Crescent City Connection

“Sister! Sister, lemme ax you somethin’.”
    The sister came back to the living room, a shorts-clad, slightly messier version of Dorise, heavy though still in her twenties. “You ever see Dashan touch Shavonne?”
    “No. He be real careful ’bout that. Never got nowhere near her. He watch her though. Mmm-mmm. He shore did watch her.”
    Shellmire said, “Mrs. Bourgeois, did he ever say where he lived?”
    “Well, I don’t know why—I never did ax. I thought he just be a gentleman, not tryin’ nothin’, you know—tryin’ to get me over there.”
    “Do you have a phone number?”
    “No. He always call me—I thought he be so nice. Always call me.”
    “Do you have anything—anything at all—he might have touched?”
    “What you mean?”
    “A glass or something. For fingerprints.”
    “He didn’t touch nothin’ far as I can remember.”
    “Okay. What about a description?”
    “Tall, light-skinned brother. Powerful man; good-lookin’! Yeah, he sure good-lookin’.”
    “He’s a black man?”
    Dorise looked at her as if she were crazy. “Course, he black. You think some white man’s gon’ want a great big ass like mine?”
    “Ms. Bourgeois, the kidnapper was white.” She felt slightly guilty about withholding this salient fact even as long as she had. But she had wanted Dorise as upset as possible to keep her talking.
    “He
white?
The kidnapper white? Oh, thank you, Jesus! I didn’t kill my little girl. Oh, Lord, I didn’t do it!”
    Skip thought,
Don’t be too sure
.
    She and Shellmire got a more detailed description and the name of the church where Dorise had met Jericho.
    It came as no surprise that the pastor didn’t know him, and didn’t know who did. Jericho had attended church only the once, had cut a wide swath of admiration through the female congregation, and had never been seen again.
    He wasn’t listed in the New Orleans phone book or in the Monroe book, he had no criminal record and no Social Security number—in short, he appeared to have sprung from nowhere for the sole purpose of helping Jacomine snatch a little girl away from her mother.
    Skip felt her shoulders tighten again.
    She and Shellmire were working out of FBI headquarters. Abasolo joined them to report on the scene at the school. He had only one piece of pertinent information. “There was a driver, and the witness thinks it was a male. But she couldn’t say for sure if he was black or white. Or even, for that matter, that he was definitely male. Too busy getting the plate.”
    Skip said, “Bless her for that. The address on the registration didn’t check out, I presume?”
    “You presume correctly.”
    She turned to Shellmire. “Do you guys have someone watching Isaac’s house?”
    Shellmire shrugged. “Shore, honey. We’re the FBI. Doesn’t mean we got diddly, though.”

Twenty-four
    TAKING THE PRECAUTION of leaving his scooter around the corner, The Monk hesitated, not able to make a decision to return to his house.
    He thought of walking by and checking out all the parked cars, but what if the cops knew what he looked like now? Maybe they’d talked to the neighbors—maybe Pamela had told them.
    Actually, he was pretty sure Pamela wouldn’t tell them anything.
    But then again she might if they told her he was in danger. Or if she suspected he’d killed someone.
    Did she suspect? Did other people suspect? Did he look as if he’d killed someone, or was it all internal?
    The Monk felt even more undecided and unable to think, and vulnerable to odd ideas than usual.
I know
, he thought.
Actually, I really know. I know I didn’t kill anybody, but how can I be sure ? Maybe I did.
    The thought disappeared almost as soon as it surfaced. At the moment he had more immediate pressures, and he’d noticed that when he needed to focus on something, the crazy thoughts went away and he was better able to think with his real mind. He thought of it that way—he had a real mind and a crazy one. It was just that the crazy one took over so often.
    He suddenly had a thought:
I could just call Pamela. I know her last name. Why not give her a call? She might know something.
    He got his scooter, went to the Cafe Marigny, looked Pamela up, and dialed before he had time to think about it.
    “Pamela? Hey. This is Isaac next door.”
    “Isaac?” She sounded utterly mystified.
    “The White Monk.”
    “You’re not The Monk. The Monk don’t talk.” Now she was mad.
    “Pamela, it’s me, honest—please