The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (12 page)

“How do we know? Why, people call us and give us information—people from all over town. Sergeant, I don’t know if you realize it, but that woman is creating quite a disturbance in this town. Look, I wouldn’t bother you with that, it’s our problem, really. It’s just that I’m disturbed by some of the rumors I’ve been hearing. She can look all she wants and she won’t find any dirt on Errol Jacomine—that’s just not going to happen—but you understand, a candidate has to be—frankly, Sergeant, according to our information, this particular officer has an unhealthy obsession with sex.”

Of all the things Noel expected to hear, that was the last. He could imagine the sergeant’s puzzlement.
What does that have to do with anything?
she must be wondering.
What is this guy getting at?

She’d probably tell him that.

In a moment, Potter hung up, looking satisfied. “What’d you think of that?” he asked.

“‘To be honest, I didn’t see the point of it. If I’d been the sergeant I’d have told you to fuck off.”

“Oh, she did. She did.” He chuckled, obviously extremely pleased with himself. “Yeah, she must be a straight arrow. Not many of ‘em out there—most people would have wanted to know what I meant by ‘obsessed with.’ They’d want to know how the rumor got started— you know, just what their officer had been doing and what she was likely to do.

“You see what I’m gettin’ at here? It makes Langdon sound unstable. That’s because she’s a woman. Now if it were a man, I’d have said I’d heard he was violent. But sex is best for a woman.”

Noel was wondering if campaign work was really the right career path for him.
Maybe I’m just naive
, he thought.
I don’t know anything about how campaigns really work. Maybe this stuff is just routine for these guys.

Trying to keep an open mind—at least to keep the ice out of his voice, he said, “Look, I don’t see the point. She hung up on you, right?”

“Yeah, but she’s going to think, ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’ She’s going to know her officer’s been up to no good, but she ain’t going to know what kind of no good. It’s brilliant, you see that? ‘Obsessed with sex’ could mean anything. Maybe it means she says unprofessional things; maybe nothin’ like that; maybe she sees sexual misbehavior everywhere she looks—maybe the sergeant better be above reproach herself with that woman around.”

Noel was trying to sort out this information in his own mind. He said, “What about all those other people who’re placing calls—are they spreading the same rumor?”

“Oh, hell no, my man. Hell, no. We got a lot more than one trick up our sleeve. Some of ‘em are callin’ all over, trying to get some real dirt on her; some are just complaining that she’s doing such a thing to a fine man like Errol Jacomine; some are saying they heard she’s really unreliable.” He chuckled again. “Yeah. ‘Unreliable’ is good. Even ‘unstable’—I got a few people on that one. Alcohol and drugs, we got some folks on those. Actually, not drugs so much because she probably isn’t on ‘em. But alcohol and sex are good, because everybody fucks and most people drink a little. If they don’t it’s because they’re in AA, which means they used to, and that’s even better—sounds like they fell off the wagon.”

Stunned, feeling his way, Noel said, “You must have worked in a lot of campaigns.”

“This is my first, my man. What do you think? Am I a strategist?”

“Where’d you learn this stuff?”

“Oh, I’ve had some teachers.” He laughed, a more expansive laugh than the smug chuckles he’d been emitting.

“What are you saying? Are you spying on Perretti’s people spying on us? Is that what it is?”

Potter nodded. “We got some of that going on. Don’t think we don’t.”

“So they’re doing the same thing.”

“All that and more, my man. You can take that to the bank. I’m gonna teach you, too. I’m gon’ teach you everything I know.”

“Well, there are some things I think I’d rather not know.”

“What, you don’t want to be in on this? This is the fun stuff.”

“I think I’d better stick to writing press releases.” He got up and went into his own office, feeling disoriented and a bit unbelieving, not sure if things were coming apart at the seams or if he, hardened reporter that he was, was getting exposed for the first time to the real world.

He sat there for a while, covering his face with his hands, not sure what to make of anything. He had looked for some stability in this job. It was a time in his life when he couldn’t write, he wasn’t sure why. The book had been going slowly, painstakingly, more a matter of grinding pain than creative fulfillment.

Then he had met Torian, and all work had stopped. He simply couldn’t think of anything or anyone else—that is, anyone except Boo and Joy and his guilt toward them, his sadness that his marriage would end, his fear that he would lose his child.

He sat there in his office, his computer on, trying to focus on his novel, and he found sometimes that an hour or more had passed and he had not typed a word. Sometimes, when that happened, he gave in to it; he thought it best, as long as he was going to think of Torian, to do it in a creative way. He wrote poems to her, poems that he hadn’t yet had the courage to read to her. He was working on a short story as well, but that was like the novel. It was happening slowly, at its own pace. He knew it would come together eventually, but for the moment life was confusing. Things that had seemed permanent were suddenly transient, fragile as crystal.

His job, on which he’d leaned for so many years, was gone, at least for the moment. Boo and Joy were floating figures, bobbing on the horizon. And Torian, so much in the forefront, so Colossus-like in his brain, could disappear at any moment; he was aware of that. If someone found out, anyone at all, she could be forbidden ever to see him again, watched like a prisoner, though they’d done nothing sexual.

His whole life was hanging by a hair.

A job was supposed to give him a sense of security, of permanence, of once again belonging—maybe even a sense of self. And this was like stepping into a strange, upside-down world where he didn’t know the rules and people might be cheating.

He felt not only at a disadvantage, he felt a strange sense of foreboding.

Someone knocked at his door.

“Come in.”

The candidate himself came in. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Surely there could be nothing wrong—that was impossible. Here was a man so humble he came to Noel’s office instead of summoning him, and then he asked if Noel had a minute, as if being there for Jacomine wasn’t his job.

Suddenly he saw what was happening. He saw it as clearly as if the sky had lit up and revealed it: Jacomine didn’t have a clue what was happening. Potter Menard was running the show and it was out of hand.

Jacomine said: “We need to talk about the white honky media.”

Noel nodded, a little surprised by the epithet but relieved to discuss a subject about which he felt confident.

“Here’s a list of reporters we need some dirt on.”

Jacomine handed over a piece of paper with seven names on it, all but one people Noel knew. All of them he respected.

Three were good friends, another two were casual friends, one was a friendly associate. He had had dinner in the homes of most of them.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

Jacomine’s eyes looked suddenly small and beady. He shrugged. “Well, you’re the press secretary.”

“Errol, I don’t think you quite understand how things work. The media isn’t dirty.”

Jacomine laughed, prompting a rueful smile from Noel.

“I mean, relatively speaking. Nothing like politics is.”

The other man sat back in his chair. “Oh. Well, I’ve been misinformed.”

I’ll just bet you have, and I think I know who your informant was.

“If we tried to blackmail them, they’d just put that in the paper. You see what I mean?”

“Oh. Well. We don’t want that, do we?” He seemed embarrassed. Noel was trying to think of something to say to get them over the social hump, something casual and reassuring, when Jacomine stood and turned toward the door. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Guess we’ll have to kill ‘em then.”

* * *

Skip’s phone rang again, for the third time in five minutes. “Hi, it’s Tricia.”

“Tricia Lattimore. God, I’m glad to hear from you. You’re the only person who knows me that’s called this morning.”

“Lots of wrong numbers?”

“No, it’s something else. How’s every little thing?”

“Well, I don’t know how to say this, but I’m a little worried about some things I’ve been hearing about you.”

Skip sighed. “What have you been hearing?”

“Just that you haven’t really recovered from … uh … what happened last year, and you’re on leave.”

“Go on.” Skip felt her heart pounding, angry and a little panicked.

“Well, I hear you’re going around spreading rumors about Errol Jacomine. Listen, he’s …”

“What am I supposed to have said?”

“I just heard you’re saying really crazy things …”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, I just…”

“You didn’t ask?”

“Well, no. But the person who told me is totally reliable. It’s someone who knows we’re friends and was worried about you—and thought I ought to know. Thought someone ought to be taking care of you.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“They asked me not to.”

“Why?”

“Listen, it’s complicated. I just can’t do it.”

“Is it someone I know?”

“I’m sorry, Skip, I just can’t break the confidence.”

“They didn’t tell you what I was actually doing…”

“They did! They said you’re saying crazy things and acting paranoid.”

“How am I acting paranoid, and what did I say?”

“Look, Skip, this is a person of goodwill. They were concerned about you.”

“Okay, a person of goodwill comes to you about a very close friend, says things that could damage the friend’s reputation, and won’t let it be known who he or she is. Does that strike you as normal behavior?”

“Skip, you’re really overreacting. I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do, and you come at me with this.”

“I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of something very confusing and uncomfortable.”

“Let me help you. Why don’t I come over and we can talk about it?”

“I think I have to work this through by myself.”

“Come on. I’m your oldest friend.”

“Tricia, I really can’t.”

“Look, it bothers me that you’re trying to make something out of this—”

“Make something? I’m not trying to make anything.”

“Would you let me talk, please? I called up for the reason I said, and you made a big deal out of who the person was and what did they say …”

“So?”

“So I’m sorry to say it, but it really does seem paranoid.”

“Look, we’ll talk about it when this is all over.”

“Now you’re the one talking in generalities. When what’s all over?”

“I’m a police officer. You know I can’t talk about my work.”

“Skip, you’re on leave. Right now you’re not a police officer.”

“My doorbell’s ringing. I’ve really got to go.”

She hung up breathing hard, her heart beating too fast. This was crazy-making. How on Earth had they gotten to Tricia, who really was her oldest friend?

Or had they?

Maybe I am paranoid
, she thought.
Could it be I really am going nuts? Is she right? It makes as much sense as some perfect stranger telling my oldest friend some cockamamie story, and her believing it. Why did she believe it? That’s the part I don’t get.

The answer came to her with a nasty jolt: Darryl!

Her friend Darryl—the one Sheila liked so well— tended bar in the same place Tricia waitressed. Could Jacomine have gotten to him through one of his followers? Many of them were black, as was Darryl. Was there someone he trusted implicitly who had fallen under Jacomine’s spell? A relative, even?

Tricia’s informant could have been anyone, of course, but Darryl was her best friend—she’d believe him without a second thought. That might explain why she was so insistent.

This thing is so insidious. If I wasn’t paranoid before, I am now. I feel like all my best friends are in a conspiracy against me.

* * *

Her phone rang again. “Detective Langdon? This is Emily Warford. I’m a friend of Sergeant Milius, who works with you.”

“I don’t really know Sergeant Milius, I’ve only heard of him.”

“Well, listen, I think it’s important to the police department for Errol Jacomine to get elected, and so does Sergeant Milius. The Reverend Mr. Jacomine’s such a fine, fine man, Detective. I wonder if you know how much he’s done for this city? With his day care programs, and his drug treatment programs, and—this is real important to me, because I have a teenage daughter who’s a mother—he has a special program that helps girls like her stay in school. I’m sure I don’t need to outline each and every one of his contributions—”

“No, indeed. I’m well aware of them, I think.”

“But I just wanted to tell you how good Sergeant Milius thinks he’s going to be for the police department.”

“I really appreciate your calling, but I’m afraid I’ve got a call on my other line.”

As she cradled the receiver, the phone rang again. This time she let the machine pick it up. She hoped the deluge wasn’t going to last too long—it would be so irritating to have to get a new phone number.

How did they get my number, anyway?

It was Cappello’s voice on the machine. Skip picked up.

“Hi. I’m screening today. Jacomine’s flock is calling in, one at a time, and so is everyone any of them have ever heard of.”

“I know what you mean. We’re still getting it down here. Even me.”

“Why not? You’re my sergeant.”

“Look, I’ve already asked you to stop whatever you’re doing. Now I’ve been officially designated to ask you again. I won’t say who asked me—”

“Oh, no, not that again.”

“Not what again?”

“That’s how he works. Everything’s always a big secret.”

“Hey. Nothing’s secret. I was just being discreet. This request comes straight from Captain Giannini. Is that open enough?”