Mean Woman Blues

kidnap Steve and demand Daniel.
    Anything.
    That was what the dream was about.
    She left for work feeling hunted and resentful of her psyche for rubbing her nose in it. She knew all that, and what could she do about it?
Exactly what?
she asked herself angrily. Later, the dream seemed more a premonition than a warning.
    * * *
    That morning, as always, she walked the few blocks to the garage where she kept her car, pointed the remote at the automatic door (a process that never failed to give her childlike pleasure), and waited for the door to raise itself high enough to allow her ingress. Instead of the familiar rumble, an explosion ripped through the quiet morning, followed by a loud
ping
, like a beer can hitting a metal drum.
    She was aware of an arm around her waist, another at her back, and then she felt herself falling, a great weight upon her. She tried to fight it, but it was too heavy. She was helpless. Her head hit the pavement.
    It took a second to put it together. The explosion had been a shot, the
ping
a ricochet.
    Another shot blasted the momentary peace, a second bullet thunked into the sidewalk. Closer. She felt her muscles contract involuntarily, seeking shelter.
    She heard a woman scream, and she held her breath, but a shocked hush had enveloped the corner.
    After a moment a man said, “Owww.” The man on top of her, she realized. Someone was shooting at her, and he had pushed her down, remained on top of her so that she couldn’t move.
    When she had waited long enough to be sure the shooting had stopped, she said to the lump atop her, “Police. Are you hurt?”
    The man rolled off, and she saw that he was a light-skinned black, well-muscled, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt— laborer’s garb. He said, “You’re police?” Her detective status meant she wore no uniform.
    She didn’t see any blood. “Are you all right?” She was frantic.
    He was examining himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right. That was real close, though.”
    A crowd was gathering around them. Unless the sniper was in it he no longer had a clear shot. Skip scanned the rooftops, wondering where the shots had come from.
    The idea of asking what happened made her feel shamed somehow. She closed her eyes for a moment trying to get it together, and the man said, “Somebody just tried to kill you.”
    “You saw him?”
    “No. I was right behind you when I heard the shot. Didn’t stop to look around, you understand?”
    “Thanks. I appreciate what you did. But how did you know he wasn’t shooting at you?”
    The man shrugged. “I didn’t ax no questions. Just hit the pavement.”
    When they paced it off, she could see that the man wasn’t really right behind her; he’d had to run a step or two to tackle her. She’d been facing the garage door, and the bullet had hit it immediately to her right. She was between it and her rescuer.
    There was no doubt in her mind that it was meant for her. She grabbed for her radio.
    After that it was chaos. A sniper in the French Quarter was a big deal, shots fired on a police officer an even bigger deal. But when it was Skip Langdon, it was nearly enough to declare a state of emergency. Everyone in the department knew Errol Jacomine was as likely to come for her as get up in the morning and put on his clothes.
    He might even come in person, and catching him would be as big a coup as discovering the whereabouts of D. B. Cooper.
    Certainly her sergeant— her good friend and sometime partner Adam Abasolo— knew all this. 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.
    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 tights. Shellmire was an FBI agent she’d worked with on the Jacomine case— or cases, actually.