Crescent City Connection

does she know?”
    “Okay, okay, don’t rub it in. Guess you were right. There’s probably a reason the hubby turned up dead. We got her in custody in Dallas—I was calling to ask if you want to fly over and get in on the interrogation.”
    “Good God, yes. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
    “At the Camellia Grill, along with the burgers.”
    “Turner, do you realize what this means? I’ve got to call Cappello. And Joe.”
    She hung up.
    “Steve! The FBI’s got evidence pointing to Jacomine.”
    “Hey, congratulations—hometown girl makes good.”
    “It’s not over till it’s over. But, man, this is hot. Maybe they’ll finally give me some help. We’re this close—” she held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “We’re gonna get the bastard.”
    The Camellia Grill, which never closes, did at five A.M. the next day, while staff and customers were replaced with policemen.
    By six, the transition was complete. By six forty-five, Skip was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee. At seven, she began to feel restless. She kept fighting the urge to look over her shoulder, or even at the door. She was well covered. She stared at her coffee.
    A man came in and sat next to her, a man in coat and tie, looking as if he were on his way to work. “Morning,” she said.
    He grunted and ordered coffee. The place was starting to hum. A woman in a miniskirted power suit flipped in and got something to go—a woman too old to be Lovelace.
    Two other customers took counter stools. One—apparently a regular—asked where the usual staff was. The wait-cop shrugged. “Out, I guess.”
    Skip thought,
That should cover it
. She looked at her watch.
    Seven-ten. Still in the ballgame.
    Her coffee cup was empty.
    She got a refill and tried to focus on breathing. In, out, in, out—people were staring. She smiled at the man in the suit, the grunting nonspeaker. “Yoga breathing.”
    He frowned back.
    She thought,
Maybe Lovelace doesn’t know what this place is like at this hour. Maybe she thought it’d be deserted.
    There were plainclothes cops outside who’d seen Lovelace’s picture. If anyone came near who looked anything like her, they’d follow; and they’d say what they were doing on their radios.
    Maybe she’s not coming.
    She didn’t let the thought solidify until seven-twenty. By seven-thirty, Abasolo’s imitation of a fry cook was wearing thin. The real customers were getting testy. The place smelled as if there’d been a forest fire. Skip was sweating.
    At seven-forty, the owner got pissed and insisted on replacing Abasolo, which, at that point, was fine—the place was full of civilians, anyway.
    At seven-fifty, Skip’s clothes were soaking wet with flop-sweat. The policemen outside were on their radios more often than not, making progress reports—who they were ought to be obvious to anyone on the block. But Skip had a feeling it didn’t matter. Lovelace wasn’t coming.
    They made it official at eight.
    Skip killed an hour or two at Headquarters, doing paperwork and returning phone calls, waiting for the business day to start at Rough Trade, The Monk’s gallery. Any idea of sending Abasolo to try a kid-gloves approach now seemed absurd—it could take days, and she was overloaded on adrenaline.
    She got in her car, drove to the French Quarter, and found a parking place. Jittery with coffee nerves and fury, she blew into the gallery like a hurricane.
    The door slammed behind her. “Dahveed! Dahveed, come out here! Skip Langdon, NOPD—get your cute butt here in two seconds.”
    He seemed shaken when he arrived, about half a second ahead of her deadline. “Uh—what is it? Can I help you?” He looked undecided, and she knew he was trying to get up the nerve to ask her to lower her voice.
    “I want you to let me walk through your gallery.”
    “Walk through my… what is this?” He actually burst into tears. It was quite a spectacle—she’d never seen a grown man do that. A drop or two on the cheeks maybe, but not a full-fledged tantrum straight from Queen Central.
    Dahveed pleaded as if beset by Mongol hordes. “You can’t do this. Please don’t do this. I promise you I don’t have any phone numbers. I swear to you. Please, please, please, please, don’t rip apart my place of business. I’m begging you—please. If you have any human feeling.”
    “Hey, take it easy.” She knew she’d come on a little strong, but she must have yelled louder than she thought—or maybe