by Smith, Julie
She produced her badge. “I’m Detective Skip Langdon. Turner Shellmire inside?”
The man looked confused. “Aren’t you… uh…?”
He knew exactly who she was, but she didn’t help him out. What was she supposed to say? Yeah, but I’m innocent? “Tell Shellmire I’m next door, will you?”
When she arrived in Pamela’s cheerful kitchen, Terri was sitting at a wooden table Pamela had painted yellow, sipping hot tea, a rare commodity in New Orleans this time of year. Pamela was hovering, her brow creased. “Skip, Terri wants to know if Isaac has enemies.”
Skip sat down at the table and put a hand over Terri’s. “How long have y’all been going out?”
“A couple of months. Why?”
“And he never mentioned his father to you?”
Terri shook her head, clearly dreading what was about to come. “What’s wrong? Is his dad in the mob or something?”
“No, it’s not that. Have you ever heard of a man named Errol Jacomine?”
“Errol Jacomine! The guy who ran for mayor and then tried to blow up that little girl and everything? That’s Isaac’s father?”
Pamela muttered, “The good news is, they’re not close.”
Terri let out a short bark of mirthless laughter.
“You know about Lovelace?” Skip said. “That’s why she and Isaac are so close. Her father got involved with her grandfather’s crimes, which left Isaac and Lovelace pretty much the only family either of them has. They changed their names legally to ‘James’.”
“I thought Isaac’s mother was a missionary.”
“She is; she stays as far away from her ex-husband as she can.”
Terri was clenching and unclenching her hands, trying to let out some of the tension. “Jacomine’s killed a lot of people, right?”
Skip nodded.
“So do you think he had some enemy or other who went after Isaac? Just because they’re related?”
“Could be.” It wasn’t what she thought at all. “But here’s what you should know: By tomorrow, the media are going to have the story about Jacomine’s son being shot, and the cops are going to treat this like a very big deal; in other words, they probably won’t think it’s a random shooting…”
Terri interrupted. “Why are you saying ‘they’? I thought you were a cop.”
“It’s not my investigation.”
Terri stared at her. Stared long enough to figure out this was a face she’d seen before and not just in a painting. “Oh! You’re the one, uh… you’re the Cemetery Angel.”
Yes, but I was set up! The words crowded to her lips, primed to shoot out like arrows. Skip pushed them back. She parted her lips in a tight, fake smile. “I’m afraid I’m persona non grata right now. But I still have contacts; I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“Isaac told me about you.”
“He did?”
“He didn’t tell me you were a cop. He just talked about the woman in the picture as his friend. You know what be said about you? He said you were the bravest person he’d ever met.”
Pamela nodded. “He adores Skip.”
Terri bit her lip. “Damn, I wished I’d called him last night!”
Skip raised an eyebrow.
“I was out of town. I went out with a girlfriend, and I forgot to call him. I only remembered in the airport, and my cell phone was dead.” She gulped, getting it all together. “I still could have called, but you know why I didn’t? Did you know a long-distance call from a pay phone costs five dollars now? At least that one did. I wanted to save five dollars! I didn’t call my boyfriend because of five crummy dollars.” She was fighting tears. “What if he dies? I mean, what if I missed my one last chance to talk to him?”
Pamela came up behind Terri and put her hands on her shoulders. “He’s not dying, you hear me? Monkie’s tough.”
Skip wasn’t in the mood for melodrama. She stood up. “I’m going to go try to find Shellmire again. I’ll be back.”
She met him coming up Pamela’s nicely edged walk, and he wasn’t alone. With him was Sergeant Frank O’Rourke, NOPD, Skip’s least-favorite colleague. In fact, it seemed a travesty even to call him a colleague; he was really more like an enemy. She’d been detailed to work with him on her first important case, long before she’d become a detective, and he’d hated her on sight. Some of the reasons eventually came to light. They had to do with his wife, also a police officer. But part of it was unexplainable, at least so far as Skip was concerned.
“He’s just jealous, my dainty darling,” Jimmy Dee used to say, but jealous of what she could never quite figure out.
O’Rourke spoke first: “Langdon, for Christ’s sake! What the fuck you doin’ here?”
She gave him one of the fake smiles she was specializing in today. “Nice to see you too, Frank. Hi, Turner. How’re you doing?”
Shellmire grinned and saluted. O’Rourke said, “I axed you a question, goddammit.”
“I’m visiting a friend.”
“Ms… uh… Fontenot? How the hell do you know her?”
“I met her through the victim, Isaac James.” She was almost enjoying this. “I’ll tell her you’re here.” She retraced her steps, calling Pamela to the door. “Pamela? Pamela, there’s a detective and a real nice fed here to see you.” Shellmire and O’Rourke followed Skip up the steps. “This is my good friend, Turner Shellmire of the FBI, and this is Frank O’Rourke.” She let her voice drop on O’Rourke’s name, so that the point she was making wouldn’t be lost.
O’Rourke said, “The officers posted outside said you’ve got another guest looked like someone who’s a friend of James. Young lady who almost fainted?”
Terri came up behind Pamela, peering around her considerable shoulder. “Yes. I’m Terri Whittaker.”
“Like to come in and talk to you both if you don’t mind.”
Pamela opened the door wide, as if she were having a party and they were the honored guests. “Of course. Have you talked to the hospital lately?”
“No, ma’am. It’s too early; they’ll still be working on him.”
Terri was frantic. “I need to go soon. I have to be there for him.”
“Oh,” said Shellmire. “You were close?’
“We’re dating.”
O’Rourke muscled into the conversation. “Ms. Fontenot, you got any place where we can talk privately?’
“That won’t be necessary. I have nothing to hide from my friends.”
Skip caught Turner’s eye, and she could have sworn he winked, ever so subtly; as for herself, she smirked openly.
Pamela said, “Why don’t we all sit down?” She offered tea, but there were no takers. And then she brought a couple of folding chairs to accommodate everyone.
When they were seated in her tiny living room, Skip included, O’Rourke turned to Pamela. “Understand you saw the shooting.”
“Yes. It was a drive-by. Isaac was on his way over to talk. I think he was worried about Terri. I went out on the porch to meet him, and just as he stepped off his porch and turned right toward my house, I heard the shot and saw him fall. I looked to see where the shot came from, but all I really saw was a dark car. It’s kind of a blur.”
“Oh, God.” Terri looked guilt stricken. “I was supposed to call him from Dallas, and I forgot to. I did call this morning, but I didn’t get him.”
“Dallas? When were you in Dallas?”
“Last night. Just overnight. I went yesterday and I flew back this morning…” She stopped and covered her mouth. “Oh. Maybe that was why he was worried. My flight was cancelled. I was supposed to get back early, but I didn’t make it until just now. I came straight from the airport.”
“Was he expecting you?”
“No. But I felt guilty about not calling. And I was excited. I wanted to tell him about my trip.”
“Your trip?’ Shellmire asked. “What about your trip?’
“I went there to be on a TV show.” Her shoulders heaved gently in a modest
shrug. “And it was a big success.”
“You an actress?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. It’s kind of like a talk show: They take a person with a problem, and they help them. I had a problem with a bank, and not just some dispute, a really bad problem. And they got me a lawyer and everything. I was dying to tell Isaac about it.”
O’Rourke spoke harshly. “Miss Whittaker, did you have plans to go to Dallas with Mr. James?”
“With Isaac? No. This wasn’t a pleasure trip.”
“Would he have surprised you by flying up and meeting you?”
“What are you talking about? He didn’t even know the name of my hotel.”
“Just wondering,” O’Rourke said.
“Tell me,” she said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
But of course he wasn’t about to. It was the police way: to grab all the information they could and never give anything away. The interview went on for quite a while after that: Did Pamela get a plate number? (She hadn’t.) Did either of the two women know of anyone who might want to kill Isaac? Anyone with a grudge? Any enemies? Did Isaac use drugs? Did he deal drugs? Had he seemed worried lately? Did he have any special problems?
Skip sat through it knowing she wasn’t going to find out what she wanted to know till she could get Shellmire alone. When Shellmire and O’Rourke were done, she walked outside with them. “Somebody’s got to call his mother and his niece. I know them both, Frank. Would you like me to do it?”
“Langdon, you aren’t even supposed to be here.” He turned away.
“Just trying to help. I’ll just say good-bye to Pamela and Terri.”
She went back in. “Either of you have Lovelace’s number?”
“Sure,” they said in unison.
“I’ll get it,” Pamela said. “I was going to call her as soon as y’all left.”
“I’ll be happy to do it for you.”
Pamela looked relieved. “Thanks, Skip. You’re a good friend.”
Skip took the number and said good-bye. As soon as she was in her car, she called Shellmire on his cell phone. “Turner. What’s this Dallas stuff?”
“Damnedest thing. Looks like Isaac was there last night. We found a used airline ticket in a wastebasket.”
“Oh my God! Looks like our instincts were right.” She looked at her watch. “Did you get us a flight?”
“Yeah, but we better follow up on this, maybe try to go later.”
“Yeah. I’m going to call Lovelace and then talk to Terri again. There’s got to be more on that Dallas thing. Maybe something’ll come to her.”
“Okay, I’ll work it from this end. We’re about to canvass the neighbors.”
“Okay. One more thing. Can you make sure O’Rourke puts a guard on Isaac?”
“Will do.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The deal with Lobo was simple: half up front, half when the job was done. All Mr. Right had to do was transfer five thousand from a special account he kept under the name Thomas Washington into one Lobo mentioned (which he did by pay phone first thing in the morning), then sit back and chew his nails.
He wanted to pace. He needed to work off some energy. But Tracie appeared almost the minute he arrived at the studio: “Great response on the bank show. E-mail and phone calls pouring in.”
He tried to smile. “Great. That’s great news.” His face wouldn’t work.
Tracie’s sunny countenance turned dark. “Still feeling under the weather? Hang on, I’ll get you another Vicodin.”
“No thanks. No. It’s the after-show letdown, I guess. I’ll be fine.” Once again, he tried out the smile.
“You sure? You really don’t seem…”
“Just leave me alone, goddammit!” Then, seeing her hurt look, he said, “I just haven’t had coffee yet.”
And then, of course, she had to get him some. He felt like throwing it in her ugly face. But he took a minute to compose himself. When she came back in, he said, “Tracie, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m going to be honest with you. I hate it when people bring their problems to the office, but I just couldn’t help it this morning. My wife’s in the hospital.”
The girl looked alarmed. “Oh. That fall she took—”
“No, no, it wasn’t that at all. She woke up hemorrhaging in the middle of the night.”
“Omigod, a miscarriage! I’m just so, so sorry.” She was quiet a minute, as if mourning the Wrights’ unborn child, and then she brightened. “But Karen’s young and healthy. Y’all can always try again.”
His paranoia kicked in instantly. “How the hell do you know what it was?”
“I just thought… isn’t that usually what that means— ‘hemorrhaging’?”
“I don’t know.” This time he executed a successful grin; he could feel it looking right. “Men are clueless. Listen, thank you for your concern.”
“You’re welcome.”
The damn woman finally left. She wanted him, just like they all did— hero-worshipped him. She’d be as easy to manage as Bettina if he’d just quit losing it.
She blew him away when she said “miscarriage,” though. He wasn’t lying when he said he was clueless. He’d thought cancer, he’d thought everything you could think when they found the bed soaked with blood, even internal injuries caused by his knocking her around. The idea of a miscarriage hadn’t occurred to him until the doctor told him.
Well, hell. That was a good thing. Last thing he wanted right now was another damn kid. But it struck him as ironic that he was about to lose two in one day.
And to his amazement, putting out a contract on his own kid was a lot more nerve-wracking than the expectant-father thing. He was going out of his skull. He paced. He drummed his fingers. He tried to work on his next show. He thought the top of his head was coming off.
Finally, he took a long lunch break that consisted mostly of a long, long drive. Once safely on the road, he dug out his newest cell phone and called Lobo. “You get the money?”
“Send me the second half.”
“What do you mean? Our deal was half up front.”
“It’s done.”
The phone went dead.
Just like that. It’s done. That was how the scumbag announced that David’s son was dead.
Mr. Right was actually saddened by it, a fact that surprised him. He’d never really had a relationship with Isaac, and now he never would. He’d had a chance at another kid too, one he never even knew about. For some reason, he even felt regret about that one.
He hurried back to the office and turned on the television in his office. It was on CNN, on the little headline thing: “Son of Errol Jacomine gunned down in front of his house.”
“Errol Jacomine” with no I.D. at all. That was how famous he was. There ought to be satisfaction in that but there wasn’t. He wasn’t yet famous for the right things— and he never would be, under his own name. Not till after he died. He thought about that for a moment, wandered off on a tangent, and then he saw a reporter talking to a New Orleans cop. He turned up the volume. “Can you tell us the extent of his injuries, Sergeant O’Rourke?”
“All I can say at this time is that he remains in a coma.”
Coma! the bastard said. A fucking coma!
His mother-fucking worthless son wasn’t even dead, and he’d paid that asshole Lobo five thousand dollars.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit, he definitely wasn’t paying the rest. He got up and kicked his desk. Kicked a chair and knocked it over. Kicked another.
Then he heard running footsteps, and there was that damn Tracie again, peeking in like she thought she was his guardian angel or something.
He beat her to the punch. “It’s okay, Tracie, I know I’m acting like a child. I’m just worried about Karen, that’s all.”
She nodded, looking frightened, and ducked out again, closing the door fast. He wondered if he looked like a wild man. He phoned her extension and left a message. “I’m really sorry for acting like a jackass. I think
I better take the rest of the day off before I do something to embarrass myself.”
He was out of there like a shot. He hadn’t even gotten the car out of the garage before he’d called Lobo and left his pager number. It took an hour for the man to call back. “Yeah? You transfer the money?”
Mr. Right shouted, “Kill him, you asshole! Goddammit, kill him!” He threw the cell phone out the window onto the freeway. The car behind him screeched, trying not to hit it.
* * *
Skip waited till she got home to call Lovelace, hoping O’Rourke would get to her first, but evidently she hadn’t waited long enough. As soon as the girl heard her name, she said, “Isaac. Omigod! What’s happened?”
Skip wondered if her somber tone of voice had said it all, or if Lovelace had reason to fear for her uncle. She said, “It’s bad, Lovelace. He’s alive, but it’s bad. Some bastard shot him in front of his house.”
“Oh, shit.” She paused to catch her breath. Skip heard a couple of gulps as Lovelace fought tears. “How bad?” she finally managed.
“It’s a head injury. He’s in a coma.”
“Oh, shit. Omigod. Did they get the guy? He just called me this morning. He said he might have seen his father. Could my grandfather have done this?”
Seen his father? Skip stood up and paced, her blood racing. This was big. This was the key to it all. She tried to calm down, to make her voice soothing. “We don’t know anything yet. He’s going to need you, though. Can you come?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Lovelace sounded dazed, as if traveling hadn’t occurred to her yet. “I’ll get on a plane as soon as I can.”
“I’ll pick you up at the airport. Listen, did he say where he saw his father?”
“Well.” She drew out the word and hesitated afterward. “You know Isaac, Skip. He wasn’t even sure he saw him. He was heavy into OCD mode.”
“I thought he was medicated these days.”
“I don’t know… maybe he got off the meds. But if the OCD ever went away, it came back— with a vengeance. He kept saying he couldn’t be sure.”
“Well, maybe he really wasn’t sure.”
“He even said it was the OCD. Listen, I’ve got to call the airlines.” Panic was starting to rise in her voice.