Crescent City Connection (Skip Langdon Mystery #7) (The Skip Langdon Series)
Page 35
He couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t tell her that it was her mother he painted, not her—that he hadn’t known she’d grow up to look like Jacqueline, but that was why the angels looked like her.
No one knew better than The Monk that Jacqueline in no way resembled an angel. But he was an artist. He could make her what he wanted.
Jacqueline had seduced him when Daniel left her. He hadn’t at first realized what an enormous thing it was to sleep with his brother’s wife, not until his father caught them and explained it—in fact, made them an example in front of the entire congregation.
He had tried with another woman, the one he met when he first came to New Orleans, but when he thought about it, his heart wasn’t in it. It was a lot easier to take vows of chastity and silence than to try it again.
He thought that soon, when his hair grew back, he’d start dating again.
* * *
Skip had to go by the office before she went home, to pick up her messages and do some paperwork. It was something she dreaded, since the place would be crawling with media.
What are you supposed to do, she thought, say “I can’t talk— I’m having a no-hair day” ?
They grabbed at her, ran at her, stuck metal phalluses in her face. They asked her how it felt to be a hero and what she thought about Jacomine’s disappearance and other nonquestions guaranteed not to lead to a Pulitzer.
She kept her eyes fixed on a spot about ten feet in front of her so that if the camera caught her, she would look neither blank nor unfriendly, but busy. A person with bigger fish to fry.
She was so busy with this technique that she missed the people waiting for her in the reception area outside Homicide, and had to be sent back out. They were Dorise and Shavonne, dressed as if for a wedding, Dorise in a royal blue suit with black heels, Shavonne with her hair in braids fixed with pink barrettes, a pink dress and white Mary Janes; her Easter outfit, probably.
Not long ago it was Easter, Skip thought, though it seemed a century.
Shavonne carried a plant with a spike of purple blossoms on it.
“Hi.” She looked Skip in the eye, not down at her shoes the way kids her age tended to do, and her smile seemed a little unruly, something with a mind of its own, inclined to materialize when its owner was supposed to be serious.
Skip said, “Hi,” and shook hands with Dorise.
Shavonne held out the plant. “This is for you. It’s an orchid. Have you ever seen one?”
“Not one that pretty.”
The girl looked back at her mother. “Mama, see, I told you. I knew she was gonna think that.” She turned back to Skip. “Can African American girls be detectives?”
“Sure. Plenty are—would you like me to introduce you?”
Dorise said, “You don’t have to do that, darlin’.” She seemed diffident, perhaps a little intimidated at being at police headquarters. “We came down because we just wanted you to know how much we appreciated what you did.”
“It was my job.” And I owed you big-time.
“Darlin’, I hope you don’t ever, ever feel bad about that other thing.” Her eyes got filmy. “You gave me back my child. I thought I’d lost her.”
Shavonne looked as if she hadn’t the patience for any of this. She put the plant on the nearest chair, and put her arms up to be hugged. Skip had no time to bend down, and so it was an unbalanced hug—Skip’s waist and Shavonne’s sweet thin shoulders. She wondered if Shavonne knew who she was—that she was the white po-lice who had killed her daddy—and something in Dorise’s face told her she did, and that the child was hugging her anyway.
Skip went back to her paperwork.
Later, on the way out, she managed to dodge the reporters, but that night she found herself at Jimmy Dee’s for dinner, where she had to tell her story under much more severe—if more intelligent—questioning.
“Weren’t you scared?” asked Kenny. “I would have been terrified.”
Sheila rolled her eyes. If she were scared, she’d never admit it.
“I was scared. I was petrified.”
“Would you do it again? I mean, if you had to?”
Sheila said, “Of course she would, stupid. It’s her job.”
“Shut up. I asked Auntie.”
Skip’s fingers gently rubbed the stem of her wineglass; her knee grazed Steve’s. She was full of pasta and good feeling. “Sure,” she said. “If I had to.”
She barely remembered what she’d told Cindy Lou at lunch. That was centuries ago.
THE END
Acknowledgments
No one could be nicer than the ever-patient members of the New Orleans Police Department, particularly Captain Linda Buczek. This time I owe thanks not only to her, but also to Lieutenant Jeff Winn and Officer Bobby Norton. I hasten to mention that if I got anything wrong it was my own fault and none of theirs.
Thanks also to Betsy Petersen, Ken White, Kathy Perry, David Kaufman, and Lee Pryor. In addition, I owe a debt of gratitude to two people I’ve never met—Judith L. Rapoport, M.D., and Richard Sebastian. Their respective books were invaluable in determining The Monk’s thought patterns.
A final note: Though there are many schools in New Orleans named after John McDonogh, there is no McDonogh 43.
Next in the Skip Langdon series is 82 DESIRE. Find out more at www.booksbnimble.com or www.juliesmithbooks.com.
82 DESIRE
by JULIE SMITH
Though the modern bus has long since replaced the streetcar in New Orleans, Desire is still the meanest street of them all. Now police detective Skip Langdon finds herself on its shady side.
And soon Skip is embroiled in murder—motivated by that old demon … desire.
The Skip Langdon Series
(in order of publication)
NEW ORLEANS MOURNING
THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ
JAZZ FUNERAL
DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK (formerly NEW ORLEANS BEAT)
HOUSE OF BLUES
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION (formerly CRESCENT CITY KILL)
82 DESIRE
MEAN WOMAN BLUES
Also by Julie Smith
The Rebecca Schwartz Series
DEATH TURNS A TRICK
THE SOURDOUGH WARS
TOURIST TRAP
DEAD IN THE WATER
OTHER PEOPLE’S SKELETONS
The Paul Macdonald Series
TRUE-LIFE ADVENTURE
HUCKLEBERRY FIEND
The Talba Wallis Series:
LOUISIANA HOTSHOT
LOUISIANA BIGSHOT
LOUISIANA LAMENT
P.I. ON A HOT TIN ROOF
And don’t miss ALWAYS OTHELLO, a Skip Langdon story, as well as the brand new short story, PRIVATE CHICK, which asks the question, is this country ready for a drag queen detective? More info at www.booksBnimble.com.
If you enjoyed this book, let us keep you up-to-date on all our forthcoming mysteries. Sign up for our mailing list at www.booksbnimble.com
About the Author
JULIE SMITH is a New Orleans writer and former reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle and the Times-Picayune. New Orleans Mourning, her first novel featuring New Orleans cop Skip Langdon, won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel, and she has since published eight more highly-acclaimed books in the series, plus spun off a second New Orleans series featuring PI and poet Talba Wallis.
She is also the author of the Rebecca Schwartz series and the Paul Mcdonald series, plus the YA novels CURSEBUSTERS! and EXPOSED. In addition to her novels, she’s written numerous essays and short stories and is the editor of NEW ORLEANS NOIR.
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