Crescent City Connection (39 page)

He rang off, and this time Rosemarie did the cursing.

Kohler turned off the tape. “Neat, huh?”

Goerner’s face twisted like so much dough. “Shit! What about Owens?’

“We don’t know yet. We monitored the call from here and then got in touch with the office in Dallas. But she was gone by the time they got there. We haven’t heard from them since.” He checked the time. “That was forty-five minutes ago.”

“Oh, Lord, what else?”

“Well, sir, there is something. Several somethings.”

Goerner glared as if Kohler were the perp.

“We have laser surveillance equipment that’ll go through their wall, as long as we’ve got our window open. Theoretically, we can hear all over the house, but some things come in better than others. So far we’ve got seven discrete voices. We don’t know how many more there are. We’ve got a few conversations about cooking and household chores, and one that seems pretty interesting. Shall I play it for you?”

“Certainly. For Christ’s sake.”

“This one’s kind of fuzzy at first.”

It began with a blur of voices, one of them female, one male. And then one that was clearly Jacomine’s. “What do you mean he can’t walk?”

The female voice answered. “Tara says we might have hurt him last night. I think you should come up and see him.”

Instead, his voice bloomed into a shout. “Daniel! You get your tail down here.”

Silence.

“Daniel, goddammit!” Again a shout. Then a lot of rustlings and scrapings.

Kohler said, “He must have been sitting down. We think he got out of his chair and left the room.”

“And how long ago was that? Before or after the Rosemarie incident?”

“After. About ten minutes ago. That room—” Kohler tapped the wall “—the one closest to us—is the one he’s apparently using for an office. When he’s in there, we do pretty well. When he’s not, we don’t.”

Ferguson said, “What do you think? Do we call?”

Goerner put both hands over his face, and drew them down to his chest, his fingertips ending up on his mouth—a man frustrated and nervous.
Headed for a heart attack
, Skip thought.

“Yeah, sure. Make the call.”

Ferguson sat at a folding table and dialed, showing not so much as a wrinkle in her green silk. “Hello. This is Agent Penny Ferguson of the FBI. I wonder if I could speak to the Reverend Jacomine?”

The phone went dead.

Kohler said, “This is cool. All calls from their number to any FBI office get put through to here automatically. So when he calls back—” He was interrupted by a ringing phone.

Giving Goerner a smug look, he answered it himself. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.” There was a pause.” Agent Ferguson? One moment.” He punched buttons and looked up at his audience, canary feathers dotting his chin.

The nerds
, thought Skip,
shall inherit the Earth
.

Ferguson answered with her last name. The caller rang off.

After that, they waited.

If Jacomine and his followers were holding a council of war, they weren’t doing it in the office.

Finally, they heard someone re-enter the room, and a few minutes later a phone rang. Ferguson jumped, ready to go. Kohler held up a hand. “It’s ringing at the Bourgeois house. We’re set up so we can hear the whole thing.” He adjusted something—the volume, Skip thought.

They heard Jacomine say, “You shouldn’t have called the FBI. I said tell the police.”

“What you mean, don’ call the FBI? Let me talk to my baby.” Dorise sounded indiscreetly furious.

“We’re disappointed in you, Mrs. Bourgeois.”

“What you talkin’ disappointed? You kidnap my chile from a public school, you think my house ain’t crawling with FBI? What you think I’m gon’ do to get ’em out of here? They here right now, and they got my phone tapped. They say they don’t, but I know they do. What you think I can do about that?”

All right, Dorise!
Skip had no idea whether she’d been coached, but she liked it. It had the sound of “I-can’t-beat-’em-and-neither-can-you.”

“Good. Then I’ll talk to them. Have Agent Ferguson call us, please, gentlemen.”

In the command post, a collective sigh went up when he rang off.

Ferguson checked her watch. “We’ll give it ten minutes. To fray their nerves a little.”

“Why not?” said Goerner. “Mine are shot. They might as well catch up.” His hand was torturing his hair, as if he might tear out a hunk of it. Skip would have felt sorry for him if his voice didn’t sound as if it could cut concrete.

When the allotted time had elapsed, Ferguson dialed again. “Agent Ferguson calling. I had a message from you.”

“Ah, yes. Agent Ferguson. Apparently, you know where we are.”

“Yes. And we have the block roped off and surrounded. But you expected that, didn’t you?” She waited a moment. “How are you doing in there? Is Shavonne okay?”

“She’s doing great, Agent Ferguson. We’re not gonna hurt that child.”

“Why don’t you call me Penny, Reverend?”

“Looks like you know my name, too.”

“Oh, yes.”

“All part of the plan, Penny. All part of the plan. Here’s what I need: You just give me my granddaughter in exchange for Shavonne, and then give me and my friends an escort to the airport. Now what could be simpler?”

“How many people are in there with you?”

“You’ll be told when the time comes.” He spoke sharply. “You just get me my granddaughter.”

“Does she want to join you?”

“Of course. Sure she does, Penny—we’re doing more for justice in this country than you and every damn police force in every state combined.”

Goerner balled up his hands in victory-fists—it was an admission of guilt.

Ferguson stayed cool. “Well, Reverend, is there anything you need in there? Have you got enough food and supplies?”

“That’s not really your concern, is it?”

“I’m a little worried about Daniel.”

He hesitated before speaking. “Now, why in the hell are you worried about Daniel?”

“Is he okay?”

“You tend to your own knitting, Miss Agent Penny Ferguson.” The phone went dead.

Goerner’s mouth worked like he was chewing. “Fuck.”

There’s got to be more
, Skip thought.
There just has to be.

She had butterflies that felt more like bees, partly from fear and tension, but partly from excitement. As the negotiator talked with Jacomine, an idea started forming in the back of her mind. It was so outlandish there wasn’t a chance of talking anyone into it—and yet she couldn’t get it out of her head. She was reasonably sure this particular situation—therefore this specific opportunity—had never come up before.

It was going to meet resistance, though. Maybe this wasn’t the time to bring it up.

Kohler, wearing headphones, was making keep-it-down signs. When he had their attention, he turned a dial, and they heard a woman, apparently in Jacomine’s office. “He needs a doctor, Daddy. This is not something to mess with.”

“It’s God’s call, Tara. We’ve done the contest a thousand times and nobody’s gotten hurt before.”

“Daddy, he’s getting worse. He can’t even get up to go to the bathroom.” Her voice was panicky.

“Now, don’t you worry about it, you hear me? Go on out of here now. 1 got a phone call to make.”

They sat tensely while he dialed a number and got no answer.

SKIP’S MIND RACED. Finally, she could stand it no longer. “Agent Goerner, I’ve got a thought.”

He looked at her from under beetle brows, his expression saying this better be good. “What?” Rude. Barely acknowledging her.

“Look, we know we’d never exchange one hostage for another, but evidently they don’t know that or they wouldn’t be asking for it.”

“What are you getting at, Langdon?”

“Lovelace is nearly as tall as I am. Nobody’d notice the difference without having us side by side.”

“So?”

“Well, I bet anything her grandfather hasn’t seen her in years—the only one who’d recognize her is Daniel, and sounds like he’s out of commission.”

“You want to change places with her, is that what you’re saying? You want me to send you in there to get killed?”

“I’d have a gun with me. We could work that out.”

“Absolutely not. You crazy, Langdon?”

“Besides,” Shellmire said, “Jacomine might not know his own granddaughter, but he most assuredly knows you.”

“Not with my head shaved, he doesn’t.”

Ferguson said, “Gentlemen, take this woman seriously. Do you hear what she just offered?”

Abasolo was staring straight at Skip, as if sizing her up, deciding whether she was up to it. They’d been through a lot together—his opinion meant a lot. “The gun thing’s not so hard,” he said. “You could pad something so they don’t feel it when they pat you down.”

“Forget it,” said King. “She’s not doing it.”

Goerner glared at him.

Abasolo was still looking at her. “There’s this guy who does theatrical makeup—we’ve worked with him a few times.”

“Are you guys in kindergarten or what?” Goerner snapped.

Skip said, “Listen, please. We can’t let Jacomine take control.”

“Excuse me, Officer Langdon. The Federal Bureau of Investigation has had some experience in these matters.”

Stung, she crossed her arms and glowered.

* * *

Jacomine called back. “Penny, I want to meet you.”

“Well, let’s talk about that.”

“I have something for you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a Polaroid picture of Shavonne. We just took it.”

“I’d like that, Reverend. How about if you let me speak to Shavonne a minute?”

“You don’t trust me? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’d just like to be able to reassure her mother, that’s all.”

“Penny, you must really underestimate me. You really think I’d call you up and not let you talk to Shavonne? Sure, I’m gonna let you talk to Shavonne. Shavonne, honey, come on over here and talk to Miss Penny. Okay. Say hello.”

A childish “Hello” galvanized the room.

“Shavonne? Hi, honey. How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Your mama says to tell you she loves you.” Ferguson was improvising here. “You want me to tell her anything for you?”

For a moment there was no answer, and then some sibilants, like whispering. Finally the child said, “Tell her I want to come home real bad.”

Jacomine spoke again. “Okay, Penny, how long will it take you to get down here?”

“Not long—a few minutes, maybe.”

“I’m gonna send a pregnant lady out with the picture. She’ll be unarmed and so will you.”

“I thought I was going to get to meet you, Reverend.”

“Well, I’d love that, Penny, I really would. But I’ll be watching you from inside. It’ll be just like we met.”

“I’m coming myself; I want you to come, too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, honey. Be there in ten minutes if you want the picture.” He hung up.

“Dammit!” The Ferguson underneath the VNL was starting to show. “It’s pretty fucking hard to negotiate with someone who isn’t there.”

Once again, Jacomine called back. “Oh, yeah. One other thing. Bring my granddaughter.”

“Are you ready to give up Shavonne?”

“We’re not at that stage yet, Penny. Here’s what’s happening now—I’m giving you a picture of Shavonne; you’re giving me a look at Lovelace.”

“Well, now. Reverend, what if Lovelace doesn’t want to see you?”

He yelled through the phone. “Well, goddammit, ask her! You goddamn, incompetent, motherfuckin’ bureaucrat! This is how the taxpayers’ money gets spent? You be there in ten minutes. With my granddaughter.”

Goerner said, “Fine. Let’s give him a picture of her. We get one of Shavonne, he gets one of Lovelace.”

“Wait a minute, I’ve got a great idea.” Skip spoke like a cheerleader—anything to get them to listen. “I accept the fact that you won’t send me in there. But why not let me impersonate her out on the street? Why don’t I get made up and come with Penny and talk to him—tell him I don’t want to join his stupid movement.”

Ferguson said, “We might get some mileage out of that.”

Goerner drummed his fingers—now that Taylor was gone, it seemed someone had to do it. “We might. We might.”

King looked wary.

“I’m worried about the voice problem,” Shellmire said. “You sound like you and she sounds like a young girl.”

“Maybe I don’t have to speak. At least at first. If Lovelace is willing, maybe we could completely switch identities.” She was making this up as she went along. “Abasolo gave me an idea when he mentioned hiding a weapon under padding. I’m heavier than Lovelace, but we could pad her clothes—because nobody knows what she really looks like. The only constants are height and eye color—and I’ll bet you a million dollars her grandfather’s never noticed her eye color. Get her a curly wig, police uniform, and Bob’s your uncle. Meanwhile, I shave my head, dye the stubble black, and wear kids’ clothes—jeans or something. They see us across the street, more or less together, they get used to the idea that the curly one’s me—voices might not matter so much.”

A tiny muscle under Goerner’s left eye was twitching, forcing him to close it slightly, so that he looked more like a thug than an officer of the law. “Okay, I’ll go for it. It might buy us something. What, I don’t know—but I don’t see the down side.”

Abasolo said, “Let’s go talk to Lovelace.”

They found her watching television and pacing. “That mess on Magazine Street—my dad’s in there, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so,” Skip said, and told her everything except that her father’s life might depend on ending the standoff as quickly as possible.

Lovelace considered the switch. “Sure,” she said finally. “I don’t see any harm in that—I just don’t want to be a party to anyone’s getting hurt.”

Skip was hard put not to roll her eyes. Someone was definitely going to get hurt.

Lovelace said, “There’s only one thing—I need to talk to my uncle first.”

“Fair enough,” said Abasolo, as if it were a huge concession. “And we have a little coaching to do. Skip has to get shaved and dyed, so I’ll take over if it’s okay with you.”

That should cement the deal, Skip thought. Women found Abasolo hard to resist.