House of Blues (20 page)

But she didn't say it to Jim, because they were
grown-up police officers and they were going to do their job.

She parked. "Got your phone?"

"
Got it."

Jim was out of the car, and in another minute he was
gone; out of her sight.

This could take hours. How the hell can he do the
Magnecta routine for hours? She thought of what he'd say if she asked
him: "I'm a pro."

That made her laugh—the whole Eddie Murphy zaniness
of it. Actually, this wasn't like the usually dignified Jim. She
remembered that he used to work Narcotics and realized why he was so
eager to get in there—he was having the time of his life.

She began to relax a little.

She rethought strategy. They could wait here forever
for Dennis, who might not ever show. Or they could just talk to
Turan. But what would that do? Even if Dennis did make a buy, how the
hell would Turan know where to find him? It's not up to a dealer to
find his clients, it's up to them to find him.

She was in a funk of indecision and doubt when the
phone rang. For some reason, she punched the "Indiglo"
feature on her watch: it was nearly midnight.

"
Call for backup. Something's going down."

"Dennis?"

"
Two guys with AK-4-7s. Stay where you are."

"
The hell I wil1."

She called for backup and got out of the car, knowing
she probably shouldn't if he said she shouldn't, but she couldn't be
sure—the situation could change from second to second.

He'd had to get off quickly so she could call
headquarters, and now she couldn't call him. A ringing phone on a
Thunderbird-soused raver just wasn't going to cut it.

It was dark in the breezeway. She could see in only a
little way. She couldn't see Jim or anyone Who might be Turan;
certainly could see no one with automatic weapons. They must have cut
through to another courtyard,

Someone fired.

She saw orange flames; the noise was like war. More
flames on the other side of the breezeway—then someone running. The
first shooter.

She heard Jim call, "Halt! Police!" and her
heart sank.

Drawing her gun, she started running toward the
shooter, who was running toward her. He turned around and fired—at
Jim, presumably, and then he turned her way again. Something hit her
from behind. She went down, her gun flying from her hand, and she
knew it was over.

The man who had hit her—butted her with his head,
was her guess—had stopped to take a look at her. She saw his face,
clearly, and was surprised that he was terrified. And about sixteen.
A young scared-shitless kid, with the power of life and death over
her. .

Sirens were getting loud, nearly upon them, the
backup she'd called for.

The kid didn't even stop for her gun, just took off
after the shooter. She recovered it herself and yelled for Jim.

No answer. She called him on her cute little
phone—still no answer.

She found him at the back of the breezeway, a bullet
in his chest.

But he was breathing.

She talked to him all the way to the hospital, told
him he'd be fine, to hang on, that his wife would be there soon, that
he had to stick around to see her.

They went to Charity, where she'd been so many times
on other shootings, and where she'd been taken herself once or twice.
It was utterly familiar territory, and yet right now a nightmare
landscape.

"
Room Four," she heard someone say. "Room
Four now!" That was the trauma room.

"
You can't go with him," a woman said, a
nurse probably.

"I'm going."

The nurse shrugged.

Skip was okay about blood as long as it wasn't in a
hospital; she didn't know if she could trust herself to stay on her
feet in here, and she might be in the way. But Jim needed someone to
hold his hand.

I don't want him to die alone.

She was shocked at the thought when it came, had no
idea that was on her mind.

"
You won't die," she told him. "You're
not going to die."

I'll die if you die. You can't die.

A piece of her would; she knew it as well as she knew
the river was wet. She'd never be the same if he died.

Oh, shit, why Jim? Why couldn't it have been
O'Rourke?

"
I really have to ask you to get out of the way.
You can stay in the hallway if you like."

The man who spoke was in his early twenties, she
thought, but he must be a doctor. Other people were in the hallway,
lots of them—they came from all over the hospital to watch a Room
Four.

Okay, she couldn't hold his hand, but she could stay
close. She could send him healing wishes or something.

In the end, she couldn't find the energy in herself
to will him to heal, just to keep living, which he did, which he kept
on doing, until finally they sewed him up and took him upstairs.

There were policemen in the waiting room, and a black
woman with them, with two children, about ten and twelve, a boy and a
girl.

When the policemen rustled, the woman realized
instantly who Skip was, and rose. "I'm Dionne Hodges."

Skip thought that if she had to categorize this woman
in one word, it would have been "pleasant." She was average
height—about five-feet-five—and a little plump, so that her
cheeks and chin were rounded. Her hair was about ear=length, styled
for business. She could have been anything—schoolteacher,
receptionist, high-level executive; her clothes might have given a
clue. But at the moment she was wearing shorts and a T-shirt,
probably just pulled on when she got the call about her husband.

She didn't introduce the children, and Skip was glad.
She didn't want to look at their faces too closely, to see their fear
and misery, to have it remind her of her own. Dionne seemed a little
ragged, but at least she was still in one piece.

Skip said, "Did the doctor talk to you? Jim's
holding his own."

Dionne breathed deeply. "No, he didn't. This is
the first I've heard."

"Well, they didn't stop to fill me in, but I
think he's out of danger for the moment. They took him upstairs."
Anxiously, she swiveled her head. Where was the doctor? Skip felt
strongly that this was no job for a cop, particularly one as utterly
exhausted as she was.

"
What happened?" asked Dionne

"Maybe we should talk privately."

"
Why?"

Because I don't want to talk about it in front of
his children. What's wrong with you?

Dionne seemed way too distracted to catch on. Skip
was trying to formulate an answer that might fly when another woman
approached the little knot of policemen. She was black as well,
wearing white slacks, a little taller, a little older than Dionne,
and accompanied by two girls who looked to be juniors or seniors in
high school—they were probably a year apart.

"Excuse me," she said, "I'm Jim
Hodges's wife. Do you have any word?"

"Oh, shit," said Dionne, and Skip turned to
look at her, alarmed.

But Dionne showed no signs of fainting or flying into
a rage. A tear floated slowly out of each eye and she whispered
something:

"
I should have known."

Skip felt lead in her chest. She could go no further,
couldn't say another word to Dionne or anyone else for a long while.
She walked briskly out the emergency entrance and stood there gulping
air.
 

13

The back of her neck was clammy when she awoke after
three hours' sleep. She had given her statement to Cappello and then
gone back to the Iberville—with other officers—and they had spent
most of the night trying to turn up anyone who'd heard or seen
anything.

Nobody had. Not only that, nobody knew Turan
Livaudais, or had even ever heard of him. They surely hadn't seen him
or anybody else selling drugs in the Conti Breezeway that night or
any night.

That morning, she awakened feeling vulnerable, almost
panicked. Her first real thought was: Steve: Is he here?

He was.

Her second was: Jim: Is he alive?

She knew she could call to find out, but she didn't
want to deal with it over the phone. She hardly felt up to brushing
her teeth. She pulled on a peach-colored blouse and a pair of white
pants that made her think of Jim's second wife—or first, probably;
she seemed the older one.

Oh, God, even if he makes it, his life's not going to
be worth living. Why'd he do a stupid thing like that? A smart guy
like Jim?

Love, I suppose. It makes everyone stupid.

She felt for Dionne and for the other woman too—she
hadn't stayed long enough to get her name—and for all the Hodges
kids. There might be eight or ten of them for all she knew.

She envisioned scenes with both women trying to hold
Jim's hand during his convalescence; and others—worse ones—in
which both of them dumped him.

Today, she thought, she could look at mug shots.
She'd gotten a good look at the kid who hit her, and there was
something distinctive about him—his lower lip was larger than the
upper, and hung down slightly, as if his mouth were open.

She entered the detective bureau with trepidation,
but everything sounded okay. There wasn't any unusual silence. "Any
word on Jim?" she said to the desk officer.

The woman shrugged. "Not yet. Someone's waiting
for you."

She pointed with her chin at the little waiting area.
Tricia Lattimore was there, in a linen outfit, more dressed up than
Skip had ever seen her.

"Skippy, I just wanted to apologize."

"Tricia, that was some scene. I was pretty
worried about you."

"
It was horrible what I did—attacking my
oldest friend. Listen, I'm really sick about it. I just wanted you to
know that."

"Well, I know it wasn't you that attacked me.
That was the drug. And that's why I'm so worried about you." She
knew the repetition was a little school-teacherish, but she couldn't
stop herself.

"I knew you would be, and I didn't want you to
worry. That's another reason I'm here. I want you to know I don't do
crack. I don't even do crystal, except once in a great while. I was
just in a mood."

Oh, sure. "You better be careful with that
stuff."

"Oh, I am. I never touch crack for any
reason—and the other stuff . . . I don't know, I just get a whim
now and then."

"
I thought you were in AA."

"
Did I say that?"

"Maybe not. Maybe you just said you used to have
a drug habit—so I assumed it."

"Oh, AA—they think you can't ever do it."

"Thanks for coming by, Tricia."

"
Skippy, listen, I'm really sorry. I just wanted
to tell you."

"
Thanks. I appreciate it."

"We should get together sometime."

"Sure."

During Lorena Bobbitt's presidency.

Skip went in, got herself a cup of coffee, and called
Charity. Jim was still on the critical list.

Well, hell. At least he's alive.

Next, she looked at mug shots, and found a pretty
good candidate—a nineteen-year-old named Augustine Melancon. The
kid she'd seen looked younger, she thought, but she'd only gotten a
glimpse.

She went to find Cappello. "Sylvia, I found a
kid who looks like the one I saw."

"Skip. Did you have a bad day yesterday."

"
Not as bad as Jim."

"I swear to God if he dies I'm out of here. I
can't stand this fucking crap." Cappello almost never swore.

"I'm feeling pretty down. I don't know if it was
worth it, what we did. What were our chances of finding Dennis,
anyway?"

"For Christ's sake, don't start, Skip. Until Jim
got shot, that was our biggest case of the year. Are you kidding?
Arthur Hebert, who's about as important to this town as Aaron
Neville, was gunned down in his dining room. Good God! Do you know
how much pressure Joe's been getting to put every guy in Homicide on
that one? You know why he hasn't? Because there's nothing for them to
do. You had exactly one lead and you followed it. You did what you
were supposed to do."

"
I forgot it was a heater case. On some other
case, understaffed like we are, it would have been a waste of
manpower—even if nobody got hurt. Doesn't it strike you there's
something wrong with that?"

"You're damn right it does. That's just the kind
of crap I'm talking about when I say I'm getting out."

"Where are you going, Sylvia?" Skip thought
she might as well face reality.

Cappello had been scanning papers on her desk even as
she ranted. She looked up at Skip through round, horn-rimmed glasses
that Skip thought quite elegant. "Going? I'm not going
anywhere."