Disconnection (17 page)

“Would you like a tissue, Reverend?”

“No, no thank you. I’m fine. God has given me much strength.”

“I can see that.”

“Detective Kline, are you aware of the suicide rate in New Orleans?”

“Vaguely,” Lewis answered. Everything other than the Fishhook murders he knew only
vaguely
.

Applegate continued, “According to the
Times Picayune
, the suicide rate has gone up three-hundred percent in the last month. The murders started a month ago, detective.”

“I’m aware of it.”

“I think people are losing hope, I really do. They have lost their way out there in the wilderness. I was chatting with members of my congregation, and they told me that two of the children up there at Tulane committed suicide last weekend. Both of them were straight A students from God-fearing families. Such a shame. Children losing sight of the Lord.
For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved
, Romans five, eight.”

“And what did you want me to do about this, Reverend?”

“It’s a spiritual epidemic, don’t you see? It’s a plague. And no one is doing a darn tootin’—excuse my language—thing about it.”

“And I assume you would like to get involved?”

“Anyway I can!”

“And how do you think you can help?”

“You’re working on my niece’s case, detective. For that, I am thankful. I thought perhaps you would be the best candidate to help me with a project I am undertaking. You see—I was praying last night, and the Lord spoke to me, and He said, ‘Let there be a gathering at the kingdom of my home.’ And I thought about what He meant, and then I realized—kingdom refers not only to land but to the
rule
of the land, and what rules this city more than anything but God, detective?”

Lewis thought about the department in the police force that had the most manpower. “Narcotics,” he answered.

Applegate vigorously shook his head. “No, detective, not at all! I’m talking about
tourism
. The city makes millions of dollars a year on tourism. It thrives on it. We need to reach out in the most touristy area of New Orleans, where our voices can be the most heard. Therefore, it is my interpretation of the Lord’s words that we have a spiritual revival at Jackson Square.”

“Jackson Square?”

“Yes, sir, that is what the Lord has told me. Near the steps of the St. Louis Cathedral.”

Lewis cleared his throat. “That’s very ambitious of you, Reverend Applegate, but I just don’t understand my role in your plans. Jackson Square is a public place. You are free to have any demonstration there you wish, as long as it does not disturb the peace and is nonviolent.”

“Quite true, detective. There is only one worry, however I fear that some people feel that it is unsafe to enter the French Quarter at night—with a killer on the loose—and understanding their fears, of course, I was thinking—if you believe your higher-ups would allow it, having a police presence at the revival. Not just one or two cops, mind you, but a rather large quantity, for my congregation is very big, and there will be so many others joining us, if a lamb should fall into the killer’s hands in a place where the Lord has blessed.”

“I understand what you mean, Reverend Applegate. I will see what I can do.”

Applegate exhaled for what seemed like the first time since Lewis had entered the office. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much, detective. All the lost lambs thank you as well. So many of them out there. Why, the other day, I met one who just tore my heart to pieces…”

Time to get the man out of here before he wastes any more of my time, Lewis thought. “Reverend Applegate,” the detective began, “I’m sorry to be abrupt, but I really have other matters I must attend to.” Lewis stood up from his chair and walked to the glass door. He twisted the brass knob, hoping he had made his point.

Applegate ignored Lewis’ subtle messages. The reverend continued, speaking more on the subject of the recent meeting with his lost lamb. “She was a girl who looked just like my Chloe, eyes as blue as a baby’s bonnet. Drove away in a Beetle and I haven’t heard from her since. She looked as lost as a snow falling in the summertime…”

For the second time that day, Lewis lost all blood in his face. “What did you say she was driving?”

“One of those Beetles. The new ones. I think her name was Sara or Sandy or something. Praise the Lord, Detective Kline, if I could find her again and bring her back to the Lord …”

The detective walked back over to his desk and sat down. He picked up his pen and held it over a lined yellow pad. Lewis ordered, “Tell me, Reverend Applegate, everything you know about your lost lamb.”

A
ll day and night, Sela could not shake Chloe’s words.

Lisa is with me.

What had she meant by that? Was Lisa really dead? And if so, how? And why?

“Ma’am?”

Sela turned around. At the table in front of her was the picture-perfect advertisement for the great fat American family—two obese kids of different sexes, a four-chinned father, and large assed mother. The way their chubby fingers gripped the menus told Sela that they were determined to keep their weight at over two hundred pounds a piece.

“Can you take our order, Ma’am?” the father asked.

“That I can do,” Sela answered with fake cheerfulness. She pulled her pad and pen from out of her apron. “What will it be?” she asked, flipping the pad over with one nonchalant thumb.

The fat daughter ordered, “I want the Monster Burger, with a coke, and can I have some onion rings please?”

Sela wrote down the order.

A finger tapped Sela’s shoulder and she turned around. It was Claudette, the only waitress that had worked at Frank’s Diner longer than Sela. She was a heavyset black woman with a stern look and a singing voice that could melt butter. Sela liked her because she was brave—Claudette never put up with anyone’s shit.

Claudette’s expression was vaguely amused when she said, “You white girls are dropping off like flies.” She pointed to the TV screen where the audio was muted, but the captions were rolling underneath the blonde reporter’s image:

“Police report that another body was found last night—another victim of a killer that officials are calling the ‘Fishhook Murderer’…Twenty-three-year-old dancer Lisa Hart was found drowned and beaten near the popular Riverwalk attraction. No suspects have been arrested at this time.”

“Ma’am, may I have the Monster Burger, too?” a young male adolescent voice asked.

Sela did not hear him.

Lisa. Dead
. This was all she understood.

She had just talked to her last night. For sure she had not gotten a positive vibe from the girl. She seemed not to care about her friend’s death, and if she had, it was very little. But still, just twenty-four hours ago she had been living, breathing.

At first Sela had difficulty breathing. Then she realized that she was absentmindedly scrubbing her notebook against the mole on her arm. The sight of the fat kids looking up at her with expectant eyes made her breath come quick, too quick.

Hyperventilating, she slumped against the fat family’s table, closed her eyes, hugged herself, and clenched her teeth. She was determined not to faint. She tried to hold each shallow breath as long as possible, and the very practice of altering the rhythm of her breathing was consoling.

“Lady, are you going to be okay?” the father asked.

“I’ll be fine …”

Claudette touched Sela’s shoulders. “Go sit down in the back, Sela. I’ll work your tables for you until you calm down, honey. Whatever’s troublin’ you is troublin’ you big. You ain’t bein’ yourself today.”

“Fine, I’ll be fine.”

Sela went into the back office and sat down. One of the kitchen boys brought her a glass of water. Lucky for her, Frank wasn’t around to yell at her for not working. Sela had time. Time to regroup. Time to readjust.

Lisa was dead.

Lisa is with me
.

And Chloe was dead. So strange. For the first time Sela actually believed, a hundred percent, that Chloe Applegate was dead, and that only her ghost survived, and this was who Sela had been speaking to all along.

The Land of the Saved. Join us!

“Ms. Warren?”

Sela looked up. Detective—what was his name, Kline? Her mind was a war—stood at the door, a plainclothes cop with a scowl on his face. Sela had trusted him the moment she had met him two nights ago, though last night he had not come through for her the way she had hoped. Last night another cop—a pink-faced man with a Polish name—had saved the day by driving to her apartment. After an initial statement, he had set up camp, promising that everything would be all right.

But things hadn’t been all right, because Lisa Hart was dead.

“Hi, detective,” greeted Sela. She forced a weak smile.

His return smile was just as weak. “May I talk to you for a minute?” he asked. Sela nodded. He began, “The waitresses told me you were back here. Are you feeling okay, after last night and all?” He took a seat on the chair across from Sela.

“Yes,” Sela replied. “Though I can’t say the same about Lisa Hart.”

The detective nodded. “You met with her last night.”

“Yes.”
How did he know?

As if he had read her thoughts, he said, “We interviewed your neighbor’s cousin this morning, a Mr. Stuart Reed. You know him?”

“Redneck. Thinks PETA is a club started by bestiality nutcases interested in guerilla warfare.”

“That’s the one.” He shifted his weight in the chair. “There are other things I know, too, Ms. Warren.” he began. “Things you hadn’t thought of telling me before. Why didn’t you inform us you knew Chloe Applegate?”

Oh shit
. “And how do you know I know Chloe Applegate?” Sela asked.

“We spoke to her uncle, the Reverend Harold Applegate, this morning as well. Frankly, there aren’t many people left in New Orleans whom we haven’t interviewed yet. Anyway, as things would have it, Chloe’s uncle wants to have a ‘spiritual revival’ at Jackson Square tomorrow night for all the ‘lost lambs’ out there. He mentioned you in passing. It took me a second to realize we knew the same girl.”

Sela shifted in her seat. “Chloe’s uncle doesn’t even know me. And I don’t know Chloe. I went to her house because I found something of hers the night she died.”

Lewis folded his arms over his chest thoughtfully. “And what of hers did you find?”

Sela’s throat tightened. “Her cell phone,” she replied, unable to immediately think of a lie.

She watched as the detective’s face contorted into incredulous outrage. “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Where did you find it?”

“At a bar on Bourbon, the Black Kitchen.”

“I know the Black Kitchen. And when were you thinking of telling me about the phone?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

Lewis laughed sarcastically and shook his head. “A victim’s cell phone? Not important? Do America a favor, Ms. Warren, and don’t go into law enforcement.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“How did you know the cell phone was hers?”

Hmm, good question
. “I found her name and address in the info inside the phone.”

“Where is Chloe’s cell phone now?”

“I don’t know. I threw it away,” she lied.

Lewis’s eyes widened. “You threw it away?” he repeated.

“What was I going to do with it?”

The detective leaned over so that his palms rested flat on Frank’s desk. “Ms. Warren, you’ve tampered with evidence.”

“I didn’t know it was evidence, sir.”
And I didn’t throw it away either
, she thought.
And if I thought that I could give it to you and it wouldn’t come back to haunt me, then I would. But truth is, I think that it will never leave me. Like the mole on the back of my arm, or my nightmares, some things love to linger
.

The detective tilted his head sideways, his eyes thoughtfully watching her. “Seems strange,” he began, “that you would go to the Applegate home to return a phone, and then arrive there and forget to return it.”

It did seem strange, but Sela had a quick excuse, for lying was among the talents that she had developed in the last few days. “I didn’t know Chloe was dead until I arrived at the house,” she said. “And after I found out, I guess I just forgot until I got home, and when I realized my error, I threw it away.”

“And it’s not in your trashcan, I take it?”

“No. The garbage has been picked up. Like I said before, I don’t know where it is.”

“I see.”

He didn’t believe her, but Sela did not care. If he obtained a search warrant and retrieved the phone from her apartment, it did not matter. The phone always came back to her in the end.

He cleared his throat and asked, “Did you know that Lisa Hart and Chloe Applegate were friends?”

“No. How would I know that?”

“Stuart Reed suggested that it was your idea to go to the club last night.”

“It was.”

“Why?”

“I like titty bars. They’re a lot of fun.” Sela wanted to flinch, hearing herself admit to such a preposterous lie.

“Why
that
bar?”

“Why not? It’s nice. Not in the middle of everything, like the ones on Bourbon Street.”

“Ms. Warren, Reed and his cousin seem to think that you went to the club specifically to talk to Lisa Hart.”

Oh will you just shut up will you just leave me alone there is nothing you can do anyway she’s already dead don’t you understand that?

Sela answered, “I thought she was the best dancer. She reminded me of someone.”

“Anna Nicole Smith?” The detective smirked. Obviously, Sela thought, he had been to her dressing room.

“Maybe so,” Sela acknowledged. “Only with smaller breasts.”

“Well,” Detective Kline began, standing up, “thank you for your time, Ms. Warren. I do suggest that you call us if you find any more evidence that maybe helpful to our investigation—like a cell phone, perhaps.” His smile was mocking.

Sela nodded. “Of course.” She wondered as she watched him walk away, how long it would be before she would see Detective Kline again.