82 Desire (5 page)

It was a double shotgun, so run-down it surely qualified as blighted property. A black woman stared out one side, through a nearly rusted screen door. “You want Mist’ Allred?”

“Does he live here?”

“Yes’m.”

“Anybody live with him?”

“Nah. Had a wife. She left.”

“Seen anybody around here lately?”

At this, the woman hunched her shoulders, hooded her eyes, even, it seemed, narrowed her nostrils. Someone had most certainly been around. She said: “Nooo. Ain’ seen nobody.”

“Come on, now. Who’d you see? This is a murder investigation.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Mist’ Allred dead? Wonder what happen now.” She looked frightened.

Skip stared at her, uncomprehending, until it finally came to her. “Did he own the building? Is Allred your landlord?”

“Was. He was my landlord.”

She turned and disappeared into the house. Skip tackled the other side. It came as no surprise that it was as thoroughly ransacked as Allred’s office. It stank of mildew and dirty dishes left in the sink. The furniture was beyond secondhand—probably picked up at dumps. The place must have been numbingly depressing before the ransacking.

What sort of person could Allred have been, to look so neat and live so pathetically? A drunk, perhaps. Someone who was long past caring. Or a loner, someone unable to connect with people or things, just doing his job and muddling through. Maybe the other tenant could help some.

The woman was older—sixty, perhaps—and rail-thin, with a white handkerchief tied around her hair. Probably she normally wore a wig, but couldn’t be bothered on a Saturday morning. Up close, Skip saw that energy crackled from her. She was obviously much sharper than Skip had first thought—she might be quite a good witness if she could be persuaded to talk.

“I’m Detective Skip Langdon.” Skip produced her badge and offered to shake hands, but the woman declined. Skip waited, but no introduction was forthcoming. “May I ask who you are?”

“I’m Mist’ Allred tenant. Miz Smith.”

“Mrs. Smith. If you didn’t see anything, you must have heard something—that place looks like a war zone.”

“Oh, yes’m. You didn’t ax nothin’ about that.” She cackled. “Didn’t ax
nothin
’ ’bout that.”

“Fine. What did you hear?”

“Oh, just some noise. Car stoppin’ and startin’ up. Break-in noise, and then throw-things-around noise.”

“When was this?”

“Two nights ago. Three, maybe.”

“Two or three?”

“Fo’. I don’t know.” For some reason, she wasn’t going to say. Skip wondered if she’d done something to rub the woman the wrong way.

“Did you see anybody?”

“Nooooo. I already tol’ you that.”

“Tell me about Mr. Allred’s wife.”

“Now, her I know too much about. He own this buildin’, but he useta rent out the other side to somebody like me—you unnerstan’?”

Somebody poor and black. And probably a little bit desperate.

“Well, the wife musta kicked his white ass right out on the street—’cause he kick out th’ other lady and he move in his own sorry self. Two, three years ago. I ain’ sure.

“She a fool though. That woman ain’ got the sense God gave a earthworm.” She chuckled at her own metaphor. “Yes, Lord, some earthworms smarter.”

Evidently, she had to be drawn out. “Why do you say that?”

“ ‘Cause that crazy woman still aroun’! Got rid o’ his sorry ass, she still over here all the time, drinkin’ beer and runnin’ aroun’ in her slip. They fight all the time, yellin’, keepin’ everybody awake. Law, a
bab
y earthworm got more sense than that woman.”

“What makes you think the woman you’ve seen is his wife?”

“That what he call her. He say, ‘Verna’—tha’s my name, Verna—he say, ‘Verna, you see my wife aroun’ here yesterday? Verna, my wife comes, tell her I lef’ without her.’ Maybe she ain’t his wife, I don’ know. I know one thing—nice-lookin’ young lady come to see him, day or two ago. Young lady in her thirties. Pretty blond hair, all neat and everything—that wife of his, she always look like she just get out of bed. He treat this one bad, too. She wait nearly a hour for him, he don’t show up.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Sho I talk to her. She come up on the porch and ax me to give him somethin’. I never got the chance, come to think of it—Mist’ Allred ain’ been home in a couple days.

“Guess he been dead that long. How he die? Somebody shoot him or what?”

Skip was startled. “Why do you ask that?”

Verna shrugged. “So many people gettin’ shot these days—I had to ax.”

Maybe it had been a lucky guess. “What did the lady leave for Mr. Allred?”

She shrugged again, her face slightly uneasy. “Business card.”

“Could I see it, please?”

“I don’t see why not—Mist’ Allred’s not gon’ need it.”

She left and returned with the card, again looking nervous. Skip looked at it and promptly lost her cool. It was Jane Storey’s card. “Jane Storey? You didn’t tell me the lady was a reporter.”

Verna seemed to have grown a couple of inches. She spoke with utmost dignity, yet softly, barely above a whisper. “Well, I didn’t know.”

She doesn’t read. Shit. What a dork I am.
Skip stopped herself from apologizing, realizing that would make things worse.

She pretended she hadn’t heard. “What’s the wife’s name?”

“Miz Allred, I guess. She never bother to tell me nothin’ else.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Week ago, maybe. Same ol’ thing. She come, she yell, she go.”

“Well, thank you, Verna. You’ve really been a help.”

“Did I say you could call me Verna? I’m Miz Smith to white po-lice.”

“Sorry. I forgot your last name. Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”

Skip couldn’t help chuckling as she descended the steps from the porch. Mrs. Smith hadn’t been all that hostile to white po-lice, fount of information that she was—you never knew what people were going to be touchy about.

She checked out the other neighbors, learning nothing new except that someone had seen a second visitor in the last couple of days—a white man in his thirties or forties, perhaps; maybe medium height. Or maybe older or younger, or taller or shorter. He had knocked, apparently gotten no answer, and then walked to the back. Unfortunately, the informant couldn’t remember a thing about him except his race.

Somebody else thought the wife’s name was Eloise.

Reluctantly, Skip returned to the wrecked shotgun. She could at least play Allred’s messages. Sure enough, there was one from Eloise; also one from Jane Storey, saying that she’d come and waited, and she’d be happy to try again. Eloise just said, “Call me.”

That was it. No clients, no other friends. Evidently, Allred wasn’t too popular a guy.

Since this place was tied to the other crime scene, she couldn’t go through the Rolodex, but she did sneak to the back to see if there was forced entry. It was impossible to tell—there was an open window, but no broken glass.

She radioed Paul Gottschalk to come over when he could, and called for district officers to secure the place. Then she called the station, asked the desk officer to put Eloise Allred through the DMV, and got an address in Metairie.

It was Saturday: Maybe Eloise was home. When the district car came, Skip took off to find out.

Eloise lived in an old apartment complex—maybe thirty years old, late-’60s vintage. It had a pool, but had probably never been luxurious, had probably catered to semitransient semiprofessionals. Now it was pretty run-down.

Skip leaned on Eloise’s doorbell and got no answer. She leaned again. Something told her to try a third time, and sure enough, a cranky voice came through the intercom. “What is it?”

“Skip Langdon, NOPD.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I need to talk to you about your husband.”

“Gene?” A note of alarm came into her voice. “Has something happened to him?”

“I think you’d better let me in.”

The buzzer sounded, and over it, Skip heard a wailing. “Ohhh, no.”

The woman was standing at the door, wearing a flower-print housecoat that might have been twenty years old. She was overweight, big in the belly, puffy. Her blond hair looked uncombed, and, futhermore, looked as if that was simply the way she wore it. Skip saw what Verna Smith meant about the contrast to Jane.

This woman was older than Jane, by six or seven years maybe. But instead of healthy skin nourished by plenty of vegetables, she had a pasty, bloated-looking hide already crisscrossed with wrinkles. And bags under her eyes that were probably partly genetic and partly due to cigarettes and drinking and long nights. She looked forty-five going on sixty. She stank of vodka.

“He didn’t return my phone call. He didn’t call me. I thought it was just because of that little—uh—thing I said to him.” Her chin was starting to quiver.

Skip said, “Mrs. Allred, can I get you some water or something?”

Allred shook her head, keeping her eyes lowered so she wouldn’t have to see the truth in Skip’s.

Skip pushed past her to the kitchen and got her the water anyway. When she got back, Allred was sitting on a reproduction Victorian sofa covered in rose brocade. Skip held out the glass. “Here. Drink this.”

Allred shook her head, her eyes staring past Skip to the wall.

Skip pulled up a ladder-back rocker with an orange crocheted pillow in it—a piece absolutely incongruous with the sofa—and waited a few moments.

Finally, she said, “Mrs. Allred, why are you so sure your husband is dead?”

Allred buried her head in her hands and started blubbering.

Skip simply waited.

“He knew this was going to happen. He knew it.”

“What was going to happen?”

“He was going to die by violence. He always said it—’I’m gonna smoke as much as I want. Probably be dead before I’m forty anyway.’ “ She looked at Skip. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry. Yes, he is. At least, we think so. Do you have a picture of him?”

Unspeaking, moving like a robot, Allred got up and fetched a framed photo from the top of the television—herself and the man dead in his office.

Skip nodded again. “Yes. Could you make a positive identification?”

Allred held a tissue to her mouth. “What happened? What the hell happened? He was so—he seemed so jaunty last time I saw him.”

“I thought you said he expected to die.”

“Well, he did.” She shrugged. “That was just his nature. He was depressed, I guess. Like, all the time. But last week, he was almost happy.”

Skip waited, but Allred said only, “What the hell happened?”

“It looks as if someone shot him, Mrs. Allred.”

The woman gasped.

“Who do you think might have done it?”

Slowly, Allred walked the picture back to its accustomed place and sat down again, the tissue once more at her mouth. She seemed to be biting down on her finger, perhaps in an effort to feel something other than pain. She looked alert now, though, as if she were thinking, not simply shocked and numb, staring at the wall.

Finally, she said, “He was into dealing a little.”

“Dealing what?”

Her fat shoulders shrugged. “Cocaine, I guess. Whatever. He gave me some blow now and then—and he always had pot, too.”

Skip hadn’t seen any drugs at his house.

“He was talking about some kind of big score. I didn’t really approve of his dealing drugs—I mean, it wasn’t immoral or anything, I just thought it was dangerous and”—she stuck a knuckle between her teeth to get a grip—”I guess it was.”

Knuckle or no, her face fell in once again, and her big shoulders shook.

Then she wagged her head, as if warding off the grief. “No, no, no. I just don’t think it was drugs.”

“Why not?”

“Something. Let me think.” She drank some of the water and stared at the wall again. “I know! I asked him. And he said no. That’s what it was.”

“And then did you ask what it was if it wasn’t drugs?”

“Yes. Yeah, I did. He said, ‘You’re going to be really surprised, Ellie girl. Really, really surprised. Guess what? It’s halfway legitimate. And not only that, it’s right. Right and moral.’ “Allred laughed, a forced-sounding noise coming out of her throat. “Now how’d I forget somethin’ like that?”

Five

SKIP COULDN’T WAIT to get back to her office to interview Talba. She was over an hour late, so the girl would have had time to stew. That was good. She was looking forward to an antsy and worried witness, suffering from so powerful a combination of paranoia and boredom she’d be an easy target.

Instead, she found nothing but a message saying Talba had gone for a walk and would check in from time to time to see if Skip had returned.

Damn. She hated resourcefulness.

In fact, Talba returned in about twenty minutes laden with packages and overcome with enthusiasm. “Whoo—great stuff at the museum store. You ever go over there?”

“Sit down, Ms. Wallis.” Skip spoke sharply.

Instantly, the friendly demeanor turned hard. “Hey. Who do you think you’re ordering around? I come down here to accommodate you, you’re not here, I wait, and now you got nothing but attitude.”

“Sit down, Ms. Wallis.” This time Skip’s voice was slightly kinder, and she thought she might have let a bit of the seriousness of what she had to say creep into her expression.

Wallis looked suddenly frightened. She sat. “Something bad’s happened.”

“You’re damn right something bad’s happened. I want you to tell me every single thing you know about Gene Allred and everything there is to tell about your relationship with him.”

“Relationship! Listen, Detective, I don’t have a relationship with the man. I worked for him some, that’s all. I hardly know him. What’s this all about?”

“Are you still working for Allred? “

Wallis looked confused, as if she weren’t sure what to say. Finally, she said, “From time to time.”

“Uh-huh. When was the last time?”

“Last month, I guess.”

“You told me you were trying to call him yesterday—why was that?”

“That’s private.”

“Nothing’s private, Ms. Wallis. This is a murder investigation.”

Fury contorted Wallis’s features. “You … white … bitch.” She bit off each word. “How dare you play games with me? Are you telling me Gene Allred’s dead?”

If Skip had been hoping to provoke a reaction, it wasn’t this one. She’d never been spoken to quite so rudely by a witness, especially one who might be a suspect. Still, she supposed the woman had registered surprise.

“I hate these damn power games. You treat me like a person or I’m out of here. All day long you’ve pushed me around. You treat me with a little respect.” Her hair extensions were shaking, she was so mad.

“Ms. Wallis, you just insulted a police officer. You want me to make your life difficult, I’ve certainly got reason. Now, understand the seriousness of this situation. Your employer has been murdered. Calm down and answer my questions.”

Skip could not allow herself to be insulted, but in the back of her mind, she thought Wallis had a point—she had probably pushed too far and ended up bullying.

Wallis sulked. She wasn’t about to apologize and Skip wasn’t about to ask her to. Best to forget the whole thing.

Skip said in a quieter voice: “Were you close to Mr. Allred?”

“No, I wasn’t close to Mr. Allred. I worked for him.”

Good. Wallis was backing off, too. “Well, then, why did you call him and then go see him when you couldn’t get him? It must have been pretty important.”

“It was about a client.”

“What client?”

Wallis put a hand over her mouth, not as if trying to keep something in, more as if she were thinking. She said, “Oh, God,” and held the position for a while. Finally, she said, “I had a bad feeling. I think I better talk about it.”

“It’s probably best.”

“I think I have to call a lawyer.”

That was the last thing Skip wanted. “There’s no need if you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Wallis stared at her a minute, possibly relieved, more likely calculating odds. Finally, she said, “Uh-uh. I’d like to help, but I just can’t right now. I’ve got to have legal advice.”

Skip suddenly became Ms. Nicecop. “Well, look, do you have a good lawyer? Maybe I could—”

“I’ll be in touch.” Wallis got up and turned to leave the room.

“It was about Russell Fortier, wasn’t it?”

Wallis whirled. “You found the files.”

It was all Skip could do not to shout, “What files?” Instead she said, “Ms. Wallis, I need to read you your rights.”

“You’re arresting me?”

“I really can’t let you leave right now. Maybe you could have your lawyer meet us here.”

“I don’t have a lawyer. I’ll have to get one.”

Time was pouring away. Skip said, “Allred looked to me like a seedy private eye—seedy PIs do things to get information that aren’t completely legal. However, I’m not about to arrest you if you know something that’s going to help me solve a murder case—not unless the injured party presses charges. And being a tattletale is not my job. Do you follow?”

Wallis looked interested. Skip poured it on a little more. “Russell Fortier may be in danger.”

Wallis sat down again. “Look. Are you offering me immunity from prosecution? Something like that?”

“Not exactly. I’m just saying if you didn’t kill Gene Allred and you do cooperate in the investigation, I’m not going to go after you for something petty.”

“You really think Fortier could be in danger?”

“I sure do.”
In fact, he’s probably dead.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll talk.”

Skip Mirandized her just to get it on the record. And Wallis talked. “To begin with,” she said, “I am a poet. Don’t ask me why or how. I couldn’t tell you. It’s just something you do—one does, I mean. That one is born with. Oh, yes, yes, the world is full of MFAs, but did Chaucer have one? Did Shakespeare? Or even Wallace Stevens? Wallace Stevens would have been the world’s most prosaic man if he hadn’t been a poet.”

Skip pointed to her tape recorder. “Ms. Wallis. The tape’s almost run out. Were you planning to get started soon?”

“It’s all of a piece, Detective.”

“I’m not an audience, okay? I’m a police officer investigating a murder case.”

Wallis broke into a grin. “Hey, maybe you’d like to be an audience. Tomorrow at Reggie and Chaz.” She handed Skip a flyer. “I got this poem I just know you’d like.”

“Ms. Wallis, I’m losing patience.”

“I’m gettin’ there, okay? The point is, ‘poet’ isn’t a job description—my mama thinks it’s a hobby. So I’ve got to have a day job—you know, the famous ‘somethin’ to fall back on’? I’m damn good with computers, Detective. Graduated from Xavier, top of my class. But I took some time off to pursue my art. And in the course of it, I got mixed up with Mr. Allred.”

***

Talba had mentioned the poetry mostly as a blind. True, it was the most important thing in her life—in a long-term sense—but it wasn’t the engine that drove her, at least right now. Talba hoped to solve her problem and leave it behind, but it had to be handled first. As a small child, she had vowed to do this thing, to find the Pill Man and lay the demons to rest, and now was the time to do it. When it was done, she could move on.

But it had to be done.

She had found Allred’s ad in the Yellow Pages. (“Nothing like having a name that starts with A,” he told her once. “Bet I get half my clients that way.”)

She liked his office. It looked seedy enough to make her think she could afford him. And Allred himself, despite his polyester suit and face abloom with gin blossoms, had nice eyes. Eyes like those she’d seen on many an older black man—eyes that said he’d seen suffering and comprehended it. She’d never known her father, and as a consequence was drawn to these suffering men. They looked as if they’d be kind.

She had enough sense to know that Allred, in his job, was no saint, but her intuition told her he wasn’t all bad either—that he’d probably treat her honestly—and that was all she needed.

She started at the beginning. “Mr. Allred, you a racist?”

“A racist? You sound like you’re one. You want a black PI, I’ll give you some names.”

“Hold your horses now; just hold on. This is relevant. I need you to find somebody for me—and he’s a racist, whether he knows it or not. If you’re a racist, you’re just not gonna relate.”

Allred rested his chin on one fist and tapped the table with the other. “I’m no racist, Ms. Wallis.”

She told him her problem.

When she had finished he said, “Sure, I’ve heard that story. I’ve heard about the names. Everybody in New Orleans has.”

“Every white person in New Orleans.”

“What are you gonna do if you find the guy?”

“Does that matter?”

“I’m curious. That’s all.”

“I’m gonna make him pay. Some way. Every way I possibly can. I’m gonna hold him up to public ridicule. An eye for an eye, Mr. Allred.”

“And just how do you plan to do that?”

“Through my writing.”

“Tell more.”

“I’m a poet.”

“Well, then.” He leaned over, his face so close she could see the twin webs of wrinkles around his eyes. “How do you plan to pay me?”

“I’m also a computer nerd. A really good one.”

“And who do you work for?”

“Right now, I’m kind of freelance.”

“Oh, really? Well, how would you like to work for me?”

“You got to be kidding.”

“Can you search a computer—I mean, just kind of go through its files to find what you want?”

“Sure. Anybody could do that.”

“Well, first they’d have to get access to the right computer. And therein lies the rub. See, I could probably find this Pill Man for you—at least I might be able to, but it would take me longer than it would take you, because you’ve got the right demographics.”

“You kidding me? I don’t have the right demographics for shit. Young, black, and female. Wait a minute; young, black, female, and fat—maybe I should run for president.”

“Who do you think your typical office worker is in this town?”

Talba got it. She cocked her head and grinned. “A brilliant poet in disguise?”

“Disguise. Now that’s the key word, darlin’. That’s the key word. Here’s my proposition—you work for me on a case I got, and I’ll turn you into a private investigator.”

“Oh, great.” Talba swept open an arm, indicating her humble surroundings. “Then I can be rich like you.”

“Then you can find the Pill Man yourself.”

She came alert, sitting up straight, as the implications of it hit her. She realized how much she’d love it--tracking down the slimy bastard all by herself. Oh, yes! She’d adore it.

She said, “Who do I have to kill? And more to the point, how much do I get paid?”

“You’re not an assassin, you’re a spy. And you don’t get paid anything—by me.”

“Oh, great, this is like one of those internships where you’re supposed to be grateful for the privilege of working for free.”

“It’s not a bit like those. You got a chip on your shoulder—anybody ever tell you that? Is it because you’re black or because you’re female?”

She ignored him—she’d often been told she had a chip on her shoulder. “How’s this different?”

“Because you do get paid—while undergoin’ a veritable graduate seminar in investigative techniques. It’s more like those scholarships where they pay you for goin’ to school. You know—the ones black people get.”

“Thought you weren’t a racist, Mr. Allred.”

“Just seein’ if you’re awake.”

It occurred to her that he had the rudiments of a sense of humor, however crude.

“See, what happens,” he continued, “is you get a job over at United Oil and they pay you. You think anybody’d believe me as an office worker? No way. But you’ve not only got the right demographics, you’re real bright and real attractive. No way you’re not gonna get the job.”

“What job?”

“Well, any job they’ve got, to tell you the truth. All you have to do is get in the building, figure out how to get to a particular person’s computer, and rifle it.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“How’s that going to help me find the Pill Man?”

“While you’re doing that, I’m going to make a few preliminary inquiries—but I think it’s going to come down to the same thing. Getting the right job and getting into a computer.”

Talba slapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“Sure. Sure, I could do that. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.” The scenario was suddenly crystal-clear to her—exactly the way to get the information she wanted. She could bypass Allred altogether.

On the other hand, his proposition appealed to her. And there was certainly the possibility of her plan backfiring. She could use his job as a dry run and figure out what obstacles she might run into. She said, “When do I start?”

“Why not now? United uses an agency called Comp-Temps.”

“They might as well call it Nerds R’ Us.”

“You got it. Go over to CompTemps and get yourself hired. Just do what they tell you, keep your eyes open, and come by after work.”

“Hold it. Hold it, Mr. Allred. I’m missing something here. United Oil can’t be their only client. Granted, it’s a big company and there might be quite a few openings there—but what if they send me out on some other job? I mean, when you consider the likelihood—”

He patted empty space. “Ms. Wallis. Calm down now. When you’re an old beat-up PI with the wrong demographics, you gotta figure out some way to stay in business. I got a mutually beneficial arrangement with a gentleman at CompTemps named L. J. Currie.”

He sat back smugly, letting her take it in. When she thought she thoroughly had the hang of it, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be involved with such a scheme. Or more accurately, she was quite sure she did—she simply understood that she wasn’t supposed to want to. She summoned as acid a tone as she could. “How nice for Mr. Currie. Industrial espionage must pay handsomely.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but it keeps him out of jail. See, I know a thing or two about Mr. Currie.”

“And the minute he helped you the first time, you knew something else about him.”

“There’s more to the information highway than the Internet.”

Talba went over to Gravier Street, where CompTemps had its offices, resisting the urge to brush off the sleaze like so much lint.

Within the hour, she was walking into the air-conditioned chambers of United Oil Company, where she was sent to the seventeenth floor to do a job so easy she could perform it in her sleep—setting up new workstations. They had staff people installing the network cabling and routers and printers—pretty much a grunt-work job, but one that had to be supervised by someone who knew the whole system. Cheapo temps like herself could install the software.