Crescent City Connection

my uncle?”
    “No, baby, it’s not your uncle. Langdon, you through here?”
    “Yes.”
    “Lovelace, we’re going to have to put you in protective custody for a while. Stay here a minute more. I’ll send someone for you as soon as I can.”
    She didn’t wait for an answer, just left the interrogation room, Skip following.
    “What is it?”
    “Someone’s kidnapped a little girl at school, just as the kids were getting out for the day. The FBI’s over there—they want you right away.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m afraid it’s a kid you know. Shavonne Bourgeois.”
    “Oh, shit! It’s Jacomine. Oh, shit—Shavonne. I never thought of that—I thought Sheila or Kenny. I never thought Shavonne. Oh, God, the man’s evil. I swear to God he’s the devil. Always one step ahead, no matter how I think I’m in control.”
    “Hey, hey. Take it easy.”
    The tirade had been involuntary. She expected Cappello to tell her how paranoid she was, possibly even to take her off the case. The sergeant said, “You want to sit down?”
    “I’m okay, goddammit. I’m just mad.”
And scared half out of my mind
.
    “We need to talk about this. Let’s go in my office.” Cappello would probably send her to Cindy Lou this time—a definitive vote of no confidence. It would end up in an administrative reassignment, and she needed to be on the case. She could have bitten her tongue off.
    Still, there was nothing to do but follow the sergeant like a puppy-dog.
    Cappello made her sit, though Skip was far too antsy to pull it off with any grace. She wanted to stand; she wanted to pace. She wanted to chew nails and pound walls.
    Cappello said, “You think Jacomine kidnapped Shavonne to get to you somehow.” She sounded like a shrink, humoring the patient.
    “I know it sounds crazy, but he is crazy. I’m telling you, Sylvia….”
    “The FBI agrees with you.”
    “What?” Skip hoped her mouth wasn’t hanging open. She said, “Shellmire.”
    Cappello nodded. “Shellmire knows all about you and Delavon. He knew exactly who Shavonne was, and apparently the feds huddled and came up with the same theory you have.”
    “Do they have any evidence?”
    “None.” But she hesitated.
    “What?”
    “Well, I guess the whole terrorist thing got to them. And, frankly, maybe the fact that it was a white guy”
    “I don’t get it”
    She shrugged. “Obviously it wasn’t the kid’s father. He cut the phone lines and marched right in wearing coveralls and those insect glasses—scary as hell. And he shot someone for no reason.”
    “Dead?”
    “Not so far.”
    Skip sighed. “If there’s a Jacomine M.O., that’s more or less it—terrorist tactics, senseless violence.”
    “Listen. How’re you holding up?” It was the same question Cappello had asked before, when Danny LaSalle had shot Herbert. It meant “Are you going to make it or are you going to fall apart after shooting that man today?”
    “I’m fine.” It was more or less true. She wasn’t fine, but she wasn’t falling apart either—at least not yet. She was running on adrenaline. “What about Public Integrity?”
    That was the department’s name for Internal Affairs, the cops who policed cops. She had been scheduled to report immediately after talking to Lovelace—standard procedure when an officer fired a shot.
    “Later. The chief wants you out at the school. You’re the only officer familiar with the case—and you may end up at the center of it. The whole goddamn city’s exploding, and he doesn’t want to look like an idiot.”
    “Too little too late.”
    She could have sworn the sergeant suppressed a smile. “Go. Abasolo’s waiting for you.”
    Great. She finally had help.
    It was bedlam at the school. The streets were clogged with parents and school buses trying to get the kids home. Emergency vehicles were everywhere, though there had been only three injuries—the shooting and bruises resulting from a fall and a gun butt to the head.
    Feds and policemen swarmed, streaked with sweat and looking disoriented. There was an odd sense of panic in the air.
    An army of press was there. As soon as she and Abasolo emerged from their car, a familiar figure started toward them.
    “Shit. Jane Storey.” A former print reporter who’d been trying to nail Jacomine almost as long as Skip had. They’d pooled information once, and she’d had more than Skip. Skip owed her. And now she worked in television, which made her about ninety times as