Mean Woman Blues (18 page)

For once, the kid was in a half-decent mood. “Hey, Auntie.”

“Hiya, Martha Stewart.”

“Puh-lease. This is cassoulet.” She favored Skip with a rare smile. “You can call me Julia, though.”

“Oh. Roberts or Child?”

Sheila just sniffed. “The uncles are teaching me to cook. Want to know something? I think I’ve got a talent for it.”

“I think you might.” Skip said, though she really had no idea. She was just glad to see Sheila interested in something that didn’t involve shopping or makeup. Not that the kid was shallow; she was a kid. This could be a sign of impending adulthood. “Uncle Jimmy around?”

“Upstairs. You better holler.”

“Dee-Dee!” Skip trilled. “Dee-Dee
darling
!”

“My ears!” Sheila winced.

“Margaret?” Jimmy Dee’s voice was unmistakably welcoming. He was the only person in the world allowed to call her by her given name. “Is that you, my dainty darling?”

“Ewwwwww,” said Sheila, but Skip could see her mouth twitching. For a few years after the kids came, Uncle Jimmy had tried to squelch his exuberantly campy side. (“Mustn’t upset the Martians, you know”— Mars being his nickname for Minnesota, where they came from.) Lately, they’d all relaxed— Uncle Jimmy, Skip, Steve, and Uncle Layne. Nowadays the kids called every hooker and queen in the neighborhood by name. Minnesota was a distant memory.

Dee-Dee clattered down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Lovely as always, I see. Adore the torn T-shirt.”

“Dee-Dee, have I got a job for you. Want to organize the most exclusive antiques boutique in town?”

“Omigod, deco fun! You mean the Madonna Barn?”

Skip smiled smugly. “It’s yours if you want it.”

“How much does it pay?”

Sheila stopped stripping ribs from Romaine lettuce and gave him a grin. “Oh, cut it out. It’s a maiden uncle’s wet dream.”

“True, pearl of a girl. True. A Krispy Kreme of a scene, simply made for a queen.”

The pearl of a girl snorted. “Sorry I butted in.”

“I shall hang the walls with gold lamé, drape all the statues with old piano shawls and festoon them with Mardi Gras beads. For background music, Bach, I think.”

Jimmy Dee was a lawyer who passed for straight in most circles. Skip thanked Bacchus his clients couldn’t hear him now. “You got the idea,” she said. “But you might have to downscale it.” In her heart, though, she thought the beads might be a pretty good touch.

“When do we start?”

“It’s going to take them a week or two to haul the statues to this old warehouse we’re using. I thought maybe you could come in at night and arrange them artfully.”

“Arrange them? Me and what army? Some of those things weigh half a ton.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got the army— police volunteers. Great, hulking, gorgeous ones.”

That got Sheila’s attention. “Count me in,” she said without looking up.

Skip had no idea whether the girl was serious or not, but she sure was growing up.

“How about the bear?” Jimmy Dee said.

“We’ll have to do without him; he’s going to L.A. for a few days to raise some money. He wants to do a documentary on the whole cemetery art phenomenon.”

“Brilliant idea.”

Maybe
, Skip thought.
And maybe Steve just wanted to get away for awhile.

Meanwhile, she had a job to do, and it was getting good. The three grave robbers, Joe D’Amico, Lance Fortenberry, and Jerome Bowen, hadn’t made bond. At first, the task force had concentrated on the brother and the dealer, Adnan and Bilal Rashid, preferring to let the others cool their heels in Parish Prison. Neither proved particularly proficient in English, and, even with a translator, they didn’t have a whole lot to say.

The brother, Bilal, also a dealer, said he’d met the gang about a month ago and bought one statue and two urns from them. They’d come to his house for payment the day Hagerty picked them up there. Bilal claimed he had no idea the merchandise was stolen; the gang said it came from a relative’s plantation. Since all that turned up was indeed the statue and a receipt for the urns (which had since been recovered), the officers sensed they weren’t going to get any more. They turned their attention to the gang.

Skip and Hagerty took D’Amico, who by now had had two days to think things over. Hagerty did the questioning. She had a persuasive way about her. D’Amico, a big, shy guy with a thick head of hair and moustache to match seemed to take a shine to her.
What the hell,
Skip thought.
Whatever works.

“Joe, you got a couple of priors here. Ever think about yourself? You like women, don’t you? Not many of those in Angola.”

He shifted toward her. “Look, I got a family.”

“You probably like to see them once in awhile too. Want to see your kids grow up, or you want to spend the next ten years pumping iron so you don’t end up some thug’s bitch?”

“I ain’t gon’ be nobody’s
bitch
.”

Skip said, “They grab you and hold you down, Joe. Three of them at a time jump you.”

“You shut up!”

She stood. At six feet in her uniform (worn specially for the occasion), she looked like nobody to mess with. “You shut up, punk! We got pictures of you robbing people’s graves. You know how unpopular that is? There aren’t twelve people in this town
wouldn’t
convict you. We got a whole yardful of people’s precious little angels and urns where they plant mums and pansies for dear departed papa from the old country. You gonna plead innocent? Innocent of what? Leaving the bones?”

Hagerty said, “Was this thing your idea, Joe? Or did somebody put you up to it? If anybody did, all you have to do is tell us who it was, and the D.A.’ll be nice to you. See, he knows he can’t solve this case without you, and he really needs to solve this case. You could get off with a couple of years, max; be home in time for little Stacy’s sweet sixteen party.”

Joe rubbed his eyebrows. “I had me a job in construction, real good job, but man, I’m getting too old for that shit. My joints are giving out you know? And Maureen needs clothes, and the kids got to have school uniforms…”

Hagerty practically had tears in her eyes. “Mmmph, mmph.”

“You’re disgusting,” Skip said. “Are you trying to say…”

“Look, here’s what I’m trying to say. Just let me spit it out, okay? This guy had termite damage— had to take out some walls in his shop…”

“What shop?”

“Little antique shop in the Quarter.”

“The French Quarter?”

The man nodded. “Chartres Street. Guy had this real pretty marble saint in his window. I said I liked it and he said, ‘Wish I had a hundred just like her. I could sell two, three every day.’ After a while, he said, ‘You wouldn’t know where to get more, would you’? I went, ‘Me? How the hell would I know? I ain’t no antique dealer.’ And he said, ‘Well, I just thought you bein’ Italian and all, maybe you had some in the family. People put ’em in cemeteries and stuff.’ And I got to thinkin’ that, yep, they sure did. So I told him maybe I could get him one. And I just went out to Lake Lawn in broad daylight and got him one. Easiest thing I ever did. I picked this old, deserted-looking tomb, you know, nobody was gonna miss it.”

Right,
Skip thought.
That’s just how it happened, all right. Forget the lady in the window; you’re the saint in this story.
She might have said it aloud, except that Joe was on a roll.

“I brought it in, and he just about went crazy. Said could I get him some urns too, and maybe some crosses. Said people love those things. He couldn’t get enough of ’em.”

“Did you tell him where the statue came from?”

“Hell, no, I didn’t tell him. I didn’t know him yet. He’d have to be crazy not to know, though. Right?”

“You tell me.”

Hagerty offered him a cigarette. He pounced on it like it was a hamburger. “Once, when I brought him this real nice statue, a little girl holding a bouquet, he said he’d seen one like it once. Axed me, wasn’t there a pair of ’em. And there was. I said, sure, I could get him the other one. After that he’d describe stuff: tell me exactly what he wanted and where to get it.”

“Where to get it?” Hagerty repeated mildly.

“Oh, yeah. He told me where to get it. That was when I brought in Lance and Jerome. We’d go get what he wanted, and while we was at it, we’d pick up other stuff too. Figured he wasn’t the only game in town. Pretty soon we had a list of regulars.”

“The Rashid brothers.”

“Naah, they only bought from us once.”

“Come on. We tailed you from Bilal’s house.”

“Would you listen to me? They’re nothin’, small-time nothin’.” Like it was disgusting. “We was just there to kind of talk them into payin’ up, you know?”

Hagerty sighed. “It’s a cash-and-carry business, Joe. You telling us you just gave them the stuff?”

“That idiot Jerome took half on delivery; felt sorry for ’em. Ain’t important. Would you
listen
? We had three regulars givin’ us art lessons: tellin’ us to go for the marble, not the concrete; how to tell the good stuff, like if the fingers was separate, ya know?”

“You tell us.”

“If the hand’s just carved out of one block, that’s one thing, see? But if they got each finger separate, like you can see through, then that’s real fine work. Desirable to collectors.”

He had Skip’s interest. “Go on.”

“Well, we worked for ’em reg’lar. Got ’em anything they axed for. They probably sold it out of town, a lot of it, but I know they got stuff right now. I
know
. Hadn’t had time to move it.” His face took on a sly look. “I can tell you where it is.”

“Okay, Joe. You tell us. Names and addresses.”

“Listen, y’all, I got a family. You gon’ make me a deal?”

“That’s up to the D.A., but if I had to guess, I’d give it about ninety-nine percent. You cooperate with us; we cooperate with you.”

“Promise me.”

“Who was that first guy— the one on Chartres Street?”

“Neil. Neil Gibson, like Mel. Real easy name to remember. He bought fifty thousand dollars’ worth of stuff from us.”

Skip felt slightly sick.

Joe said, “I gave you something; now you give me something. I want to make a deal.”

“Give us the other names, and we’re through here. We can take a break.”

“Can I have another cigarette?”

“Two names, Joe, and then we’re through.”

The man hunched over, thinking, and came up with a face full of fury. “Fuck you cunts! Just fuck you! I try to cooperate, and you just take advantage.”

Hagerty burst in, her voice soothing. “Now take it easy, Joe. You just take it easy.”

“Fuck you! I want a lawyer.”

Sometimes it went like that. Out of the blue, they got scared and balked. Skip and Hagerty tried to cajole him, but in the end they had to give up and let him call his lawyer. But they’d gotten a lot— more than they had a right to count on. Hagerty was excited. “Skip, this is gonna be big. A whole lot bigger than we thought.”

“I gotta go talk to A. A.”

“What’s wrong? Hey, we did great in there.”

She went to find Abasolo. “Okay, here’s what we got. Three Mr. Bigs, and we know the name of one of them.”

“What about the other two?”

“He clammed up. Asked for a lawyer.”

“Shit. Let’s see how LeDoux’s doing with Jerome.”

“A.A., wait a minute. I know the guy.”

“What you know Mr. Big? Who is he?”

“Antique dealer named Neil Gibson. He’s a friend of Jimmy Dee and Layne’s; I’ve had dinner with him.”

“Christ!”

“I’ve been to his Mardi Gras party. I can’t work this case.”

“That’s all? Dinner and a party? That’s the whole thing? That’s no conflict.”

“A.A., I just can’t do it. I couldn’t look Jimmy Dee in the eye.”

“Langdon, look at me. This is your old buddy, AA. They love you out in TV-land. Christ the
mayor
loves you. You can do it, and you’re gonna do it. You’re gonna get a search warrant and if you find anything, you’re gonna slap the cuffs on him and bring him in. This city needs that, you understand? We need a victory. We need a bigger budget for more recruits. We gotta get better equipment. How do you think we’re going to get it? Here’s how: You’re going to be our little Cemetery Angel.”

“You don’t get it: People love Neil Gibson too. It’s going to be divisive.”

“Who loves him? Rich, white, Quarter rats? Everybody else is gonna hate him.”

“Oh, hell. It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t if he was guilty; he was just like anybody else, no matter whose friend he was. “All right, A.A. Whatever you say.”

She got the warrant, served it, found stolen art, and marched her pal Neil down Chartres Street in handcuffs. It was one of the worst moments of her career.

She got the two others too— William Marks and Michael Layburn, also prominent antique dealers. Layburn was the biggest catch of all: A well-known preservationist, he was particularly active in Save Our Cemeteries.

Whether A. A. gave them the nickname or they made it up, the media did dub her the Cemetery Angel.

She could have died.

Almost the worst part was losing her decorator. Jimmy Dee just didn’t have the stomach for it anymore; she had to make do with the burly straight guys. One of them picked up Dee-Dee’s idea for Mardi Gras beads and music, though he chose marching tunes instead of Bach. Despite Skip’s own conflicts, the Madonna Market opened on such a festive note that she was able to muster up the requisite smile wreaths.

She dressed carefully for the occasion, in a plum-colored pantsuit that brought out her green eyes. Her job, she figured, was to be a hostess. It wasn’t all bad. People cried when they found their lost possessions; some of them hugged her.

It was nearly noon when a young woman approached her with a picture of a lost statue, a little boy who looked too sweet to be real, dressed in some kind of elaborate, maybe Victorian, outfit. She was nearly frantic. “I can’t find Billy. Billy just ain’t here.”

This was the down side. A lot of the stolen stuff would never be recovered. But there was something unusual about this young woman: She was the only black person in the place. Skip noted this only in passing— no time to worry about it now— and grabbed another officer, one of her burly decorators. “Hey, have you seen this statue?”