Crescent City Connection

killing somebody?”
    “I’m all right here. I can’t hurt anyone while I’m in here.”
    He didn’t seem as if he’d hurt a fly.
    “You’re a monk, aren’t you? A religious man. I’m sure you wouldn’t hurt anyone without a good reason.”
    “I might’ve. I’m trying to think—I might’ve.”
    “Do you have a problem with your memory?”
    “No. It’s not that. I just can’t be sure. Listen, I might know where Daniel is.”
    “Daniel? Is it Daniel you might have killed?”
    “I don’t know. I need to see Lovelace.”
    “I can’t let you see Lovelace if you’re dangerous.”
    “I’m not dangerous to Lovelace. The last thing I would ever do is let any harm come to her.”
    “Tell me where the person is you think you might have killed. He could be lying there hurt—we might be able to get to him in time.”
    “You don’t understand. I think I might have killed someone; I just can’t be sure I didn’t.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “There’s nothing to tell. I just might have killed someone, that’s all.”
    Her frustration was mounting. She was quiet, sipping her own coffee.
Count to ten, Skip. Don’t blow this.
    She said, “Can I ask you something? If you don’t want to tell me what happened, why did you call?”
    “To tell you where I saw Daniel.”
    “And where was that?”
    “A house on Magazine Street.” He gave her the address.
    “How did you happen to see him?”
    “I followed him there. I was watching Lovelace to make sure she didn’t get into trouble. I saw those two guys go in the juice bar, and I went to call 911 and then you were there. I hung up and took shelter, and then when I saw Lovelace get in a police car, I left to try to meet her here. But on the way I found Daniel.”
    “You found him.” He sounded perfectly sane when he was explaining himself, precise even—until he got to the punch line.
    “I just saw him on the street—in a pickup. I followed it, of course.”
    “You just happened to be at the place where there was a shooting, and then you just happened to see a man the police were searching for, whom nobody else could find….” She heard her voice rising.
    Isaac shrank down in his chair. “You don’t have to believe me.”
    “All right. You followed the pickup. Then what?”
    He spread his arms, palms open. “Then Daniel went in.”
    “And after that?”
    “Then I watched the house for a while, but no one came out or went in. I couldn’t decide what to do, but I knew I couldn’t go home because you were watching my house.”
    “Yes?”
    “So I found a place to go and I saw that thing on television. That Jane Storey thing.”
    “Umm-hmm.”
    “I didn’t know they had that little girl. I had to do something.”
    “Did you see the artist’s sketch?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you recognize it?”
    “I think it was Daniel. It didn’t really look like him, but if my dad’s behind this thing, it’s him.”
    “Why didn’t you call us immediately?”
    “I didn’t know what to do.” He jumped at a noise behind Skip; Shellmire came in.
    Skip said, “Hey, Turner. This is The White Monk.”
    “Well, hey, Mr. Monk. We been mighty worried about you.” He was giving Isaac his good ol’ boy routine; he must sense the same thing she had about Isaac. That he wasn’t a man to push.
    “This is Agent Shellmire, Isaac. Why don’t you tell him what you told me?”
    Patiently, Isaac told him, Shellmire saying, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” every time he paused. When he had finished, Shellmire said, “Tell us about the person you think you killed.”
    “I don’t really think I killed anybody. I just think I might have.”
    Skip found herself grinding her teeth. She excused herself, and sat at her desk rubbing her temples, trying to think what to do. In a moment, Shellmire followed. She said, “What do you think?”
    “Let’s get somebody on that house,” He used her phone to order surveillance, and she was grateful. She could have gotten someone herself, but the department was so hugely understaffed any help was welcome—even from the feds.
    Especially from the feds; they had money.
    “Okay. Let’s divide the labor.”
    Skip looked at her watch. “Why don’t you work on The Monk some more? I’ve had him for half an hour. I guess I better wake up the assessor.”
    “I was hopin’ you’d say that. I hate gettin’ cussed out this early in the day. The Monk’s more my speed; too holy for cussin’.”
    “Hey, I just remembered