Louisiana Bigshot

sometime partner, Adam Abasolo. Skip knew he was going to call for the works investigating this one, and the works was what Skip got. In minutes, District cars blocked the whole place off, the streets crawled with cops and the downside—TV cameras for days.
    The poor man who saved Skip’s life was treated like a threat to society, taken over to the Eighth District, questioned and bullied until he well and truly understood that no good deed goes unpunished. Skip made a mental note to thank him somehow, but wondered how. What did you do for a perfect stranger who risked his life to save yours, and then found himself in a living nightmare? He’d obviously been on his way to work—maybe he’d even get fired.
    She was having an extremely pessimistic day.
    It seemed she’d barely picked herself up when Turner Shellmire turned up, a rumpled, pear-shaped figure in the midst of all the glamour of sirens and flashing lights. Shellmire was an FBI agent she’d worked with on the Jacomine case—or cases, actually. Though he came from the agency the New Orleans police liked to call Famous But Incompetent, he wasn’t either. Certainly not incompetent. He was one of the best cops she’d ever worked with, and he was a straight shooter. They were as close to being friends as a police officer and an FBI agent possibly could be.
    She played it light. “Hey, Turner. Slow day today?”
    He didn’t return her grin, instead examined the dented door and sidewalk. “He almost got you.”
    “What about the kids?”
    “I’ve sent people to get them. Also Jimmy Dee, Layne, and Steve.”
    “Layne? Even Layne?” He’d only married into the family; it didn’t seem fair to him.
    Shellnrire nodded. “Jacomine would go for him.”
    Skip knew it was true. Jacomine played mind games. If he couldn’t get at her through somebody really close, he’d try for someone once removed, knowing that would pile guilt on top of her other emotions—guilt and the rage of the person who was closest.
    “What are you going to do with them?”
    He opened his arms in exasperation. “That’s the problem. We can keep them safe for a day, maybe, but they’ve got to have a life.”
    At the end of the day, when all the questions that could possibly be asked had been asked, the lifesaver—a man named Rooster Blanchard—had finally been released, and still the sniper hadn’t been found and not a single fact more was known than the kind of gun he’d used and the angle the bullets had come from, Skip went to see her sergeant. “AA, my nerves are shot. I’ve got to get the sonofabitch.”
    “You sound like you’re asking for a leave of absence.”
    “Just a transfer. I want to go to Cold Case for awhile. Please. Just let me try it.”
    “Skip, he’s a needle in a haystack. And furthermore, you can’t just work on one case.”
    “At least I could work on it some. That’s all I ask.”
    The sergeant’s eyes went shifty on her. “Langdon, you’re not the person to work on this. You know that. Anyway, I can’t spare you.”
    She ignored his last sentence. “Oh, come on. I wouldn’t be working the shooting—just the cold case.”
    “Did you hear me? I can’t do it. I’ve got to have you for the cemetery thefts. I want you to head the task force.”
    Here in the Third District, where Skip had been sent when the department was “decentralized” and the Homicide Division disbanded, things were usually pretty quiet. But the cemetery thefts were big—about as high profile as a case that wasn’t a triple murder could get in New Orleans.
    Somebody—probably a ring of professional thieves—was removing cemetery statues and selling them through the lucrative antiques market. In a city that took its saints and angels as seriously as it did its pre-Lent festivities, this was big, bad crime. A department that stopped it was going to be a popular department. Heading the task force was a handsome plum.
    Still, to Skip’s mind, it was trivial compared to getting Jacomine. She said, “AA, I’m flattered, but…”
    “The Superintendent asked for you. Says it’s the mayor’s idea. Two City councilmen have also called—at the mayor’s request, probably.”
    “Oh, shit.”
    He could have made a crack about the price of fame, but Abasolo looked as downcast as she probably did. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Skip. Wrap it up fast and we’ll see about the transfer.”

The next novel in the Talba Wallis series is LOUISIANA LAMENT.
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