Crescent City Connection

visible.
    Abasolo said, “Let’s just duck her.”
    “Right.”
    Jane waved. “Hey, Skip.”
    “Hey, Jane. Sorry. Can’t talk now.”
    “I’ve got something for you.”
    That was the last thing she’d expected to hear. It stopped her in her tracks.
    Jane said, “What’s happening today? Is it the heat or what?”
    “Big news day, huh?” This was New Orleans—you didn’t get away without small talk.
    “Listen, you know that Maple Street thing? That guy you shot? I know him.”
    He had been tentatively identified as Darnell Roberts, twenty-eight, no known address. That was all they had. Skip said, “You know him?”
    “Yeah. From a long time ago—when I did the story on Blood of the Lamb.” The name of Jacomine’s flock.
    “He was a member?”
    Jane nodded. “Fanatic’s more like it; he was the press liaison or something. Called me up and more or less made a threat. Course he said later he never said it. So what do you think? Was that juice bar thing connected with Jacomine? Is our favorite bogeyman surfacing again?”
    Skip rolled her eyes. “No comment, Janie.”
    “Well, let me tell
you
something. You know who the getaway car is registered to?”
    “What getaway car?’
    “This one. The one in the McDonogh forty-three kidnapping.”
    “No comment, Janie.” She didn’t even know someone had gotten the plate.
    “I do. Darnell Roberts. You think these two things are connected?”
    Abasolo said, “Holy shit.”
    “I’ll take that for a yes. What do you think the asshole’s up to?”
    “What do
you
think?”
    The reporter rolled her own eyes, “No comment, Skippy.”
    Skip and Abasolo went to find Shellmire, who had just talked to the principal. He was sporting two kinds of forehead cleavage, horizontal and vertical. “Skip, this is nasty.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “It’s about you. You know that, don’t you?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “But what he wants, I don’t know.”
    “I do. He wants me dead, but he wants to torture me first.”
    “You know what? In any other situation, I’d call for a shrink. But I have a bad feeling you’re right.”
    Skip was so used to the idea that hearing it put so baldly didn’t even give her goose bumps. She said, “Has anyone talked to Dorise?”
    “The mother? Let’s do it now.” He gave her a hard stare. “You know what, Langdon? I like your sangfroid.”
    “It’s an act. I’m shaking on the inside. Have been for weeks.”
    “That’s a good thing. Otherwise I’d worry.” And for a second, he rested a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, maybe I should go alone. You shot this woman’s husband, didn’t you? She might not see you.”
    “You know damn well I did. But I’d like to try. Let me tell Abasolo.”
    She caught up with the sergeant. “AA, I want to go with Shellmire to talk to the mother. How about if you stay here and pick up what you can?”
    “You got it. I’m sure she doesn’t want to see both of us.” He’d been with her when she shot Delavon.
    As Shellmire maneuvered out of his parking place, Skip said, “She lives in Gentilly. Moved away from the East. Too many memories, I guess.”
    He said, “I know that—I got her address from the school. But how do you know that?”
    “I’ve kept up with the family. But—you know—I’ve been pretty private about it.” She stared out the window, thinking.
    “Meaning, how did Jacomine know kidnapping this kid was going to get to you?”
    “Yeah. He’s got to have sources within the department.”
    “Have you actually been to visit?”
    “Not exactly.”
    He turned to her and raised an eyebrow.
    “Watch your driving, will you? I… uh … leave little trinkets sometimes. For Shavonne.”
    “Uh-huh. Well, maybe The Jury’s been watching you.”
    That one did give her goose bumps. She was silent for the rest of the trip.
    They found Dorise with a district officer, a school official, her mother, and her sister. She’d apparently gotten over having hysterics and was now sitting pitifully on an old gold-covered sofa, tearing tissues into shreds.
    Shellmire displayed his shield. “Agent Turner Shellmire, FBI. This is Detective Langdon.”
    Dorise nodded, turning to Skip. “I know Detective Langdon. You my secret admirer.”
    “Pardon me?”
    “That jus’ a little joke I tell myself. You leave little presents for Sh—” Apparently, she couldn’t say the name. “For my daughter.”
    “I do, yes.”
    “Well, that’s real nice of you. I know you feel bad