Crescent City Connection (43 page)

“You did, actually. It’s just that the lions were a little preoccupied.”

Skip nodded, and swallowed the last bite of her sandwich. She considered ordering another. “There weren’t that many when you realize how big the house was—they were all spread out trying to cover every entrance.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Not for a million dollars and a castle in Spain. Not if I got to be queen of England. No way and uh-uh.” She wondered if Lou-Lou would ask how she felt about the people who had died in the blast and the man she had killed the day before, but she didn’t and that was good, because Skip didn’t want to talk about it.

She felt oddly separate from their deaths—“in denial,” Lou-Lou might say, but if denial would work that was fine with her. She had shot Delavon in the middle of a family reunion; these other deaths were not so real, and she wanted to keep it that way.

“Do you know who’s the cutest thing in the world?” Lou-Lou was saying. “Hey, Skip—you with me?”

“Oh, yeah. The new boyfriend.”

“Not really. That was just a joke, but honestly, he’s adorable.”

“Who?”

“The White Monk.”

“Oh, God, he’s perfect for you. He’s a sweetie pie, which would be a welcome change, and has delusions you could work on the rest of your life.”

“What delusions?”

“About killing somebody. Either that or he’s a liar, but I kind of think he really thinks it.”

“That’s no delusion. That’s just his OCD.”

“His what?”

“Obsessive-compulsive disorder. He doesn’t think he killed somebody, he just thinks he might have.”

“Oh, right. That’s what he says. What’s the difference?”

“OCD is a very interesting thing—people who suffer from it are like philosophers, in a way. They want to know how you can really know something. Because they can’t. They’re pretty sure they didn’t kill somebody, but they just can’t be absolutely sure. They’re pretty sure their hands are clean, but they still might have to wash them twenty-seven times a day. They can remember checking the door thirty times to see if it’s locked, but they still can’t be sure it is.”

“Oh, my God.”

Cindy Lou nodded. “It’s not a fun thing to have. And Isaac’s kind of a case—you usually get washers or checkers or doubters. He doesn’t seem to be into checking so much, but he’s got all the other stuff in spades. And he’s got a shitload of ‘shoulds’ on the conscious level. Poor guy.”

“What about not talking?”

“That seems to be voluntary—the washing and stuff isn’t. See, the other philosophical question OCD brings up is free will. They
have
to do certain stuff.”

“Why do they have to?”

“Something just tells them they do.”

“What causes it? Having a dad who’s the closest thing to the devil?”

“No, it seems to be chemical. Drugs help. Isaac didn’t know what he had till I told him. He’s hugely embarrassed, of course, to be found out—but I’m going to send him to a shrink and get him some vitamin P or something. He could get a lot better.”

* * *

The Monk could hardly bear the thought of her leaving, though it was going to be a lot easier being on his own again. Human relations were difficult for him, and they were about to be harder now that he’d decided to give up his silence. But the time had come for that, and for other changes. It had never occurred to him that he didn’t have to clean and shower and count—he’d simply thought he did. He’d never questioned it. So he would try Prozac or whatever it was they wanted to give him, and then he’d have more time to paint.

The time had come to paint differently, too. He would finish the pregnant Pandora, the one Dahveed hated, and he would go on to paint other things.

Other women.

First the beautiful psychologist, then the magnificent bald detective. When the detective’s hair grew back, he’d paint her that way, too.

And he’d paint his mother if she’d let him. He was going to call her soon.

Lovelace was getting her things together now. He had bought her a backpack and a duffel to go back to school. He thought she was sniffling a bit, crying perhaps, because she’d miss him. Or maybe she was getting a cold.

He said, “You’ll come back this summer, won’t you? Anthony says you’re the best assistant he ever had.”

“I’d like to, but I’ve missed a lot of school—I might have to make it up this summer.” She turned toward him, and he saw that her nose was red. “I’ll come next year for sure. For JazzFest, maybe.”

He must have shown his distress. She said, “Oh, no, that’s way too long. Let’s do a family Thanksgiving. Just you and me—and anybody else you want except Mom and Dad. And your dad, of course.” She shuddered a little at the mention of her grandfather.

He moved toward her. “You’ve been good for me, you know that?” He recognized as he said it how uncharacteristic it was. It probably scared her to death.

Sure enough, she stepped away. “In what way?”

You put me back in touch with women. After your mother, I sort of flipped out, I guess.

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

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

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

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

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.