House of Blues (46 page)

She turned away, but he grabbed her arm.

"I'm up on my colors these days. You're Navajo
white."

"I'm fine. Could we get back to work, please?
It's not like there's nothing to do in there."

"
Hey. You're the cop who got the guy who killed
Jim. You're a hero. Don't you think you get a five-minute break?"

"Oh, bullshit. You don't even know what
happened."

"I hear two shots, I spin around, you've got
glass in your hair, and the other guy's lying on the floor with a gun
in his hand. The story kind of tells itself."

"
I've got glass in my hair?"

"
Uh-huh, but let's don't take it out yet. I want
a lot of witnesses to this."

"
That's where I saw him—in the glass. He was
already pointing the gun."

"Shit."

"So I ducked. What would you do?" She
started to laugh.

"Probably freeze and get shot." He laughed
as well, a little uneasily, as if he didn't know where Skip's
laughter was going. He put a hand on her shoulder, to steady her, she
thought, and she found that she was profoundly grateful.

She had been numb before; dazed. But when Abasolo
mentioned the glass in her hair, and witnesses, she had felt the leap
in her chest that meant fear.

"
Nobody saw what happened," she said. "But
they could say they did. They could say anything they want."

Awkwardly, Abasolo stroked her arm. "You forget
I was there. Two other cops were there. It'll be okay. Believe me.
It's going to be okay."

That's what you told those women when their husband
and son and son-in-law and brother was lying there dead. That's what
Shavonne's mama said. She turned in her gun for evidence, then went
back to headquarters and gave her statements to someone from Internal
Affairs, someone from OMI—the Office of Municipal Investigation—and
Cappello, who'd been called back to take it. It was hours before they
let her go.

But she found that Abasolo had waited for her, to
drive her home. She was annoyed. "I'm okay to drive."

"Take it easy, will you? I want to talk to you."

"What about?"

"Come on. Let's get in the car."

"This is ridiculous. I brought my car, which
means I really have to drop you off."

"
Oh, quit bitching. I'll take you home and get a
taxi from the Quarter. Okay?"

She didn't speak again, until they got to her car,
ashamed of herself for snapping at him, not sure why she had.

When she spoke, it was only more of the same. "I
can drive."

"You're nuts, you know that? This is an honor
for me. To be able to drive the hero of the day."

"Quit trying to flatter me."

They were alone in the dark now, the two of them
sitting side by side. He didn't start the car, didn't even put the
key in the ignition.

He said, "Look, I feel bad about this."

She felt the fear—leap again. "About what?
What's going to happen to me?"

He touched her arm, and once again she found it
reassuring.

"Will you stop it? Everything's going to be
okay. I meant I feel for you; I feel bad because you feel bad."

That got to her. She felt blood suffuse her face,
felt her cheeks heat up and the muscles move into a smile of sorts.

"That's the sweetest thing a cop's ever said to
me."

"I've been through it before."

"You shot somebody?"

"My partner did. It was like tonight—God, this
was
deja vu
. We were
at somebody's house and there were a bunch of screaming kids. We
couldn't hear anything, so he went into another room to question the
suspect. The next thing I knew I heard shots."

He hesitated.

"I was destroyed because I couldn't do
anything."

He stopped and sighed. She could feel his body shift
in the dark, and realized he had demons of his own about tonight.
"But that's neither here nor there. What I want to tell you
about is what happened to him. He went into a frenzy of work; he got
all snappish and nasty like you did."

"Sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"And I realized it was all a way of keeping the
way he was feeling at bay. I didn't get it; I really didn't get it at
first. But tell me if this is right—you don't feel like a hero, or
even like you're in I control. You feel vulnerable."

She stared at the lightish circle that was all she
could see of his face. "How did you know that?"

"I'm right, aren't I? I'm right." He
sounded triumphant.

''How do you know?"

"
Well, that's how I get when I feel that way.
Snappy. Like everybody's intruding." He inserted the key and
turned it, apparently satisfied that he'd made contact.

When they were out of the garage, abroad in the soft
night, he said, "I finally figured that out. But I never figured
out why."

"I'm not sure. I guess—it's such a huge
thing—you don't want to think about it. Anyone who comes around and
says, 'How do you feel' or something makes you think about it. And
that's the last thing you want to do."

He nodded. "You want a drink?"

She did. She wanted two or three. "No. I mean .
.

"No," she said again. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. But I am—on that one. I could
watch you drink until six A.M. and not even be tempted."

"
Mr. Macho."

"No. It's just not an issue."

"Maybe not tempted. Repelled."

"I like drunks. I've spent a lot of time with
them."

She knew he couldn't possibly—even drunks don't
like drunks—but she went with him to the Blacksmith Shop and had
two beers while she talked to him. Mostly, she talked, not him. She
told him every detail of what had happened at Delavon's house and
everything that led up to it, even about being kidnapped by Delavon's
thugs.

"Okay, that's it," he said. "Now even
I don't believe you. He didn't shoot first. You just had to kill him,
right?"
 

"What do you mean, ‘even' you?"

"Oh, no, I forgot to tell you. The IA guys won't
say so till it's official, but you're in the clear. That gorgeous
woman—Martha something—said she saw it and it happened like you
said."

"She couldn't have seen it. She had her back
turned."

"She says she turned around to say something to
you."

"I don't think so. I didn't see her."

"
You were looking in the glass."

"Yeah, but you feel things. Motion. I think she
was already in the kitchen."

"Would you want your daughter to marry Delavon?
She'll probably send you flowers."

She knew he was making a giant effort for her, and
she was grateful. She wondered if she would have done it for him, for
Jim, for any partner in trouble.

Probably not. I get my feelings hurt when people
snap. She was grateful that he had not; that he had known what was
wrong, and cared enough to wait for her, to sit with her while she
talked it out. Tomorrow was his second day in Homicide, and it was
only a few hours away; he would want to be rested, and he wasn't
going to be.

She thought: I could love this man, and knew that it
was only partly the beer. He reminded her of Steve.

When she was home, in bed alone, she found that the
tears finally came. They surprised her, and not the least of her
surprise was realizing she had kept them back, she hadn't cried, she
had behaved with dignity.

She missed Steve so much her whole body hurt, and it
was all she could do not to reach for the phone. There was a time
when she'd have called Jimmy Dee, no matter how late the hour, but
with the kids there, she could no longer do that.

After a while she slept, but she awoke early, leaking
tears onto the pillow. The image of Shavonne tripping on her shoe,
crawling to her widowed mama, wouldn't leave her.
 

29

She got out of bed, sat on the floor, and tried to
meditate. This was something she did every time she felt stressed
out, and she always failed. She simply couldn't sit still long enough
to empty her mind.

This time it was like a waking sleep.

She had the sense that it wouldn't lead to spiritual
enlightenment, was somehow not what was meant by the empty—mind
concept, but, oddly, it felt safe.

She had no idea how long she sat there, legs folded,
back straight, hands open on her knees, but when her alarm rang, it
penetrated her peace like a gunshot. She opened her eyes and made to
get up, but her knees hurt and she had to straighten them slowly,
which made her realize she had been sitting this way for a very long
time.

What she had been doing, she didn't know, but she was
faintly alarmed by it. It wasn't quite sleep and she didn't think it
was really meditation; it seemed instead to be some kind of shadow
state, brought about by shock.

Her phone rang. "Baby, you okay?" It was
Cindy Lou, who never called her "baby" and never, ever
sounded frightened, though she did now.

"Lou-Lou. What's wrong?"

"I heard what happened last night. Cappello
called me."

"It was pretty grim."

"Why in the hell didn't you call me? Just tell
me that?"

"I should have. You're the person I should have
called."

"Damn right you should have. I'm your best
girlfriend and I'm a shrink and I care about you. Call, hell! You
should have just come over."

"Well, it was late and I didn't—"

"
Late! Late! Honey, you were in trouble, weren't
you? Couldn't have been feeling okay; no way. And don't try to tell
me different—you aren't the first one who's ever been there."

Skip started to cry. "You really mean it, don't
you? You wouldn't have minded, no matter how late it was."

"What kind of friend do you think I am? Besides,
I'm the cop-shop shrink. They'd have probably paid me for it—hey.
I'm kiddin' about that. I shouldn't have said it—I don't want to be
flip at a time like this. I want you to know I'm there for you—do
you get that?"

For some reason, this seemed too much to take in.
Skip felt overwhelmed for what seemed to her all the wrong reasons—it
seemed inexpressibly sad that she hadn't felt connected enough to the
human race to call Cindy Lou last night, even to realize she was
there to call. Her body began exploding sobs in quick rhythmic
succession, a bazooka launching shells.

"Okay, baby. It's okay." Lou-Lou didn't
sound like herself. She sounded like a mother soothing a child. "Now,
look—I'm coming right over, okay? You just stay there a few minutes
and I'll come make you some coffee. Maybe some toast too. Does that
sound good?"

"I've got to go to work."

"Are you kidding? Cappello told me to tell you
to bag it."

"
Uh-uh, I've got to talk to Reed."

"Huh? Reed?"

"Oh, she didn't tell you everything."

"
Just that you got Delavon and you felt pretty
down about it."

"
Well, a few other things happened too. The
upshot is, Sally's back and so's Reed."

"Skip. That's wonderful."

"It was a hell of a day." Skip sighed.
"Anyway, it's my case and I'm not leaving the interview to
someone else."

"Okay, baby. Okay. You sound fine for now. You
just call me when you're done, you promise?"

"I promise if I can stay awake. I may just pass
out."

"Just give me a call and let me know. Promise,
okay?"

"Okay." She felt slightly annoyed at having
to answer to someone, but at the same time, Cindy Lou's concern was
touching. She really meant it. I could have called her in the middle
of the night. Suddenly, Skip understood that she could have called
Jimmy Dee or Steve as well, never mind the time difference or the
kids; they'd have wanted her to call.

She felt better, not quite so desolate as the night
had left her. She dressed carefully for work, not wanting to look the
worse for wear, sure that eyes would be on her. But she wasn't
prepared for what happened when she walked into the detective,bureau.

"Hey, Langdon," said someone; she never
knew who. And then she was aware that everyone was on their feet,
applauding.

She was confused. "What's going on?" she
murmured, head swiveling.

Joe Tarantino came out of his office. "Nice
going, Skip. Good job." He shook her hand.

When she had made her way to her desk, she saw that
O'Rourke was at his, deep in paperwork. She hadn't noticed him when
everyone stood, but she was sure she would have seen him if he'd been
sitting down. Had he really stood and applauded her? Impossible.

But if not, where was he?