Crescent City Connection

sound registered as a burglar alarm. In the dream she panicked, started to slide down the pitched roof. The cat yowled, and Steve shook her awake. “Skip. You were dreaming.”
    “My beeper.” Half-asleep, she dialed her office.
    “Langdon, you want to talk to someone named The White Monk?”
    “Jesus.” She came fully awake. “What’s the number?”
    A man answered; a simple “hello.”
    “This is Skip Langdon. Did you call me?”
    “You’re in Homicide, aren’t you? I think I might have killed somebody.”
    “Who is this?”
    “You know me. I’m The White Monk.”
    “Do you have another name?”
    “Isaac Jacomine. How’s Lovelace? I need to see her.”
    “Where are you, Isaac?”
    “I’ll come to you.”
    “Is somebody hurt? Why do you think you killed somebody?”
    “If I didn’t already, I might. You need to lock me up. I need to be locked up.”
    “Tell me where you are and I’ll be there right away.”
    “I’ll come to you. Tell me where you are.”
    She said again, “Is someone hurt? Tell me if someone’s hurt.”
    “I don’t know if anyone’s hurt.” His voice was genuinely bewildered, utterly frustrated, the voice of a child who doesn’t understand what the grown-ups want.
    “Tell me where they are and we’ll send somebody over.”
    “Look, I’ll meet you at police headquarters.” He hung up.
    Steve said, “Well?”
    “I sure as hell don’t know what that was. But I think I’m up.”
    “Damn. You need a good night’s sleep.”
    She called Shellmire, who was his usual skeptical self. “Do you think it’s really The Monk?”
    “Got no idea. This killing thing doesn’t make sense.”
    Shellmire was impatient, eager to get things moving. “Listen, we’ll send a car for you. The guys watching the house’ll stay there. I don’t want your family left alone and I don’t want you driving by yourself. Now, do this: Tell everyone in your household to stay there till further notice. Hear me? Nobody goes to school or work. Nobody goes anywhere. Nobody comes over. I’ll meet you as soon as I can—I live on the North Shore. It’ll take a while.”
    “They’re going to love that.”
    In fact, Steve said, “Oh, peachy. ‘General Hospital,’ here I come. Oprah, you’re my girlfriend. You’re calling Dee-Dee, right? I can’t face him this time of day.”
    Dee-Dee said, “Darling, what’s up? I’ve still got my sleep goggles on.”
    “House arrest, Dee-Dee.”
    “Oooo, baby. You must know what I did last night.”
    “I think it’s only a crime in Georgia, but here’s the deal.” She explained.
    “Good thing Layne spent the night. He can play games with the kids.” Layne, a puzzle maker by profession, knew every board game, card game, and parlor game ever invented in any country.
    “Layne spent the night?” That was something new, given his allergy and Dee-Dee’s discretion.
    “Separate bedrooms, of course.”
    The FBI car was there in less than fifteen minutes. When Skip walked into Homicide, a smallish man with a shaved head was waiting for her, wearing black, not white. Bits of grass and weeds clung to his T-shirt, as if he’d slept outside. He had five o’clock shadow all over his skull.
    She said, “I thought you wore white.”
    “This is my disguise.” To her surprise, he smiled. “You can’t say it didn’t work.”
    As she shook hands, she noticed he smelled as if he hadn’t showered lately.
    “Sit down, won’t you? Would you like some coffee?”
    He looked pathetically grateful, and Skip realized that she liked him. There was something infinitely sweet about this man, something uncomplicated and basic. She hoped he wasn’t a murderer.
    She got him his coffee. “Shall we go someplace private?” The only choice was an interrogation room, but she sensed he’d do better there than in the detective bureau, with its noisy comings and goings, and the random prisoner sitting shackled, waiting to be transferred.
    He seemed to relax a little once he’d had some coffee. She tried to put him at his ease a little further; she didn’t think bullying would work on him. “Isaac, we’ve been worried about you.”
    “I know.” He seemed slightly ashamed.
    She turned on the tape recorder she’d brought into the room. Isaac said, “What’s that for?”
    She smiled. “Just something we do.”
    “Am I under arrest?”
    “Of course not. We’re not going to arrest you unless you committed a crime.” She paused. “What’s this about