Lost River (32 page)

Along the alleys were hovels that passed for rooming houses, one-story affairs that catered to sailors too drunk or violent to get regular work, which was saying something.

The detective lurked for a while between two of the buildings, just him and a crumpled body that might have been dead. Once the alley hit a moment of stillness and silence, he slipped to the other side of the street and rapped on a door. He paid a half-blind, half-drunk old hag a nickel and got a ragged towel and a key.

His room was at the end of a littered hallway, about the size of a large closet, with a pallet, a chamber pot, and nothing else. The walls were mapped with stains from the leaking roof, and the reek of urine and mildew choked him. He wasn't there for the accoutrements.

It wasn't the first time he'd spent a night in such digs, and he knew what to do. The lock was worthless, so he pulled the sack of a dirty mattress away and leaned the pallet against the door, propping it closed. He folded the mattress upright into the cleanest corner and sat on the floor with his back against it and legs outstretched. Justine had thought to drop an apple in his pocket before he went out the door, and he nibbled it as he pondered his situation.

In twenty-four hours he had gone from hero to fugitive felon. He wouldn't be able to hide for long. Though the only photograph of him was lying in the back of a drawer in Papá Bellocq's studio, a police artist could come up with a good enough likeness. He could count on his face being in the hands of every cop in the city by morning. Once the word got around that he was on the run, anyone spotting him would sell the information for a dollar.

It would be easy enough for him to hop a freight smoking out of the yard behind Union Station. Railroad cops would be watching, too, but they couldn't cover every car. It would be the smart thing to do, except that he'd never be able to come back. His name would be forever tagged with the appellation of
murderer,
and for the rest of his days he'd risk being spotted, identified, captured. And what of Justine? What kind of life would it be for her?

Indeed, he was in deep trouble because he hadn't listened, hadn't respected her wishes. Why would she follow him down a fugitive trail?

His thoughts shifted and he recalled her approaching from the corner and the red Buick 10 slipping away in the background. He knew without asking that she had been riding in the car, and that it was the same one he'd spied on Basin Street. He had been too exhausted to ask her what it meant.

Maybe he should have stayed to find out, but from the moment he opened the door for Each, he knew his only chance was to run. Now his only choice was to stay and untangle himself from the trap.

If Justine thought her troubles were over when the two detectives walked out, she was mistaken. She drowsed fitfully and was roused within the hour by the clattering telephone. She came swaying out of the bedroom, wishing they had thrown the noisy device in the river long ago.

It was a gruff Tom Anderson calling again. He listened as Justine explained that Valentin had heard about trouble on the way and decided to leave. She was not happy about any of it and didn't provide any details.

"And he went where?" Anderson inquired, though they both understood that she wouldn't tell him even if she knew. She owed the King of Storyville less than nothing. To her, he was just another man wreaking havoc. He mumbled something about having Valentin get in touch, then clicked off.

She had just lain down again when the street door squeaked and footsteps thumped in the stairwell, followed by a hard pounding. Standing on her landing was Weeks, the senior detective from the night before, but this time accompanied by a beat cop in blue uniform and round-topped helmet.

"Captain Picot wants you at the precinct for questioning," Weeks said.

Justine recognized the name as an enemy's and considered arguing. She had nothing to tell him or anyone else. But putting up a fight would only make things worse.

"I'll need a moment to dress," she said.

From the bedroom she could hear them pacing around. They were likely wondering if she would try to escape out the back window and looked relieved when she reappeared in a plain shirtwaist.

Down on the street, they escorted her along the banquette to the corner, where a black Ford Model T with a New Orleans Police Department emblem on the door was parked. Weeks helped her into the rear seat, allowing his hand to linger on her too long. The patrolman started the engine, and they rolled off through the New Orleans dawn to a meeting with Captain J. Picot.

Each heard from one of his spies about the cops heading back to Spain Street. He arrived too late to warn Justine and had to duck into a doorway when the police sedan went by. He peeked out just in time to see the Model T round the corner, heading downtown, with her in the backseat.

Not that he could have done anything to help. The cops would be after him, too, thinking he would know where the Creole detective was hiding. Which, in fact, he did; or, at the least, had a fair idea. They had talked about it before, and Mr. Valentin had said, "If ever..."

Though it had been a long time ago, Each had never forgotten. He remembered almost every word of what the Creole detective had said over the years. Now he checked the street ahead, just as he had been taught, and when it was clear, he made his way out of the neighborhood and toward the river.

The cops brought Justine up the stairwell. The other detectives and uniformed officers stopped what they were doing and took notice. Low whistles followed her as she passed between the desks on the way to Captain Picot's office.

The captain, keeping his back to the officers and their quarry, gazed out on the dark streets. He had heard the stir outside his door and saw the visitors' reflections in the window glass, framed like a moving-picture show.

Once they arrived in the doorway, he took his time turning around. She was as exotic to him as a wild-blooming flower and made his gut churn to think that someone like St. Cyr claimed such a prize. And not just this one; Picot knew about others, one a lovely mulatto, another a black-skinned island girl, a third a young American lady from one of the better families on Esplanade Ridge. The Creole had enjoyed them and more, goddamn his soul. All sorts of women were drawn to him.

His quadroon was something special, though, and Picot could understand why she was the only one St. Cyr held on to. Though under medium size, she had a large woman's vibrant presence. Her eyes were round and black, and her nose was curved like a Jewess's. She had pulled her black curls back in an Indian braid. Beneath her cloak, her body was full and lithe, something a man could feast on for years, or so the captain imagined ... He caught himself and straightened his shoulders.

There was more to the story. He held one of Justine Mancarre's deepest secrets, and all that kept him from using the rich morsel was that her man, that fucking Creole St. Cyr, had even darker knowledge about him. So while it was true that he and this young lovely were at a standoff, he still had some cards to play.

He had yet to meet her eyes. With a glance at the patrolman who had escorted her in, he said, "Go find a matron." The cop bowed out.

As a younger officer, Picot had taken his way with a share of the sweethearts and even wives of criminals he arrested. They were easy pickings for him. This indulgence lasted until a burglar named Duprez decided that his whore's honor was worth suicide and tried to murder the then-lieutenant second grade in broad daylight. It was good fortune that the patrolmen in Picot's company that day were crack shots, and Duprez ended up on the banquette, bleeding his life out through four holes in his chest. The last time Picot saw the wife was at Duprez's funeral parade, and her eyes were daggers. So he had her run out of town.

Since that time he had been more vigilant, taking advantage only of women who had no man to protect them. Even that had diminished as the years went by and his random cruelties began to eat at him.

That didn't mean he couldn't relish this moment. It was Valentin St. Cyr's woman standing before him, after all. He spent a moment picturing her undressed and at his mercy, then pulled his thoughts away from that scenario. If he abused her in any way, St. Cyr would come for him. Still, he could use the girl to his own ends; in this case, for bait.

She spoke up, poking into his thoughts. "Am I under arrest?"

Picot did look at her now, his brow pinching. "If you are, you'll be the first to know." He pushed some papers around on his desk. "Is there any point in me asking you where St. Cyr is at the moment?"

Justine said, "I don't know." She tilted her head. "I told the detective that."

"Oh, well, then I guess we made a mistake bringing you in." Though the captain's eyes widened clownishly, there was no humor in his voice. He saw the way she was watching him, prey to predator, just a little unsure of his power, and he felt a tingle in his bones. He had St. Cyr's woman, and there was nothing the Creole could do about it, having run away to hide.

When he looked at her again, their gazes locked and he saw that she was trying to read his thoughts. She was a sly one, all right, and had no doubt learned some tricks from St. Cyr. The captain remembered the other officers were standing by idly, surely wondering what the hell was going on. He quickly reverted to his officious posture, though his face remained flushed with agitation.

"Where's the damned matron?" he inquired to no one in particular.

"She's out there," Detective Weeks said.

"All right, have her park this one somewhere."

Weeks took Justine by the elbow to lead her out. Again, she said, "Am I under arrest?" She sounded like was losing patience with this foolishness.

"You ask too many questions," Picot said, and waved a dismissive hand.

He watched through the doorway as the matron, a trusty guard from the women's prison who wasn't more than twenty-five herself, directed her charge to the bull pen, a part of the room cordoned off by a low molded railing and set with chairs and a small table.

The captain wanted her to sit there and stew the rest of the day, if need be, and think about where St. Cyr might be, what he was doing, and if he was going to leave her to fend for herself.

Uptown New Orleans woke Saturday morning to the news that the Storyville murders hadn't stopped after all. Another shot-dead body marked with a slash had been found on the streets, and the Creole detective St. Cyr had gone into hiding with a warrant out for his arrest in the death of William Brown.

The
Daily Picayune
and the
Sun
had already assigned reporters the task of wrapping up the story of the murderer Brown. The
Sun
was the bolder of the two and had someone tracking down St. Cyr for an interview by way of a young rounder who went by the moniker Each. But then the afternoon papers took a sharp turn with the lurid tale of a fresh killing in the tenderloin, a sure sign that something had gone terribly wrong in that part of the city, and that citizens should be on their guard.

Telephones had been ringing in parlors and foyers through the night as crabby men sniped back and forth. Chief of Police Reynolds's voice was trembling with anger when he finally got Tom Anderson on the line.

"You made fools out of the both of us!" he yelled.

"Calm down, Chief. We don't—"

"You had me put a murderer back on the street," Reynolds went on, rolling over him. "Now won't I have a hell of a time explaining that?"

The King of Storyville bit his tongue.

"Where is he?" the chief demanded.

"Where is who? St. Cyr?"

"Yes, St. Cyr. Who else? We have a warrant out on that Creole son of a bitch."

"I don't know where he is. He's not—"

"Don't you dare try to hide him."

Reynolds's tone was severe, as if he was dressing down some underling, and Anderson decided he'd heard enough. "I told you he doesn't work for me, goddamnit."

The chief took a step back to allow a moment of calm, and the two old heavyweights went to their corners. Momentarily, the King of Storyville said, "He's not my man anymore, Billy. It's different now. I helped him out because I couldn't believe he'd be so wrong about this man Brown. I still can't. But..."

Reynolds, standing in the study in his house in Carrollton, heard the odd note of defeat in Anderson's voice. The man sounded almost pitiful.

"Well." The chief was confounded. "If you do hear from him, he needs to give up. He'll get a fair trial. You tell him I said that." He lowered his voice as if there were other people in their respective rooms. "You know there's still bad blood at the department. The last thing we need is a 'shot while escaping' situation."

"He's not going to come to me," Anderson said with a sigh. "He knows I can't do anything for him. He's on his own." He paused for a quiet instant, then said, "Of course, he always preferred it that way."

The chief of police was mulling these last weary words when the line went dead.

***

Officer McKinney had been assigned the task of accompanying the victim's body to the morgue and working up an identification. He knew full well this was intentional, that Captain Picot didn't trust him and wanted him out of the way. The captain was as edgy as a rattlesnake when it came to Valentin St. Cyr, and alert for any sign of sympathy in that direction.