The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (41 page)

And little Torian, skinny, fragile little Torian, hair hanging wet and stringy, looking much more the pathetic drowned rodent than any goddess-kin, was battering the statue’s chiseled visage as methodically as if she were working out. Paulette did not move, didn’t turn her face to avoid the blows, didn’t raise a hand to stop them. She simply sat there, staring into the wind, features immobile.

Torian’s face was transformed as well. By a trick of the light, perhaps, it seemed as black as Paulette’s hair.

Skip heard sloshing behind her—Steve, she hoped. She grabbed Torian’s hands and turned the girl around. Her eyebrows, still knit together, relaxed and the rage left her face, replaced instantly by pain.

Her body went slack, and Skip had to pull up on her arms, to put her arms round her shoulders, literally to hug her to keep her from falling. She smoothed the girl’s hair like a mom. “It’s all right. It’s okay, sweetheart.”

Torian’s voice was strangely matter-of-fact as she said, “It’ll never be all right. He’s dead.”

Without being asked, Steve was gathering Paulette out of the mud. Skip said, “‘Take her inside. I’ve got another pair of handcuffs.”

“What about the tape recorder?”

Paulette said, “I threw it away.”

Maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t, but the tape wasn’t on her.

“‘Torian. Did you see her?”

“Yes, she threw it that way.” She pointed towards a stand of trees about fifty feet from the house.

“Did you see it land?”

The girl shook her head.

When the floodwaters dried up, it would be easy to find.

As Steve, gripping her elbow hard, passed Skip and Torian, Paulette reached out a hand to the girl and spoke in such a soft voice she could barely be heard. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry ya have to feel like this. But it had to be done, sugar. You just didn’t know he was fuckin’ you up.”

“You don’t know anything about it! He was all I had in the whole fucking world.”

“Just know this, baby—when you think about it later, just know this—I did it for you. I do things for Daddy, sure I do, but that’s not why I did this. I did it for you.”

Great. That’s all she needs on her conscience.

Skip hugged the girl like she was five years old. Torian held on like a baby for a long time in the wind and rain, as if they could wear away her pain. When Skip loosened her grip, Torian would tighten hers, and Skip would let her hold on awhile longer. Finally she said, “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

Faylice and Sheila found Torian some dry clothes and got her into them.

Skip saw that Steve had handcuffed Paulette on the side of the kitchen opposite from Gerard. Both were attached to cabinet handles, neither of which looked too stable. They wanted watching.

She was itching to get back to New Orleans, to get backup and go get Jacomine, but there was no way right now. She’d have to send Steve for help while she watched the prisoners.

She had him take the girls as well, thinking it was far too dangerous to keep them with her. Both wounded men were stirring and moaning; the other two might try to break loose at any moment.

As they got on such coats as they had, she thought about the tape. No way Potter was going to testify against Jacomine, even if he survived. What Paulette would do was anybody’s guess. The tape might be all they had against him and soaking in a foot of water couldn’t be doing it any good.

Restlessly, she went outside. Why, she wasn’t sure— she was never going to find it in the storm. She saw that there were utility shelves by the porch, to the right, the direction Paulette had taken. And Paulette had had time, she had a head start on Torian—she could have faked the throw once she had an audience.

Not daring to hope, Skip let her gaze wander over the shelves. Nothing was there but a few old paint cans, gardening tools, a couple of stacked flower pots. Just to be sure, Skip moved everything, looked behind each item. Almost as an afterthought, she stuck her hand in the top-most flower pot, on a shelf over her head. Her fingers closed around hard plastic.

Once again, she pressed the “play” button. Paulette’s voice alternated with Potter’s.

“I carried out Daddy’s order.”

“Treadaway’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Report.”

“Broad outline or details?”

“Details.”

Paulette’s voice settled into a kind of professional singsong, like a salesman making a pitch, an anchorman reading news; simply the rhythm of the job. Skip didn’t like the sound of it at all—it was obvious she and Potter had worked together before.

“Well, I got this kid to help me.”

“Are you crazy? You weren’t supposed to involve anyone else.”

“This was one of my kids—a kid I took off the streets a few years ago who got molested by an uncle, didn’t want to tell anybody. He curled up in a kind of mental shell. He’s doin’ good now, but he’ll always be a little mad. Angry mad, not crazy. Ya know? Doesn’t seem like that ever goes away. I told him Noel was a molester.”

“Get on with it, Paulette.”

“I got him to help me tie him up.”

“On what pretext?”

“What do ya mean what pretext? I said it was Daddy’s orders, and not to ask questions.”

“He’s one of ours?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Go back to the beginning.”

“I got my gun and waited for Noel to come home, just in my car. I leaned out and I said, ‘I need to talk to ya about Torian. I’m the woman who’s taking care of her.’ He got in the car and I took him to my garage.

“I held the gun on him while the kid tied him up. Then I verbally abused him awhile, so the kid would think that’s what it was about. Like those sessions we had last year—with the people who tried to leave the church. Remember that?”

“Paulette, I ran those sessions.”

“Then I said he could go, I’d take him home, and that would be that. When the kid was gone, I shut up the garage and ran the car till Treadaway died. Didn’t take long.”

“Doesn’t.”

“Then I took off the ropes so he wouldn’t have marks, searched him, and got the key to his garage. I took him home and unlocked it. Then all I had to do was drag him out and put him in it. If anybody saw me, I was helping a drunk to bed—how often do ya see that in the French Quarter?”

“Uh—tell me you didn’t forget anything.”

“What?”

“You can’t commit suicide without turning on your car.”

“For heaven’s sake, Potter, you think I’m simple or somethin’? Of course I turned on his car. Pretty slick, huh?”

“Satisfactory. I’ll tell Daddy it’s done.”

Skip could almost see him nodding. It
was
pretty slick. Provided the kid didn’t talk, it was beautiful. And the kid had no reason to connect the death of Treadaway, clear across town, with Jacomine’s berserk idea of discipline.

She clicked the machine off, wiped it clean of prints, and put it back in the pot—might as well let the local guys find it with plenty of witnesses. She didn’t want some lawyer accusing her of planting it.

Knowing Paulette had heard, she didn’t bother to conn ceal her anger. She banged the back door behind her.

“Paulette, where do you draw the line? You killed Treadaway for Jacomine, why not Sheila and Torian?”

“You crazy, girl? Ya think I’d hurt a kid? Anyway, I didn’t kill him for Daddy—I already told Torian. I killed him for her—so he’d keep his mitts off her.”

“I talked to Mitchell last night—your former pimp. He thinks you had a great relationship. Thinks you’ll be back.”

She didn’t quite manage a laugh, but an amused grunt came out of her. “I’d rather go where they’re gonna send me.”

* * *

It was two hours before Steve made it back with two ambulances and three sheriff’s cars. The storm was slacking off by then, the winds no longer hurricane strength, the rain no more than a steady drizzle.

But the water was still high, and the ambulances couldn’t get close. The paramedics had to lift the men out by stretcher.

Skip turned over her other two prisoners and asked to speak to the highest-ranking officer at the scene. Feeling more desperate by the moment, she wasted no words:

“I’m a New Orleans homicide detective on leave. This thing involves a murder-for-hire, and—with luck—the guy doing the hiring is still in New Orleans. I need to call my sergeant—bad.”

He had looked impatient all through her speech. Now he shook his head in pity. “We’re probably not gonna have phones for three days. We got radio, but you can’t get New Orleans with it.”

“E-mail. Something.”

“No power. No nothin’.”

“Then let’s drive.”

“You crazy? There’s flooding all the way to the city.”

“We drove here in it.”

He shook his head again, giving her the kind of contemptuous smile adults reserve for stubborn children.

“Look. Let me try alone. You know who I am. You can question me any time.”

“I don’t know who you are. I only know who you say you are.”

He let them go by noon, but he was right—the roads were impassable.

Skip, Steve, and all three girls ended up collapsing at a motel, Skip waking up every hour to try the phone again, Torian zonked out on painkillers from the emergency room.

Skip got through at five a.m., and Cappello called back at seven. She had sent raiding parties simultaneously to Jacomine’s church, his house, and his office. Jacomine was gone, his wife was gone, and most of their belongings were gone. The church database, the one she and Steve had raided, was wiped out.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

LISE STOOD IN line at Matassa’s, having made a special trip for the instant oatmeal Torian liked, the kind that came in little envelopes and had dried bits of things in it, like apples and raisins. She was also nearly out of gin and was picking up a bottle of that as well.

She was thinking of Charles, largely because she’d spent so much time with him in there. Whenever he came over, they nearly always came down for a six-pack of beer, something she never could seem to remember to pick up.

Well, I could remember
, she thought,
if there weren’t so damn many other things to do.

I wonder if life will be simpler in L.A
. And then:
I wonder if Charles and I could have worked it out.

Probably not, with Torian underfoot.

Lise had a sister in L.A., someone to stay with while she got on her feet—an advertising executive, maybe a role model for Torian.

God knows she needs something—she doesn’t appreciate anything she’s had so far.

The time was right—because of a personality conflict (meaning her boss was a bitch), Lise had been fired again. The decision to move was for and about Torian— New Orleans had simply turned too nasty lately. The girl’s values were fucked up.

Try as she might, Lise couldn’t see how it had happened—that is, until she started to look at the world around her.

First, there was the larger society. The economy was based on the pleasures of the senses—what the hell was a young girl supposed to think?

Then there was Torian’s own father—a married man who’d ended up with a younger woman. That’s how she thought men were, and how she thought women were. She probably aspired to be another Carol, grab the prize right out from under the wife, never mind that Lise had dumped Wilson.

How could Torian have overlooked that tiny detail?

Who knew? She was fucked up, that was all Lise knew. Not only that, she’d pretty much disgraced both of them in the neighborhood. For Christ’s sake, you just didn’t waltz away with the husband of the woman you baby-sat for.

I’d think she was raised in a barn if I hadn’t raised her myself I don’t see why
I
should have to leave.

I could always get another job. I’ve got roots here. I’ve got Charles.

That is, I did have Charles until he dumped me because I got so depressed over that child of mine. It’s hard being a mother. Why doesn’t anybody get that?

Especially being the mother of a really difficult child, a kid who basically doesn’t know her ass from her elbow.

Well, all you can do is do the best for them.

Lise truly believed that, even though it was obvious to everyone what an ungrateful little bitch she’d been cursed with. There was no question Torian had deliberately provoked Lise into hitting her that time. It was a ploy to get sympathy from her married lover—to get him to leave his wife and child. Nothing could be more transparent, and yet Lise’s efforts to get Torian to see it, to accept herself as she was, had failed.

Let’s face it—along with most things I’ve ever done as a mother.

I wish to hell I’d never met Wilson Gernhard and never had his damn devil-child.

She nearly tripped, going down Dauphine Street.
I don’t mean that. I love her. Every mother loves her child.

I just wish I could get something back from her. Why does it have to be all one way?

* * *

Feeling numb, trying to hold back tears because Sheila was there, Torian pulled clothes out of her closet, armfuls at a time, and folded them into cardboard boxes. Lise had said she could take only one suitcase with her—the rest would have to come with the movers.

There was something about the work that was soothing, that kept her from falling apart altogether, so in a way she was glad.

She wasn’t sure this great lump in her throat, this ugly thing the size of a grapefruit, was ever going to go away. She needed to say good-bye to Sheila—that’s what Sheila was here for—but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Sheila was nattering on, and she wasn’t listening. It was something about all the stupid stuff Torian wouldn’t have to do anymore—like put up with asshole tourists who peed on your house at Mardi Gras. It was meant to cheer Torian up.

If she only knew—if I listened, I’d melt in a puddle.

She wasn’t sure why she felt so lonely right now, so absolutely alone and desperate—she was going off to have a new life, as Lise had said.

In California.

Great.