House of Blues (34 page)

The face leaning down was round, white, and
surrounded by black hair; the voice was female. "No, uh—uh.
Just the upstairs tenant. I'm gettin' a little worried. I thought
maybe you were a relative or something."

"
I wonder if I could come in for a minute? My
company's offering free gifts for the first thirty-five—"

"Sorry. I've got to get back to work."

The face disappeared.

The building was a four-plex. Evie was in Apartment
One, and this was the one above—Three, probably.

Suratt.

She rang Suratt's bell.

The face came back.

"Could I talk to you a minute?" Skip held
up her badge, not wanting to shout her identity.

"Hey, what's that? Are you a—"

Skip nodded and held a finger to her lips, holding
virtually no hope it would work. But Suratt nodded and disappeared
from the window.

She appeared downstairs breathing hard.

She was about a hundred pounds overweight, with quite
a lot of curly hair and the pretty face with which every fat girl is
supposed to be blessed. She wore leggings, an oversized T-shirt, and
sandals. She looked intelligent, and there was something else about 
her, a kind of
joie de vivre.

"
Diane Suratt," she said. "Could I see
that again?"

Skip displayed the badge and introduced herself. "I
wonder if we could talk inside?"

"Sure."

Diane led her into an airy apartment with very little
furniture, mostly thrift—store stuff to which she'd applied various
exotic paint jobs. Below the window she'd shouted from was a large
white worktable covered with tiny fruits, airplanes, cars, flowers,
birds, cats, fish, trees, cups, saucers—anything you could
name—some painted, some awaiting paint.

On another table were pairs and pairs of earrings
attached to little paper cards. All were large, dramatic, exuberantly
painted, and made of the tiny objects. She'd seen them many times
around town, both in stores and on ears. In fact, Dee-Dee had given
her some, which were amusing but which she couldn't bring herself to
wear.

She said, "You're the Slutsky lady. I've got a
pair of your earrings with little revolvers and knives on them."

"
I made those for Halloween one year." She
frowned. "They didn't sell, though."

For a moment Skip didn't speak. She was trying to
take it in—this woman's apparent poverty and the popularity of her
work. Finally she said, "Do you have anyone helping you?"

A shadow passed over Diane's face. "I can't
really afford it right now. But I might get a contract for a
department store chain .... "

She crossed her fingers. "Then I could get a
couple of people. Evie never seemed to have any money; I always
wanted to hire her. But lately she's been screwing up pretty bad."

"
How's that?"

"Drinking too much. Maybe doing drugs, I don't
know. And a horrible boyfriend. Manny.

"God! Rides a motorcycle, looks like a thug, and
hollers at her all the time. Did I mention his tattoos?

"
I~Ie hasn't been around lately, though. For
about a month, I guess. In fact, things have been so quiet over there
I thought maybe she'd gone back to AA—she used to be sober, did I
say that? Nice girl when she's not loaded. But I don't know about her
and men. That Manny was abusive as hell."

"How long has she been missing?"

Diane looked uncomfortable. "About a week, I
think. I'm not sure when I first noticed she wasn't there. Tuesday or
Wednesday, maybe.

"Her newspapers started piling up. I've been
removing them so the neighborhood hooligans don't get the idea they
can make off with the Picassos."

"
Picassos?"

"Kidding. So far as I know, Evie hasn't got a
dime. Supports herself with crummy little modeling jobs."

"Has she gone missing before?"

"When she was seeing Manny, she'd be gone a
couple of days sometimes. But what's funny—she'd usually ask me to
get her mail for her. And this time she didn't. Why are you here, by
the way? Did someone report her missing?"

"Something like that."

"
I don't even know where she's from. Must be
Louisiana though; with a name like Hebert."

Skip asked if the building
manager lived on the premises. "There isn't one," said
Diane, "but I can give you the owner's number. You can call her
from here if you like."

* * *

She called Cappello first, to report that she was
still in one piece. The owner sounded young, as if she'd inherited
the building but wasn't ready for the responsibility. When Skip told
her the situation, her voice turned high and tense.

"Do you think we should go in and look? Is it
legal?"

"It's legal in an emergency, and frankly, I
think we've got one here. But if nobody's there—and I'm presuming
Evie's not—I'll need a search warrant. I'll call you back when I've
got it."

It took two hours to get the warrant delivered and
another hour for the owner to bring the key, during which time Skip
sat in her car and stared at the building as if her gaze was needed
to keep its timbers together.

The owner was older than she'd thought, but still not
much over thirty. Her name was Belinda Carbo, and she was worried
about getting sued; for what, Skip wasn't sure.

She went through the apartment with Carbo behind her,
finding an even mingier decorating job than she'd done herself on her
first apartment at Dee-Dee's, before he'd taken it away from her and
made the Big House big again.

Evie's place would have been depressing in a.ny case,
but right now it was dusty and lonely and a little mildewy.

Skip found little except some snapshots in a drawer,
of a very pretty blonde with a young man who looked like the sort who
gave white trash a bad name. He had a thick, nasty neck, too large a
head, and tiny little eyes that probably had a mean glint in them,
she couldn't tell from the photo. There was a Rolodex as well, but
only a few of the cards had been used, which struck Skip as sad. She
looked under "Hebert," and under "Foucher," but
Evie hadn't recorded the phone numbers of any member of her family.

Skip gave Carbo a receipt for the Rolodex and
snapshots, then knocked once again on Diane Suratt's door. "Sorry
to bother you again, but do you know these people?" She
proffered the snapshots.

"Sure, Evie and Manny. How'd you like to meet
him in a dark alley?"

Skip went through the Rolodex in the car. A Manny
Lanoux was listed, with no address.

She found a phone and called his number. No answer.

She turned over the snapshot, staring at it, willing
it to release its secrets.

The more she stared, the more Manny looked familiar.
As if she'd arrested him maybe; or should have.

Oh, well, at least I've got his mime.

She went back to headquarters to look him up. And
there he was, two years before—a domestic violence case with her
name on it, back before she'd been in Homicide. She remembered the
woman well, her nose smashed in, blood running down her chin. And she
remembered Manny's voice—high and whiny. The woman's jaw had been
broken, as well as her nose. She'd pressed charges, and Manny was
convicted of battery. He was now on probation, which meant it was
only a matter of calling his probation officer for his address.

She also got a work address for him, but it was now
going on five o'clock. Better to go to his apartment and hope to
catch him as he was getting home from work.

She marched into Cappello's office. "Well, now
I've got to see her ex-boyfriend. This time I better take somebody
with me—I know the guy. He's a creep."

"Okay, Thuringer. But tomorrow I'll have
somebody new and kind of great—we don't have Jim's replacement yet,
but O'Donnell's getting transferred and we have his."

O'Donnell was the other sergeant in their platoon. "I
mean, nothing against Thuringer, but this is somebody you've worked
with before."

"
Who'd we get?"

"
Adam Abasolo."

"
You've got to be kidding."

"The movie star himself."

He wasn't a movie star, but he looked like one—tall,
slender, and wiry, with dark hair and blue eyes. He also looked a
little like a thug. He was one of the best policemen in the
department—she'd worked with him on the Axeman case.

"Well, that cheers me up."

He was such a hotshot, she hadn't looked forward to
working with him, afraid he'd be bossy and superior, her two least
favorite qualities in a partner. But he was great. If she couldn't
have Jim, Abasolo would do just fine. Her only regret was that, since
he was a sergeant, she couldn't often partner up with him.

Today she had more than one reason to miss Jim.
Thuringer, though a perfectly adequate policeman, could bore the
pants off a naked person. He was a short detective with glasses and a
kid in college, who was his only subject of conversation.

Manny wasn't home when they got there, which meant
time in the car together; hours, as it turned out.

It was Steve's last night in town.
 

22

Manny never did turn up. By the time Skip staggered
in, Steve was sleeping like a baby.

Oh, well. I'm way too tired for a night of passion
anyway. He rolled over and put an arm around her, which was what she
did want and something she was going to miss when he left—the feel
of his body; the comfort of it.

The morning was overcast, which matched her mood. It
was not only the day of Steve's departure, it was the day of Jim's
funeral.

Jim had been Catholic, but almost certainly not a
member of St. Louis Cathedral, which was where the funeral was held.
He had probably gone to a small church  somewhere—but this was
to be a big deal cop funeral.

The
Times-Picayune
had made a major event of Jim's death, and the chief had treated it
as a personal affront. Everyone in the department who could would
probably attend the funeral, and a number of politicians were
expected.

Not to mention Jim's friends and family.

"
Families," Steve reminded her as they
walked over. "That means two sets of in-laws, aunts, uncles,
every kind of thing—how the hell did he do it?"

"Reminds me of that country song."

"As you know, I would listen to country only if
you tied me up and tortured me."

"
If you ask me nice, I might."

"How does the song go?"

"Tryin' to love two women is like a
ball and chain."

"
I'd never attempt it." He wouldn't. She
was sure of that.

"Funny thing, though, Jim didn't seem any more
tired or distracted than anyone else."

‘
·‘How could you even handle the logistics of
having two families?"

"
\/Vell, I've been pondering that. You know the
way our schedules change all the time? Like one month my platoon's on
the first watch, which is eight to four, the next it's on the second,
which is four to twelve, the next it's the. third, which is midnight
to eight. At first I thought maybe he could tell them it changed
every day or something like that. But you know what? I couldn't
figure a way in hell to make it work. The only thing I can imagine is
he gave them some idea that being a policeman is like being a spy—he
can't be called at work, he's out of pocket for days at a time. Lies
upon lies upon lies."

"
And think how small he'd have to tell them the
pay is."

"Oh my God, I hadn't considered that—I hope he
wasn't sending all those kids to Catholic school."

They were nearly at the church. Steve nuzzled her
neck briefly. "Did I ever mention I like a woman in uniform?"

It was the right thing to say. She'd worn one for the
occasion, along with her mourning band, the little black elastic
sleeve that fit diagonally over her badge. But one of the great perks
of being a detective was not having to wear a uniform; because if the
truth were told, it was distinctly unflattering. She felt
self-conscious today, too heavy in the boobs and butt.

Having arrived fairly early, they were shown to seats
about midway to the altar, giving Skip a good view of the front pews.
She had wondered if each of the two families would take a side, as at
weddings, giving everyone a choice of Wife A's side or Wife B's. But
what she saw amazed her. The two families were sitting together, the
women side by side, their children interspersed. They'd apparently
bonded.

Skip felt tears come to her eyes, she wasn't quite
sure why. They were dealt a bad hand and they made the most of it;
that's better than most people would have done.

She tried to imagine it: overcoming your jealousy and
sense of betrayal at a time like that.

It would take a bigger woman than me.