House of Blues (32 page)

He must have had a nice mama.

The thought made her glance over at Sheila and Kenny,
who had no mama at all.

I hope I can be decent to them. Just give them a
little something they can use later. Something; just a little
something.

"I'm hungry," said Kenny, and Jimmy Dee
went off to make seafood salad.

They ate outside, Skip between Steve and Darryl,
enjoying as great a sense of well-being as a baby in the womb.

Why can't I have them both? she thought, knowing she
was a fool for thinking it; wondering if adolescence would ever end.

Before she left for the Blood of the Lamb Divine
Evangelical Following, Layne dropped by and Steve and Darryl took the
kids to find a park for Angel to romp in. It was a weird setup, she
thought, not exactly Dan Quayle's notion of the ideal family. But for
the moment, just for today, she felt completely happy.

The Following was in Metairie, in a freshly painted
but modest building meant to be lived—in, but, like its owners,
born again. If the church lady who'd made the appointment had seemed
slightly testy, the one who answered the door more than made up for
it. She had on some kind of white summer dress that perfectly set off
her chocolate skin, and she wore a yellow headband. Her smile was as
wide as St. Charles Avenue and her voice sweet as a pound of
pralines. In fact, she was so full of southern hospitality, you'd
have thought she'd spent her whole life collecting beauty titles,
which she probably had.

"Welcome to our home," she said in the
voice of a docent at a museum. "I am Nikki Pigeon and I would
like to say on behalf of the Reverend Mr. Errol Jacomine that we are
delighted to have you here today."

She stepped away from the door so the honored guest
could enter, and Skip found herself staring at a smallish white man
in a guayabera shirt, sitting on a Victorian love seat upholstered in
crimson velvet. Grouped around the love seat were six or eight wooden
chairs, not turned to face each other for conversation, but also
confronting the door. Each chair was occupied by a man or woman,
black or white, young or old—it was an artfully mixed group that
gave a peculiar impression of courtiers surrounding a king. The king
rose to greet her. When he did, so did everyone else, and Skip knew
instantly there was something very wrong here. The king stepped
forward. "Hello, hello, Detective Langdon. I am Errol Jacomine.
May I congratulate you on the wonderful job you did with the Kavanagh
case and express my deepest sympathy about your partner."

"
You seem to know a lot about me."
Way
too much
.

"
Why, you're a very famous young lady."
When he smiled, they all did.

He was average height, even a little short, and
slight, with a bit of a bulge at the center. His face was some kind
of crude cross between Cajun and redneck—dark hair, fine nose, but
mean little eyes and sinewy neck. He parted his hair on the side, and
it was a little curly, slightly unruly, which must have given him
fits. He looked like the sort of person who'd expect every hair to
toe the line. Even if she hadn't felt she had to hose off the smarm
after shaking hands with him, she couldn't see what could possibly
make him a charismatic leader, though apparently he was to at least
the eight people in this room.

"It's an honor to have you here. Please sit down
and we'll have some tea."

"
Oh, no thanks, I just have a question or two
and then I'll be off."

He nudged a hand under her elbow and began to edge
her toward the love seat.

"Nikki will simply not have it. She's been
baking all day." Indeed, there was a delicious bakery odor in
the air.

One of the parishioners, if that's what they were,
had closed the door behind her (Nikki having disappeared, presumably
to fetch the tea). The others still stood stiffly.

"I really must be going." She sounded like
a parody, but she liked it. It was properly distancing.

"You must certainly not be going. You must
indulge us all—we've been curious about you."

"
It sounds as if you've indulged your curiosity.
"

"How's that?"

"
You know everything about me."

"Not everything, Detective. You still have some
secrets. For instance, I don't know yet how I can help you."

She was disconcerted to find she was sitting on the
love seat; she wasn't quite sure how he'd done it.

Instantly, someone held out a chair for the Reverend
Mr. Jacomine, and in almost the same second, two more people wedged a
small table between the two, so that Skip was facing the Reverend Mr.
over the table.

And then all but two of the others sat down. The
whole thing was so carefully orchestrated it frightened her to think
what these people were capable of—what Jacomine was capable of, to
have subdued them so completely.

"These are our people," he said, throwing
his arm out in an arc that seemed to take in the world. "I
thought you might like to meet some of them so you'd know the kind of
work we do. That's Ruby, who was addicted to painkillers when she
came here.

"That's Fred; he had two convictions for armed
robbery; he's been with us four years now and he has a good job.
That's Mimi right behind Fred. She was a crack whore at this time
last year. Ah, here's Nikki."

Nikki in the nick, Skip thought. She was embarrassed
at knowing so much about perfect strangers.

Nikki had tied a black apron over her white dress,
and had placed a black cupcake hat over her headband. The effect was
ridiculous—pretentious in the nineteenth century, absolutely
unacceptable, Skip would have thought, in a 199os biracial
organization.

Nikki set cups, saucers, and a tray of cookies on the
table. Skip was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. They had
researched her and they were going to a lot of trouble for what
should have been a five-minute interview. Something was wrong here.
She wished she had some backup.

"
Could I use the phone a second?"

"Ruby." Jacomine raised a hand and made a
gesture so fast Skip couldn't follow it. It reminded her of a command
for dogs.

Ruby disappeared, and as Skip watched her go, she
felt her hand catch fire. "Ouch." She snatched it back,
knocking over a lamp in the process, and saw that Nikki had spilled
tea on her. Her eyes swept back from the lamp to the room just in
time to see Jacomine mouth something at Nikki. She couldn't tell what
it was, but the expression in his eyes was controlled fury.

The back of her neck prickled.

This man is dangerous.

She took deep breaths to stay calm.

Ruby said, "Sidney's using the phone."

"
It's all right. I only have a couple of
questions anyway. " She glanced at her watch. "So long as I
call in in five minutes."

She wondered if Evie was in the house. It was seeming
likelier and likelier.

She stared at the window. Behind her someone righted
the lamp—not Jacomine, she was sure. He had probably activated one
of his robots with a little hand command.

"Is something wrong?" said Jacomine.

"I just wanted to make sure my partner found a
parking place."

"You got a partner out there? Why, bring him in.
Bring him in right now and let's give him some tea."

"Mr. Jacomine—"

"
Errol. Please."

"We really didn't come here to have tea—I'm
trying hard to impress on you that I have a job to do." No way
was she drinking a drop or eating a crumb.

"
We didn't mean to do anything wrong. We meant
to make you feel welcome." His eyes were hard, brown little
pebbles.

"Thank you. I appreciate that. I'm wondering if
you know a woman named Evelyne Hebert, nicknamed Evie."

Behind her, she heard the sound of breath being
sucked in. Jacomine's face twitched ever so slightly.

"I do."

"Do you know where she is?"

"
No, I don't. Evie was a member here for a
while, but she left us about a year ago."

"
Did she live here? In this house?"

"
Another one. We have several for our people to
live in. Especially those dealing with addictions."

"
She must have left a forwarding address."

"No. Evie's departure was rather sudden."

"What happened, Errol?" Not strictly her
business, but maybe he'd answer anyhow.

"She decided this wasn't the path for her."

"It sounds as if there were bad feelings around
it."

"She's still one of our people and we still love
her."
 

21

Skip went immediately to the office and ran a records
check on Jacomine. He had only minor traffic infractions, but she was
willing to bet there was a sealed juvenile record somewhere. This was
the kind of guy who chopped up his grandparents.

She needed to know more about him. She called Ramon,
in Intelligence, and posed her question.

"Jacomine. Sure, I know about him, haven't met
him personally. Good reports on him. He takes in people who're pretty
desperate and cleans them up. Has a pretty good following.
Mixed—black and white, a lot of families. Runs a day-care center,
all the right civic liberal bleeding-heart bullshit."

"
Something's funny with him. The guy's a creep."

"
He does pretty good work for the community.
That's all I know about him."

"He's got some kind of little fascist army
going."

"I thought I was the expert."

"When he stands up, everybody stands. All the
followers. You know what I mean?"

"What's wrong with that? That's just showing
respect for their leader."

"He knew a lot of stuff about me; he'd
researched me."

"Aw, you're famous. Don't be so paranoid."

It was curious, she thought, the way human beings
never wanted to think ill of each other, the way they excused each
other's misdeeds by professing to know someone else's intent—as if
that mattered. It was a cliché the way relatives of a murderer said
he was a good boy, he never did mean any harm.

Neighbors closed their eyes and ears. "Well,
yes, we knew they beat their children, but they were good parents,
the kids were always clean and well-fed. They were just doing what
they thought was right."

She hated the word "good"; it was a license
to kill. Cindy Lou was right: when people thought they were "good,"
they thought it was okay what they did, and so did their families and
friends. At the latter, she wanted to shout: "Who cares what he
meant? I don't give a shit what they thought. It's what they did that
keeps me on the job."

To Ramon she wanted to say, Open your eyes.

But what was the point? Jacomine had no arrest record
and hadn't committed any crimes in her presence.

He knew more about Evie than he'd told, though.

She arrived at the office Monday morning with a list
of things to do: look up the property the Following owned; try to
find disgruntled members; or better yet, ex-members.

She sat at her desk and thought.

Might as well talk to the ones I already know. She
drove back to the little house in Metairie and knocked. The man who
answered was a stranger, burly and face-tattooed, looking as if he'd
just been released from Angola. Better not start with him.

"Is Nikki Pigeon in?" It was the one name
she knew.

"She gone."

"
When do you expect her?"

"
You ain' got no bi'ness with Nikki."

Skip produced her badge.

The man was suddenly sullen. "I find you
somebody," he mumbled, and was gone.

He came back with a middle-aged woman Skip knew—Ruby,
she thought, the one addicted to painkillers. "Yes? Can I help
you?"

She could have just questioned Ruby, but her
curiosity was piqued. "I'm looking for Nikki Pigeon."

"
Ms. Pigeon is not a member of our
congregation."

"
Is she an employee, then?"

"I'm afraid I really have no information. I'd be
happy to refer your inquiry to Daddy, if you like."

"Daddy."

"The Reverend Mr. Jacomine."

"Thanks, it won't be necessary."

Something was up here. Yesterday Nikki had been a
member. She went back to the office and ran a records check on her.
Nothing.

The DMV provided a two-year-old address, which hardly
seemed worth checking out. Skip had the distinct impression Nikki'd
been living at the Following house.

Sighing, she settled back with the phone book, open
to P. Eight Pigeons. Not bad. She dialed Tanya, on Baronne, and asked
for Nikki.

Tanya didn't answer, just turned away and hollered,
"Nikki! Phone."

A moment later she was back. "Nikki ain' home."