Crescent City Connection

her, it was the FBI.
    She was a bit crumpled right now, at least so far as her posture went. But her blond hair still looked shiny, her eyes were bright, and the close-fitting T-shirt that came just to the top of her jeans was fresh as ever. It was chartreuse.
    Skip could see the girl’s exhaustion, but she didn’t have an impression of much else before she introduced herself—all she knew was that something changed immediately. Michelle sat up straighter, seemed suddenly alert.
    She had said, “Hi, Michelle. I’m Detective Skip Langdon, New Orleans Police Department.”
    She wondered if Lovelace had known about her, remembered her from the earlier case involving her grandfather, and mentioned her to her roommate. “You know me?”
    The girl shook her head, looking confused.
    “I thought Lovelace might have mentioned me.”
    “No. May I see your badge?”
    “Sure.”
    Michelle examined it in detail. Hardly anyone ever did that. It was New Orleans, then—perhaps that meant something to her.
    Playing the hunch, she said, “You know who Lovelace’s grandfather is?”
    Michelle stiffened, and seemed to grow paler. She nodded.
    “He’s wanted for murder. You know that.”
    The girl only blinked.
    “He kidnapped my niece and almost had her killed.”
    Once again, she saw Michelle react. Her body swayed backward slightly, as if she’d been struck by an invisible fist.
    “What is it, Michelle?”
    The girl shook her head.
    “Listen, this is no time to keep girlish secrets. Lovelace isn’t in trouble, she’s in danger. This is not a guy who messes around.”
    The last sentence was true, anyway. As for the rest, for all Skip knew, Lovelace was even now cleaning her rifle, having mowed down Nolan Bazemore.
    “What sort of danger?”
    “Suppose you tell me.”
    “You know what I hate about cops? You expect everybody to spill their guts and you never give anything away.”
    “Okay, that’s off your chest. It’s the nature of the job, and there’s nothing either you or I can do about it. I repeat, your friend’s in danger. You want to help or you want to waste time we could use trying to get her out of it?”
    The girl looked almost sheepish for a second and then regained her composure. “I prefer being treated with respect.”
    Skip chose to take it as a bargaining point—to give the girl what she asked for, as she might give another witness a cigarette. She had a feeling this one was dying to talk—all she needed was an excuse.
    She sat down. She’d been standing, in fact standing close, invading Michelle’s space and making her look up. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “Listen, let me tell you something about myself and what I think. I’ve had several encounters with Michelle’s grandfather and he’s slightly less dangerous than Hitler, I’d say, but quite a bit nastier than Charles Manson, whom he resembles in certain ways.”
    “What ways?”
    Michelle was trying to take control of the interview, and Skip was willing to let her have it for a while. There was no harm repeating public information. “He’s a nasty little man with a strange charisma I don’t understand—but that seems to attract people who want to be told what to do.” She smiled. “Nobody like you.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Not everybody sitting in an interrogation room at the federal building is quite so uppity.”
    Michelle blushed. “Well, I—”
    “You’re obviously an intelligent person in charge of her life, and you’re right—I should treat you like one. So here’s the story—he’s wanted for murder, and anybody he’s close to or who he’s ever been close to could be in danger. You could be in danger, just because you know Lovelace.”
    “What about Lovelace’s dad?”
    “What about him?”
    “Where does he fit into this?”
    Somewhere
, Skip thought.
Or else why’d you bring him up?
She said, “You asked me to treat you with respect and I’m going to ask the same thing of you. Frankly, I think you mentioned him because you know more about that than I do. Look, Michelle, your roommate’s been gone for days and you never reported it to anybody.”
    “I told your—colleagues—” she said the word as if it were “servants” “—that she told me she was going home for a while. To me, she wasn’t missing. So why would I report her missing?”
    “Why would she go home in the middle of the semester?”
    “She needed a break.” Michelle looked uncomfortable, as if wondering