Crescent City Connection

for the night, he had no choice.
    He drove back slowly, stopping at the end of the block to see if there were any strange cars on the street. Things looked normal. Everything was quiet.

Twenty-two
    LOVELACE HAD RECOGNIZED the cop as soon as she came in shooting—Skip Langdon, the one Michelle said was so nice. To her surprise, the others were nice, too—the ones who took her to Headquarters and got her coffee and asked if she was hungry while she waited for Langdon. She had requested Langdon, and they said, yes, Lovelace was going to get to talk to her, but it was going to be a while. Another female cop came in, Sergeant Cappello, a nice-looking, calm-seeming woman dressed in a black pantsuit. She asked if Lovelace needed anything, and Lovelace asked her if Anthony was okay, and if she could talk to him.
    “Not now,” she said. “They took him to Charity.”
    Charity Hospital. Lovelace happened to know his wife was out of town. She jumped up. “I’d better go stay with him—he’s probably by himself.”
    But the sergeant explained to her she didn’t think that was a good idea; Lovelace had better just wait for Langdon. She started feeling trapped, and wondered if she was. She thought about asking for a lawyer. She wasn’t a criminal, she was a victim—could they hold her against her will?
    On the other hand, what lawyer was she going to call, and how was she going to pay him? Maybe she should call Michelle—her parents could get her a lawyer.
    She was about to ask to make a call when Langdon appeared and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Skip Langdon.”
    Not Detective Langdon. Skip. Lovelace liked that. Langdon wasn’t playing games with her. And she liked the way Langdon looked as well. She was even taller than Lovelace. The shape of her face and her nose were what she thought of as Irish, though she didn’t know why. The eyes were slightly almond-shaped, and they were a vivid green. Maybe that was it. Then she had this curly, tumbling hair, which was pinned up, but barely, and smooth, pretty skin, brownish-gold, like a baguette.
    There was something about her that was very down to earth, casual even. Maybe, if you got right down to it, even a little sloppy. She was slightly overweight, for one thing, and her butt jiggled inside a pair of linen pants that tied with a drawstring and that were almost floods—but when you were as tall as Langdon, Lovelace had no idea how you ever got pants that were long enough. She had enough trouble herself. The cop’s tucked-in cotton tank top was a bit on the tired side, and sort of a khaki green that almost went with the beige pants, but not quite.
    She moved awkwardly, too, like a girl who’d never had ballet lessons. She didn’t seem even slightly intimidating.
    Lovelace said, “I’m Lovelace Jacomine. But you know that.”
    “Sit down,” said the detective, and they both did. “You have no idea how worried about you I’ve been.”
    “I heard you were looking for me.”
    “Night and day, young lady. Night and day.”
    She asked again, “How’s Anthony?”
    “He’s okay. They sent him home.”
    “How about the other man—the one with my dad?”
    “Not good.” A shadow crossed the cop’s face.
    “Dead?”
    The cop nodded, and Lovelace thought she looked as sad as if a relative had died instead of a man who’d tried to kill her. Skip said, “The other man is your dad?”
    “Uh-huh. Did you find him?”
    “He’s a pretty slick operator, you know that?”
    The cop was starting to play games. Lovelace hated it when someone answered a question with a question. She spoke sharply. “Is he okay? Tell me.”
    “Take it easy. I’d tell you if I knew. He got away. Tell me something, will you? Why does your own dad want to kidnap you?”
    “To take me to my grandfather.”
    “And how do you know that?”
    “My grandmother told me. At least, a woman who said she’s my grandmother, but those two haven’t seen each other in a million years as far as I know. I can’t figure out why she thinks that.”
    “How about if you start from the beginning.”
    And so Lovelace did, beginning with her dad’s kidnapping her on the Northwestern campus and ending with the shoot-out at Judy’s Juice.
    When she had finished, Langdon had only one question, having apparently heard most of the story from Michelle. “Where,” she asked, “did you say your uncle Isaac lives?”
    “I didn’t say.”
    “I thought you said the Bywater.”
    Had she? “My uncle