. If Lovelace is willing, maybe we could completely switch identities.” She was making this up as she went along. “Abasolo gave me an idea when he mentioned hiding a weapon under padding. I’m heavier than Lovelace, but we could pad her clothes—because nobody knows what she really looks like. The only constants are height and eye color—and I’ll bet you a million dollars her grandfather’s never noticed her eye color. Get her a curly wig, police uniform, and Bob’s your uncle. Meanwhile, I shave my head, dye the stubble black, and wear kids’ clothes—jeans or something. They see us across the street, more or less together, they get used to the idea that the curly one’s me—voices might not matter so much.”

  A tiny muscle under Goerner’s left eye was twitching, forcing him to close it slightly, so that he looked more like a thug than an officer of the law. “Okay, I’ll go for it. It might buy us something. What, I don’t know—but I don’t see the down side.”

  Abasolo said, “Let’s go talk to Lovelace.”

  They found her watching television and pacing. “That mess on Magazine Street—my dad’s in there, isn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Skip said, and told her everything except that her father’s life might depend on ending the standoff as quickly as possible.

  Lovelace considered the switch. “Sure,” she said finally. “I don’t see any harm in that—I just don’t want to be a party to anyone’s getting hurt.”

  Skip was hard put not to roll her eyes. Someone was definitely going to get hurt.

  Lovelace said, “There’s only one thing—I need to talk to my uncle first.”

  “Fair enough,” said Abasolo, as if it were a huge concession. “And we have a little coaching to do. Skip has to get shaved and dyed, so I’ll take over if it’s okay with you.”

  That should cement the deal, Skip thought. Women found Abasolo hard to resist.

  He took Lovelace away to see Isaac and to make a tape of her voice, while Skip twitched under the hands of a hairdresser, enduring the removal of the silky curls she regarded as her best feature. Though she was turned away from the mirror, a great sadness came over her as they fell on the floor. She’d had them all her life. Get over it, she thought. This isn’t your identity. It’s only hair.

  But she thought there was a good chance she’d cry about it later.

  Dye wasn’t necessary. The hairdresser sprayed the inch-long locks with something that was probably meant for Halloween parties, and then sheared them off to a quarter of an inch.

  “Ready?” he said, finally.

  “I guess so.”

  The hairdresser whirled her around. “Omigod. I kind of like it” He nodded. “You got the face for it. Cheekbones.”

  The only problem was, it in no way resembled Lovelace’s face. Though Lovelace was thinner, what baby fat she had was in her face. Makeup rounded Skip’s a bit.

  Abasolo was waiting for her. “Ready to meet your double?”

  “No comment about the new me?”

  “Langdon, you’re a cool customer. You know that?”

  It was something like what Shellmire had said. If they only knew, she thought. All during the shearing, she had sung to herself to avoid thinking about Steve, or the kids, or what would happen if she died today: “Let the Good Times Roll.”

  Lovelace had been fitted with a new, rounder figure, a police uniform, and a toy gun that looked exactly like a real one—the sort more than one kid has been shot by a cop for brandishing.

  On the way back to Magazine Street Abasolo filled her in on the thing they’d withheld. “We have some bad news for you. We think your father may be ill—what’s wrong, we don’t know, but we need to try to get him out of there. How are you going to be with that?”

  She gave him as level a gaze as a woman ten years older. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Are you going to fall apart? Can you stay in character?”

  “You mean if I find out he’s dead or something?”

  Skip thought, She gets right to the point. That’s probably good.

  Abasolo said, “Yes. That. And if his condition changes.”

  “If he dies while we’re doing it.”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, having apparently asked herself the question and found the answer. “I’ll be okay.”

  Skip gave her a pat. “Good girl.”

  Lovelace smiled. “The hairdo looks better on you.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled back. “Here’s what’s going to happ
en first. We’re pretty sure how it’s going to go. If it doesn’t, don’t say anything. I’ll ad-lib.” She outlined the scenario, with a few possible variations, all worked out on the phone with Ferguson. There’d be no time for Ferguson and Lovelace to talk before the show started.

  As they neared the taped-off area, they had to fight their way through media vans and cameramen. Shellmire and Ferguson were standing in the middle of Magazine Street, Shellmire holding a megaphone. Abasolo said, “What’s the situation?”

  “Ferguson’s been holding them off. We came over in ten minutes like they asked, but they wouldn’t give us the picture till they saw Lovelace.”

  Skip said, “Well, here I am.”

  “I like it. It’s good.” He turned to Lovelace. “Don’t shake hands—pretend you already know me. Agent Shellmire, FBI.”

  “Officer Jacomine, NOPD.”

  The name made Skip shiver, even when a young girl said it.

  Skip said, “I don’t really get the point of the picture. We’ve already talked to her.”

  “Let’s don’t worry about that now. Penny, you ready?” Ferguson whipped out a cell phone and called.

  “Reverend, look out the window. Your granddaughter’s here.”

  Though they could see no sign of activity at any of the windows, Skip waved.

  Ferguson said, “Listen, I really need you to give us the picture.” She paused. “Well, if I’m coming over, you at least need to come out and show yourself.”

  She listened. “Well, look, okay, I’ll deal with Bettina. But I’ve got some other things to tell you. Lovelace wants to know how her father is.”

  Ferguson waited a minute, then put her hand over the phone and spoke to the others, all part of the act for whoever was looking out the window. “He says, why don’t you ask him yourself, but I’m afraid we can’t…”

  Skip made a show of grabbing for the phone, but Ferguson snatched it back and kept talking, knowing she could be heard at the other end of the line. “I’m sorry. It’s not an appropriate time for you to talk to him. You’ll have to wait until we have the picture.”

  Skip moved her mouth, but Lovelace spoke, her lips hidden by her cap, and by Shellmire’s shoulder. “Tell him I want to speak to my dad.”

  Ferguson did, and waited while he answered. “I know it’s not part of the deal,” she said, “but you’re not letting us see you. Look, if she can’t talk to Daniel, why don’t you at least let her see him?” She paused.

  “Okay, okay—you’re counting to ten. You want to give me the photograph now. Hold it. Reverend. Can you hold it just a minute? Okay, we can do it now, but just do me one favor, to show good faith. Give me the picture you took an hour ago, and a new one, too. Deal? Okay, I’m coming.”

  She held the phone toward them so they could hear Jacomine counting, and began to walk across the street. As she did, several members of the TAC unit stepped into view behind her, on the sidewalk opposite the house, rifles raised.

  The door opened and a pregnant woman stepped out.

  Ferguson mounted the porch. Both women started at a noise behind them—something being pushed through the mail slot. The pregnant woman stooped, picked it up, and gave it to Ferguson.

  Ferguson looked at it, nodded, and said, “Is everyone all right in there?”

  The woman said, “I’m going back in now.”

  When Ferguson returned, she had two Polaroid pictures, one of a small black girl in a blue T-shirt, the other still developing. As it came into focus, they saw that it was the same little girl, still wearing the T-shirt. The only difference was that the first one was a head shot, and the second was full-length. The little girl was wearing jeans.

  Skip gave a slight nod to confirm it was Shavonne.

  Ferguson spoke into the phone. “Okay, we’re satisfied.” She listened. “Sure. You can talk to her now.”

  She handed the phone to Skip, who had a tape in her pocket, prerecorded by Lovelace after her visit with Isaac. Skip flicked it on and lip-synched, “Grandpa, how’s my dad?” She turned it off, ready for the next sound bite when she needed it.

  “He’s fine, honey. You look good—or you will when that hair grows out.”

  “Why can’t I talk to him?”

  “Come over and join us; then we’ll all be together.”

  They hadn’t known what he’d say, had simply recorded a generic bit to get the point across. “Please, please give yourselves up. I’m so afraid for you.”

  “Are you kidding? We’re Jacomines. Nothing’s going to happen to us. We need you, Lovelace.”

  Skip put her hand over her face, as if overcome with emotion, unable to go on, and gave the phone back to Ferguson, shaking her head, simply unable to say another word.

  Ferguson said, “She’s a mess, Reverend. Don’t put her through any more of this.” She listened a minute and folded her phone. “He said he’ll call us back in an hour.”

  Twenty-eight

  KOHLER HAD A tape for them, a call to Jacomine just before they talked to him. But before he played it, he took Goerner aside and when Goerner came back, he took Lovelace aside. Skip couldn’t hear any of what they said, until Lovelace raised her voice. “I have a right to hear it. I’m not a child and I won’t be treated like one.”

  Goerner murmured some more.

  Lovelace answered, “That’s my dad over there. I swear to God I won’t continue with this unless you let me hear it.”

  Goerner’s lips were tight thin lines, wild things that wanted to get loose and say what was on the agent’s mind: Fuckin’ civilians! Goddammit, how the fuck did I get talked into this crap?

  At least that was what Skip imagined he was thinking. A similar, faintly guilty thought had crossed her own mind: When you’re running an operation you need obedient soldiers, not volunteer labor.

  Still, she wasn’t running it, and she thought a little irritation a small price to pay for Lovelace’s cooperation.

  Ferguson joined the duo and spoke to Goerner. “It’s okay. She needs to know what’s going on as much as the rest of us.”

  She was playing the good cop, but also, Skip thought, she was reminding Goerner that negotiation was her business, that she could handle Lovelace if she needed to be handled.

  He shrugged and held up his hands like Ferguson walking to The Jury’s safe house. “Okay, okay. Let’s just play the goddamn tape.”

  Kohler looked so smug Skip wanted to slug him. He flicked the switch for the tape.

  A man’s voice spoke, a voice Skip didn’t recognize. “Daddy, Ms. Owens wants to talk to you.”

  “Put her on.”

  There was a rustling, then silence.

  Jacomine said, “Baby, you there?”

  “Your fucking thug kidnapped me.”

  “How’re we doing with that plane?”

  “Goddammit, Earl, are you still Mr. FedEx in the sack? Faster than the competition ever thought about being?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You are the most impatient man in the history of the world.”

  “Rosemarie, did it ever occur to you we might have a reason for it? Lives are at stake here.”

  “Did it ever occur to you they wouldn’t be if you weren’t playing your little game?”

  “Our son’s life is at stake.”

  Silence.

  Finally Jacomine spoke again. “I didn’t want to tell you, honey, but Daniel’s had an accident. He needs medical attention. Bad.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Well, we don’t know, exactly, but he’s pissing blood. He’s moaning, and in and out of consciousness.”

  They could hear her draw in her breath. “Earl, that’s not something you can mess with. Leave Daniel there. I swear to God if you don’t, I won’t lift a single finger to help you. I don’t care if you kill me if you endanger that boy’s life.”

  The phone went dead, and they heard Jacomine say, “Goddammit, Rosemarie, you can’t hang up on me.”


  There was silence for a while, then another man said, “You okay, Daddy?”

  Jacomine said, “You know what, Dashan? This is a good thing. The Lord just provided. I was going to use Bettina—but you know how much she would have hated to leave us. This is better. What you think, Dashan?”

  “You’re right, Daddy. You sure are right.”

  Skip thought: I wonder if he understood that any better than I did?, and then Jacomine said, “Sarah Jane, for Christ’s sake, when’s lunch?”

  Kohler flicked it off.

  “That’s all?” asked King.

  “That’s it.”

  Shellmire said, “Anything during the negotiation?”

  “Yeah, but nothing worth playing. I guess they’re going to call us after lunch.”

  “I hope they all get E. coli.”

  Sandwiches were brought into the command post as well, along with soft drinks and another round of coffee. Abasolo, King, and Kohler ate. Lovelace nibbled.

  Everyone else fidgeted.

  When the call came, Goerner said, “Let it ring a few times.”

  Finally he said, “Pick it up” and Kohler answered, again going through the charade of transferring the call to Ferguson.

  “Hello, Reverend.”

  Jacomine said, “Here’s the deal. We got a real problem. We got a sick man in here. We’re gonna trade you my son Daniel for my granddaughter.”

  “Daniel’s sick?”

  “Daniel’s real sick. We need y’all to get him to a hospital.”

  “Can he walk?”

  “Afraid not. We’ll just have to put him out on the porch and y’all can pick him up. That okay with you?”

  “What about Shavonne?”

  “Well, now, she wants to get back to her mama. Real bad. But we can’t give you two for one…”

  “Now, Reverend, you know we can’t trade you anybody. Lovelace doesn’t want to join you. We can’t make her.”

  “I’ve got a feeling she’d change her mind if she knew how sick her daddy is. But it wouldn’t be fair to give you Daniel and Shavonne. So we’ll take that big clumsy cop off your hands in exchange for one sweet, innocent little girl.”

  “What cop is that?”

  Skip whispered, “Me,” and Jacomine’s voice boomed out, “That Langdon bitch. Daniel and Shavonne for Lovelace and Langdon. Take it or leave it.”