by Nick Dorsey
Jean herself sat down at her desk and didn’t put her shoes back on. A tan jacket was draped across the back of her chair and she was wearing a sort of blousey cream top that Tom thought looked good over her olive skin. She wasn’t tall but she carried herself well, she was confident just sitting there. Short, curly hair had been swept away from her forehead, revealing a scar that ran across the left side just under her hairline. It was just barely visible. An old cut.
“So you’re a hit-man?”
“What now?”
“You’re the guy Sofia Adelfi tried to hire to kill her husband.”
Direct. Tom opened a hand and wiggled it back and forth. Maybe. Admitting that part was true, sort of. “She asked, but it wasn’t serious.”
Jean was looking at him. Appraising.
“What?” Tom looked at her.
“I didn’t think you’d come in so easy.”
Patton spoke up from the door. “She said you wouldn’t answer questions, so I should invite you in. More formal. Try and scare you a bit.”
Tom turned to the kid. “It’s working. You betcha, it’s working.”
Patton snorted.
Tom smiled at Patton. “And you telling your subject your whole interview strategy, that’s bold. Is it some sort of reverse psychology trap? Wonder how that’s gonna work out for you.”
Before Patton could respond, Jean cleared her throat.
“Patton, give us a minute.” Patton didn’t have to be told twice. He wrenched the door open and marched out, the door whipping home on just the right side of slammed.
With him gone, Tom turned his attention back to Jean. She was sitting up straighter now. Legs crossed. “I guess you two had quite the ride over here.”
“I like the kid,” Tom said. “A little sensitive, but he’ll learn.”
“He’s just here for a few years, getting on-to-ground experience. We’ll lose him to law school.
“Oh yeah?” Tom looked at the shut door having a newfound respect for the kid.
“Did he tell you you had to come down? You don’t have to be here, you know,” She said.
“I know. He was fine. I just want to be helpful,” Tom said, and was surprised to find it wasn’t a lie.
“Helpful. Good. Were you being helpful when you talked with Sofia? When she had that nice, long conversation with you about her husband?”
Suddenly Tom felt like he was being questioned. Not interrogated, not yet. But she was probing. He said, “She came and talked for a minute. I thought there was some abuse there. I told her to go to a shelter. Whatever did happen later, I don’t think she followed my advice.”
“No. She didn’t. But she also says she’s never spoken to you in her life.”
That took Tom back. “Well, that’s not true.”
Jean steepled her fingers in front of her face, just below her nose. “I guess I’m trying to figure out why you would lie.”
Tom crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I wouldn’t.”
“And why you would lie to the cops to boot.”
“I didn’t,” Tom said.
“But you called them.”
“I called a friend. Joe Hanks was my old partner. Mrs. Adelfi came in, distressed, maybe drunk. I thought it was a domestic abuse thing. Like I said. I asked Joe to look in on her.” Tom stopped and realized she was questioning him now. She wasn’t bad at it, either.
“Hanks wrote up your call. He said she tried to hire you to kill her husband.”
“She said those words, and then she laughed, and cried a little bit. She was a woman in a tough spot, I think.”
Jean shook her head and then fixed Tom with a look he didn’t like. She was studying him. She said, “You don’t think she did it.” Jean pointed a finger at Tom and she smiled. “Right? That’s why you’re here.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Jean was shaking her head, not looking at Tom anymore. “If she goes to see you, why is she lying to me?”
“You have to ask her that.”
“She says that the rain kept her at home all evening Thursday. She didn’t even go to yoga, she said. You say she came to your office. You’d say that under oath?”
“Are you asking me to?” Tom didn’t like the look she gave him then. After a moment she shook her head.
“I’m not calling you. And the DA can’t put you on a witness stand, with your history I’d tear you up and a jury wouldn’t believe a word you said.” Tom kept his mouth a straight line. So she knew about the shooting on the Huey P. He had to admit, it made sense. The shooting, his subsequent resignation, none of it would play well to any judge or jury. He watched her move to the window, bringing two fingers up to scratch at the scar on her forehead. He wondered if she even knew she was doing it. “Joe Hanks’ affidavit is what got her the First Degree charge, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
Jean turned and gave him a look. “She goes and talks to you about killing her husband. And he winds up dead, but you don’t think she did it?”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because you’re here in my office and not over with the DA.”
“Well, your guy tracked me down.”
“Still.” She was scratching that scar again. “I’m going to take a swing here.” She sat down and leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
“You what?”
“You’re a Private Investigator, right?”
“No.”
She frowned at him. “Patton said you were.”
“I was.”
“But not anymore?”
“No. I just do security at the casino now.”
“Since when?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Jean gave him a look that was a mix of disappointment and amusement. Then she sat at her desk and shuffled through a few papers. “Patton is a good kid, but he’s green.”
“You got to be green before you’re blue.” Tom said it almost out of reflex.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a cop thing. It means he’s young but he’ll learn.”
“Then let him learn. But let him learn with you.” Tom sighed and slumped in his chair. He took a deep breath to gather his thoughts. Before he could respond, she continued, “You don’t think she did it. Right?” Tom didn’t say anything, so she said, “Help me keep this woman out of prison. I want to piece together a few days. Let’s put together a timeline. Whatever happened to Sofia Adelfi on the day she came to you? If she came to you.”
“She did.”
“Then put together a timeline for me. Thursday and Friday, and the final day of Ernesto Adelfi’s life. Three days. That’s all I need you for.”
Tom shook his head. He just wanted to get some information, but now he had been questioned, contradicted, and nearly recruited. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. He stood up. “I should get home. I’ve got a shift tonight.”
Jean fumbled, then found what she was looking for. She shoved a paper at Tom and he took it.
“When somebody says no, you don’t show them a contract.” But Tom was holding it anyway.
“A week tops. Just for the timeline.”
Tom grunted and looked over the contract. He had told himself that this would be a simple visit to satisfy his curiosity. Nothing more. But his curiosity wasn’t quite satisfied yet. And if they were paying, well, he couldn’t blame himself for taking a job, could he? The casino didn’t pay that much.
Tom felt himself sliding into the case when he had just gotten used to the idea of not being a detective of any sort. He shook his head, his mind looking for a way out. Some reason to leave the office without that contract. He was grasping at straws. “I thought the Public Defenders were broke?”
“We are.”
Relief flooded into Tom. “Well, that’s that.”
“I’ll find the money.”
“Find it?”
“I’ll rob a bank,” Jean said, and she smiled. Tom couldn’t
for the life of him figure out why she was smiling. Then he realized he was already walking to her desk, grabbing a pen and signing the Public Defender Private Investigator contract.
Tom couldn’t help himself. He smiled back at her. “If you get caught, at least you probably know a good lawyer.”
CHAPTER TEN
T he next morning Tom found himself back in Patton’s Jeep, on his way to conduct an interview. Feeling like a detective again, and feeling okay about it. Not great about it, just okay. This wasn’t exactly the way he pictured his retirement from the private investigations business.
Patton wore a cobalt blue sport coat, looking more like a musician or high school art teacher than a state employee. Tom ditched his LSU hoodie for a charcoal suit. Sitting in the passenger seat now he wished he had stuck with the hoodie. The suit made everything feel more official, like he was a detective again, still green, over-eager, and dressing to impress or intimidate whoever he would encounter that day. And here he was, supposed to be just a casino security guard making a little extra cash for a week or so. He just had to remind himself not to insert himself into a situation that didn’t need his presence. He just had to keep cool, keep it all business. Easy enough, he thought.
Still, some part of it felt good. Not chasing down a wayward husband in a motel room somewhere, not this time. Doing something important. It could feel good. He just couldn’t let it get too good. He had to keep himself in check, make sure he knew what he was grabbing before he reached.
They drove out to Lakeview under a gunmetal blue sky, clouds threatening to open up but for now just rolling past overhead. The idea was to work backward from the night of the murder. Start at the Adelfi home, then trace Sofia’s movements back in time to Thursday, when she walked through the rain to Tom’s office.
Patton was quiet, threading through the light traffic until they hit Mid City, then he dropped a bomb into the Jeep’s cabin.
“You're that cop.” Tom didn't have to ask what he meant. His silence was an admission of guilt, he was ‘that cop.’ That cop who killed the kid on the Huey P. Long Bridge. That cop who shot that boy during the storm. The inside of the jeep was clean and smelled vaguely of clove cigarettes. Tom used the plastic hand crank to lower his window and let in city air that was muggy but clean.
“I'm him,” Tom said.
“Uh-hunh. I thought so, the other day. I looked it up to make sure.” Patton letting him have the floor.
No, Tom wasn’t going to do him that favor. Patton opened this can of worms, he would let the kid fish. “I guess you have something to say about it?” He said. Not a question at all. Plenty of people had something to say.
“When I was a freshman at LSU we marched cross-campus. Had the cardboard signs, said Remember Brandon Herbert. His mother and brother were there. She was a nice lady. Wanted to thank every person that came out for the march. Just this lady, couldn’t stop crying, going through the crowd and shaking hands. Hugging people. Thanking us for coming out for her baby. She gave me a hug. Now I’m sitting next to you. I guess I just never thought I'd meet you. That's all.” Patton said it all without looking over at Tom.
Tom remembered the rally. That was back when he had been drinking. He saw the plans for the rally on the local news through the bottom of a glass of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey and he wanted to go up to Baton Rouge and attend the thing himself. His whiskey-addled brain thought he would be able to explain himself, explain what it had been like on the bridge that day, explain what it had been like in the city after the storm that week, and maybe the kids at LSU would understand and forgive him. Thankfully, Lauren had talked him down and he just stayed on the couch.
A week later after a liquid breakfast and five days marinating over that rally, he decided he had to explain himself to someone. He got the address from a friend on the force and he set out to find the Herberts and explain why he had killed their oldest son.
He didn't need an address to spot the house. There were cars parked up and down the block. The tables out on the front lawn were surrounded by folding chairs and crowded with foil-covered catering trays. Tom sat in his car and watched from down the street. Families came, bringing more covered trays and Tupperware and beer and cold drinks. Men and women milled around the tables. Children in their Sunday best tried to play in the front yard without getting too dirty.
An older man ambled into the street in a tan sweater and lit a small cigar. As he lit up, he watched Tom. Tom met the man’s eye and nodded. A universal sign of acknowledgment, of peace, even. The older man did not return the nod.
Tom never found out if the Herberts were hosting a remembrance for their son or throwing a birthday party. If the gathering he saw was to celebrate the beginning of a life or mourn the end of one. But that day he drove back home to sleep the afternoon away . That decision had been a moment of clarity in the Jameson haze. That day, at least, had left the family in peace.
Now Patton was driving him past Greenwood Cemetery and the cold stone monuments there, hooking left onto Canal Boulevard and still not speaking.
“I’m not going to defend what I did. In my mind, I can see him turn around, and I can see something in his hand.” Tom wanted to tell Patton how his whole body felt electric, then. How, at that moment, he saw a gun in Brandon Herbert’s hand, and he saw himself dying on that bridge and not being found for days, because of the storm. He wanted to tell Patton how he saw Dennis growing up without a father. Instead, he said, “I wish to hell it didn’t go down the way it did, but that’s the way it went down. If I could take it back I would. Every day, I hope Brandon Herbert’s family is living the best they can. Me, I’m living with it all, the best I can.”
“I’m glad you’re living with it. Brandon doesn’t have that option anymore.”
They were words intended to cut, and Tom felt them cut deep. They rode the rest of the way in silence.
The house on Bluebird Street was a mansion in the plantation style with a circle drive out front and a second driveway leading to the back of the house. Tom always thought of a three-car garage as a sign that you had made it, whatever that meant. He guessed having a house with two driveways was a sign of success, too.
The neighborhood was an island of fine old construction amidst decrepit and modern new builds, the recently demolished and construction in progress. Hurricane Katrina had passed over that part of the city, but when a levee floodwall on the 17th Street Canal was breached billions of gallons of water rushed into the area. When residents finally returned to their homes they found high-water marks on their second stories. Their cars had floated blocks away, trees were uprooted, and some homes near the breach had been separated from their foundations and were broken apart and scattered across the neighborhood.
Many of the residents of Lakeview were wealthy and had the means to leave. A few of the less fortunate or elderly were found in attics, deceased. Victims of exposure.
Now, over three years later, locals had returned to rebuild or they had given up entirely and sold their homes. But not Ernesto and Sofia Adelfi. Their home survived unscathed. A relic, or a survivor.
Until the next hurricane, Tom thought.
When Patton stopped the car Tom moved to open the door.
“Alright,” Patton said, stopping him with an outstretched hand, long fingers almost brushing his shirt, right below the uneven knot of his tie. “I’m not going to apologize.”
After a moment the hand dropped and Tom waited.
“Shit. I mean, I believe you. It’s just...you can only hear about a kid getting shot so many times, right? Happens once, you can think alright, life is hard, mistakes are made. You can trick yourself into thinking it’s not a…a thing . Everybody’s human, right? And, man, you don’t know how much I want to believe it’s not…a thing . But it keeps happening. Memorials for dead boys every week, it seems like. And I can only see a cop walk away with nothing, no jail time or anything, and everybody like, ‘shit happens,’ I can only do that so many times and not g
o crazy. No, shit just doesn’t happen. You feel me? Because it’s a fucking thing .” Patton pointed a hand at Tom, eyes blazing. Breathing there. After a moment he said, “But I’m saying I believe you.”
“Alright.”
“You feel me?”
“Yeah.” Tom met the young man’s eyes. “I’m trying.”
“Because he’s still dead.”
“I know.”
Patton let the steering wheel go and brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut. Finally, he let out a breath, making a sound like a raspberry. “Alright, man. Let’s talk to those people.”
Tom thought that was a good idea.
‘Those people’ did not want to talk. ‘Those people’ meant the neighbors, anyone living on the Bluebird cul-de-sac who would answer a door in the middle of the morning and speak to two strangers. A man with two wispy strands of white hair and a walker with tennis balls on the legs told them he couldn’t hear the television when he was sitting right in front of it, let alone whatever had been going on across the street. A woman hustling two toddlers into a minivan said she had already spoken with the police and didn’t have time to talk to them. The original 9-1-1 call had come from the house across the street from the Adlefi’s place, and there was no answer.
Through it all, Tom and Patton found a rhythm. Patton was patient and kind, even waving at the kids. Tom was direct, using his cop-voice. Aggressive to the point of bullying, almost. But without the badge to back it up? It was just bluster.
A few houses down from the Adelfi place a short, compact woman opened the door. She wore purple leggings and had streaks of grey running through her black hair, which was tied back. She was panting as if they had interrupted some exercise routine, but she invited them inside and offered them water or tea, which they both accepted. Was she at home the night of the shooting? No. But she heard about it.
“I guess I knew Ernie and Sofia ten years, we both lived here before the storm, too.”
Tom and Patton exchanged a look. Tom took the lead.
“You knew them well? Had them over for dinner?”