Mean Woman Blues

she was right. “We can do a great big press conference. The chief’ll say we can’t find Mary; the department’s doing a thorough investigation and also an internal investigation. Steve and I will say we couldn’t be more surprised, and I’ll say I think it’s only right to remove myself from the scene till my name’s cleared.” She could see he was considering it. “Come on, A.A. I’ll look
real
sincere.”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    * * *
    Steve was a basket case when he got off the plane. “Skip, what’s happening?”
    At heart, he was a cowboy who’d always kind of wished he was the one chasing bad guys, never content to be a mere observer. But he wasn’t half as street smart as he thought he was.
    She said, “Someone broke into your backyard and brought you a band of angels. Simple as that. You check any bags?”
    “No, I’m good to go.” They started walking. “My neighbors must have seen something.”
    “They did. Some guys unloading a truck. Needless to say, they didn’t think to get a plate number.”
    “But they’d know I wasn’t home.”
    “Maybe.”
    They reached the car and loaded the baggage. They were nearly out of the parking garage before Steve spoke again. “Who would
do
something like that?”
    She decided to confront the issue directly. “Probably the same person who poisoned your dog.”
    He went white. “
That’s
why they killed Napoleon?”
    “I can’t tell you the specifics. I think they did it because Jimmy Dee’s house is practically a fortress. If anyone wanted to get me, your house is better, except for that one little thing.”
    He was sweating, and his color showed no sign of returning. “You really think it was Jacomine, don’t you?”
    “Either him or Neil Gibson.”
    “Neil? Are you kidding? He’s got those two cute little pugs. And Evangeline the cat. Remember her?’
    “You don’t forget a cat like Vangy.” She was a twenty-pound long-haired Siamese, with azure eyes that looked like the marbles named after kitty orbs.
    “Neil loves animals. He’d never hurt an animal.”
    Skip stifled a small feeling of triumph. Maybe this meant he’d be more open to her Jacomine fears. Playing the devil’s advocate, she said, “You’ve got to consider the idea that it might have been him, Steve. Even before this statue thing, half the French Quarter hated me for arresting him; they just can’t believe he’d do something like this.”
    “He had angels in his shop, right?”
    “Lots of ’em. And the thieves were the ones that tipped us.”
    “Well, I guess I can go with the phrase ‘caught red-handed.’ But Neil would never, ever harm an animal— of that I’m sure. It could have been one of the other Mr. Bigs, but it wasn’t Neil.” That was the way the whole city was: sure, one way or another, of Gibson’s guilt or innocence. She wondered if people felt the same about her.
    Skip left Steve to give his statement to Abasolo, and when it was over, Steve joined her again. “How’d it go?” she asked.
    “He watched me like a hawk. Made me nervous.”
    “Could have been ’cause you’ve got a yardful of stolen goods. Ever think of that?”
    “You mean… I’m a suspect?”
    Skip was speechless, realizing the seriousness of the find hadn’t sunk in yet.
    At the end of the day, Abasolo approached her desk. “Interesting development.
Extremely
interesting. We’re due in half an hour for a meeting with McGuire, Hingle, and Fuzzy Begue— at headquarters. I think maybe somebody got their ear bent by Shellmire.” He left her to chew on it. “Let me go get McGuire. Hingle’s meeting us there.”
    She was so astounded she couldn’t even sputter. Kelly McGuire was their lieutenant— Abasolo’s immediate superior— and Rondell Hingle was captain of the Third District. A conference with those two would have been a little unusual in itself, but Fuzzy was the big surprise here. And the big gun— he was Deputy Chief of Operations.
    Abasolo came back to get her, McGuire in tow. “You ready?”
    “Sure.”
    Herbert “Fuzzy” Begue greeted them in his office. He was a big, old-fashioned beer-gut kind of cop, with a shaved head left over from the days when the style was military rather than fashionable. Shellmire and Hingle, a tall, taciturn African-American, were already there.
    Begue seemed excited. “Y’all come in. Detective Langdon, we got some trouble for ya.”
    Skip picked up his mood. “Thanks, Chief. I’ve been thinking I