Crescent City Connection

want you to do it, too. I think she could be a real asset to our movement. She believes in the kinds of things we’re doing.”
    “Daddy, you told her? You told her what we’re trying to do?”
    “Shit, the whole world knows about The Jury. I just told her we’re it, that’s all.”
    “She could be working for the fuckin’ FBI for all you know.”
    “Well, she’s not. She’s with us. Lot of folks are with us. You got to get some confidence, boy.”
    “How the hell could she help us?”
    “She’s got money, Daniel. We could use some of that, couldn’t we?”
    “Daddy, you’re living in a dream world, you know that? That woman’s nothing to do with us.”
    “Don’t talk that way about your mother.”

Sixteen
    THE BEST SKIP could do was get the FBI to tap Rosemarie Owens’s phone. She wanted a full-time tail on her, but they wouldn’t go for it. “Why not?” she ranted. “Why the hell not?”
    Shellmire shrugged. “They don’t think it’s worth it. They think it’s grasping at straws.”
    “Well, what else are we going to grasp at?”
    “Hey, I just work here.”
    She started calling on all the art galleries in town, asking if anyone knew an artist who wore white and had a beard. There were nearly two hundred listings in the New Orleans phone book, but a surprising number proved to be antique stores. That might have narrowed it down, but plenty of gallery owners knew dealers or reps who worked out of their homes, people who weren’t listed in the book, but who knew plenty of local artists whose work had to get sold. Everywhere, she had to say the same thing: No, she didn’t know what kind of art he did. He could be a glassblower, he could be into graffiti. All she knew was, he wore white, and maybe he didn’t talk much. Everybody said if he wore black and wouldn’t shut up, they could probably help her.
    Shellmire called the Wednesday after she’d talked to Rosemarie Owens. “Any luck?”
    “Not yet. You?”
    “Not exactly. But something funny’s happened.”
    She didn’t like the tone of his voice. It sounded … what? Sheepish. “Oh, no. Something bad, you mean.”
    “It might have nothing to do with the case.”
    “Come on, what is it?”
    “Rosemarie Owens’s husband has turned up dead.”
    “Dead? What kind of dead?”
    “Suicide, maybe. He fell off a balcony.”
    “Pretty damn suspicious.”
    “Yeah, well. That’s what I said.”
    “When did it happen?
    “Last night. The Dallas police have already talked to Rosemarie.”
    “And let her go?”
    “Hell, she wasn’t even in town. She was in Atlanta with some friends.”
    “Damn convenient.”
    “Yeah.” He sounded a little sulky.
    “Anything from the wiretap?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I guess we weren’t soon enough.”
    “Now, Skip, don’t get your panties in a bunch about this.”
    “Don’t you dare talk to me that way.”
    “Just don’t get excited. Maybe he was remorseful about the way he treated her. Or maybe he got loaded and fell.”
    “Turner, will you do me a favor? Get the damn twenty-four-hour tail on her?”
    “I think that can be arranged. Sure. We got their attention now.”
    She could practically see him grinning. She grinned back, though neither could see the other. But as she hung up the phone, she started to think about what this meant.
    It’s my fault. Goddammit, it’s my fault.
    She got Steve to take her to a movie that night, and afterward she didn’t want to go home. She wanted to go in the Blacksmith Shop and drink awhile.
    They talked about the movie and Steve’s project and Layne’s miraculous cure. They didn’t say one word about The Jury, or Jacomine, or Rosemarie Owens. She didn’t want to think about it until she had to.
    Because it was only a matter of waiting. If she was right, she’d know soon enough.
    The next morning Roger Owens’s death was splashed all over the paper, with pictures of the tearful Other Woman, the young model who’d succeeded Rosemarie, and a summary of Roger’s accomplishments on the planet Earth, which he’d apparently devoted his life to destroying.
    Shellmire’s call came around noon: “The Dallas police got a letter.”
    “The Jury?”
    He sighed. “They’re faxing it over. You’d better come into the office.”
    In a way, it was like the others, especially so far as the rhetoric went: The Jury wanted justice and couldn’t get it through conventional means. Roger Owens was the kind of man who gave philanderers a bad name.