Crescent City Connection

how far to go.
    “About that respect you mentioned—excuse me, how dumb do you think I am?”
    “That’s what happened.” Now she was sullen, a little girl who’d been lectured.
    She’d been telling the same story for hours and didn’t seem about to deviate. Skip did what every police officer hates doing almost more than anything else—gave her a piece of information: “No one’s home in Fort Lauderdale. Where do you think she is?”
    “How would I know?” She flailed her arms, irritated.
    That was the wrong reaction. “Aren’t you surprised to hear she isn’t where she said she was going?”
    “She could have gone there and left.”
    “Look, maybe you think cops are dumb.”
    “No, I—”
    “You aren’t surprised because you already knew. You know where she is, Michelle. And she’s very likely in danger.
Very
likely. I don’t care what she told you about her grandfather, or about anything she’s doing—the plain truth is, he’s a homicidal maniac. Is she your friend or isn’t she? It’s that simple. If she is, talk to me.”
    “You really think it has something to do with her grandfather?”
    “You think it has something to do with her dad. He called the school and said she was at home. She isn’t. He’s a man with no known address. Am I getting through to you?”
    “Oh, Jesus.”
    “She’s in over her head, Michelle. She needs somebody to pull her out.”
    The girl put her hand to her mouth and nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
    Skip waited, not saying anything, letting the girl gather her thoughts.
    “Her dad kidnapped her and drugged her. But she got away. She’s okay.”
    “How do you know that, Michelle?”
    “She called and told me. And said not to tell anyone. To keep it quiet.”
    “Why do you think that is?”
    “She had … problems, once. She was depressed. Spent time in a psychiatric hospital. She thinks her dad can use that against her any time he wants—he can just say she’s suicidal or something, or she’s crazy, and people’ll believe him instead of her.”
    “Look. The FBI isn’t trying to track her down because her dad says she has mental problems—that should be obvious, shouldn’t it?”
    “Yeah. Yeah. It doesn’t make sense.” She was finally working it out.
    Skip said, “Where is she, Michelle?”
    “She’s with her Uncle Isaac. In New Orleans.”
    “Her Uncle Isaac?”
    “Yeah. Is he—uh—involved with her grandfather?”
    God, I wish I knew
. She said, “Do you have an address for him? A phone number?”
    Michelle shook her head, holding her shoulders with arms crossed over her chest.
    “Tell me about him.”
    “Tell you what?” She evidently didn’t know where to start.
    “What does Lovelace say about him? Does he live alone? Is he married?”
    “I think he does live alone. She hasn’t mentioned anyone else.”
    “Go on.”
    “He’s an artist. He wears white all the time.”
    “What kind of artist?”
    “Well, now, I don’t know. That’s funny, she didn’t say—but then she was talking so fast. Like she didn’t have much time.”
    “What’s the white about?”
    “Some kind of religious thing, I guess. Lovelace says he meditates a lot, and everything in his house is white. Also, he cleans house a million times a day and take showers all the time. Maybe he’s got some kind of thing about purity. He doesn’t talk. I forgot about that.”
    “Doesn’t talk? He’s mute?”
    Michelle frowned, apparently puzzled. “I’m not sure. All I know is, crazy Uncle Isaac doesn’t talk much.”
    “Much? Or at all?”
    She bit her lip. “Not sure.”
    “Has she only called once?”
    “Yes.”
    “If she calls back, call us instantly, and try to talk her into calling us.”
    “Okay.”
    Skip asked a few questions designed to reveal Isaac’s living arrangements, but Michelle didn’t seem to know whether he had an apartment or a house, or what neighborhood he lived in.
    And then Skip asked the question that was really bothering her: “Why did her own father kidnap her?”
    “That’s what I’m wondering. She doesn’t know.”
    Skip was fitful on the plane going home. She stared at the picture of Lovelace and Michelle the feds had given her, Michelle at least having cooperated to that extent. Lovelace was quite a bit taller than her friend, and somewhat heavier. She had almond-shaped eyes and a conventionally pretty face, except that it was still round with baby fat. Her hair was light red, pulled back