Crescent City Connection

was in it.”
    “I told the other officer. Painting supplies.”
    “Paint?”
    “Yeah. Cans of something. Looked like paint.”
    “Brand? Colors?”
    “I couldn’t see.” His body language showed irritation. She didn’t blame him.
    “Anything else?”
    “A ladder.”
    “Aluminum or wood?”
    “Aluminum.” He thought a minute. “Not tall, not short. About medium.”
    “Now, you got it. You got it, Ezra. What else?”
    “Drop cloths. Hey! Bed in a bag.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “There’s this company that puts together these kits—you can buy everything, a comforter, dust ruffle, sheets, pillowcases, everything you need for about a hundred dollars. The whole thing comes in a plastic bag and they call it ‘Bed in a Bag.’ Cheap, but popular. Real, real popular.”
    “You sound like you know all about it.”
    “I should. I work at Macy’s in the bed and bath department. I’ve sold about a million of them. This guy had ‘Early American’—the drop cloth.”
    Skip felt a tingling in her stomach. “What does it look like?”
    “Kind of like a quilt. Only it’s not, really—it’s just a polyester comforter. It’s red, white, and blue. I guess that’s what the name comes from.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yeah. I bought one for my sister last week—she just moved into her own apartment.” It wasn’t a plate number, but it was something. Skip went back to add the ladder and the drop cloth to the bulletin.
    The coroner had already come. She was consulting with the crime lab techs, barely listening, mostly just trying to hold herself together when the call came. A district car had the truck in sight.
    She took Boudreaux with her, leaving Cappello to supervise the crime scene. Tires squealing, they drove to Earhart Boulevard, where the vehicle had been spotted. They heard it all on the radio: The district officers waited for backup and then signaled the truck to stop. Instead, it went through a light and took off. The officers gave chase. Skip drove like a demon.
    In a minute it was all over—the officers lost the truck. The good news was, they had a plate number. The truck was registered to a Nolan Bazemore, who lived in Mid-City. A new bulletin went out.
    Skip asked the dispatcher to send someone to Bazemore’s house, but she wasn’t hopeful. She might as well get back to the crime scene. Bazemore’d have to be crazy to go home. He’d go someplace he felt safe.
    But where?
    “I don’t know,” Boudreaux said. “I’d go to my girlfriend’s.”
    “Yeah, or some other friend’s. Maybe even a bar.”
    “Naah, I don’t think a bar. He’d want to go someplace with a garage. To hide his plates.”
    Boudreaux chewed on a toothpick. He’d quit smoking and started chewing. “Bazemore’s kind of a funny name. I was in the army with a kid named that—from South Carolina or someplace. Never heard the name again till I read Beach Music—you know that book? Same damn part of the country. So I figured, must be some kind of Carolina name—like Boudreaux’s a Louisiana name. Guy’s probably a peckerwood from the low country. That’s what they call it, see … what the hell are you doing?”
    Skip had pulled into a gas station and put on the emergency brake. “I’m looking him up in the phone book.”
    “You crazy? We know where he lives.”
    Two Bazemores were listed, Nolan being one. It sure couldn’t hurt to try the second.
    She got back in the car. “I thought since it was such an odd name, he might be related to all the others. Guess what? There’s only one.”
    Boudreaux chucked his toothpick and stretched his feet out. “You’re grasping at straws, Langdon.”
    * * *
    The other Bazemore, Edwin, lived in Lakeview, a modest residential section that didn’t have a view of the lake.
    As soon as they turned onto the street, they saw the truck. It was making a spectacle of itself, though, in truth, if Skip and Jerry hadn’t been there, there’d have been no one to observe it. The driver was backing into a driveway, as if to get the truck bed close enough to load something—though Skip was sure it was to hide the plate number.
    Boudreaux had unfolded from his languid slump. He was bolt upright, head swiveling. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
    The door opened and a woman peeked out—an older woman, with black cotton knit pants pulled over spreading hips. A print polyester blouse completed the ensemble. She couldn’t more obviously have been someone’s mother if she’d