The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) Page 5

  No one answered.

  That was probably the way it was going to be—Tanya was probably going to make herself pretty scarce to official personnel.

  I’ll have to go see her, Skip thought, and found the idea depressed her.

  * * *

  “Potter. Potter, got a minute?”

  Potter loved that about Daddy. His politeness, the way he always asked, as if he weren’t paying Potter for his time, as if he didn’t know Potter Menard would lay down his life for Errol Jacomine.

  He couldn’t call him Daddy in public anymore, though. They had decided to forego that during the campaign—actually, during Daddy’s entire public life, which was projected to be long and distinguished. It sounded too “fundamentalist cornball,” Daddy himself had said, and chuckled. Another thing Potter liked about him: He could laugh at himself.

  He’d never thought he’d feel about a white man the way he felt about Daddy—almost as if Jacomine were his real father. God knows he could have used one once.

  “We all need our daddy,” Jacomine said. “And we need our mama too. We don’t ever outgrow it.”

  Potter had been a Christian for a long time, ever since he was a teenager, since long before he found Daddy, and he had wanted God to be enough. But he wasn’t, he was too distant, too pie-in-the-sky. Daddy said you needed a symbol, some kind of symbol of God-on-Earth to bring it all together for you. For his flock, Daddy was that symbol, and Potter had never known such certainty, such a sense of purpose as he did now, working for Daddy.

  Potter stepped into his office. “Yes, Mr. Jacomine.”

  “Potter, for the Lord’s sake, call me Errol.”

  Potter grinned. He just couldn’t, but he wasn’t going to say that to Daddy. He spoke to the other man in the office, the new press secretary. “Hey, Noel.”

  “Sit down, Potter,” said Daddy. “Look, I just got a call that worries me. Somebody out there doesn’t like us.”

  Potter sat and crossed his legs, his pulse speeding up a bit. He was about to get a problem to solve, and he thrived on problem-solving. Liked it best of anything in the world because you could take care of something small. You couldn’t save the world or maybe, in some cases, even your own family members, but some things you could do, as long as you did them one at a time. That was what Potter liked and what he did well: He had a teacher once who called him Potter the Plodder, and he took it as a compliment.

  “Don’t know if I ever told you about this funny thing that happened last year. A female detective came to see us, big, fat girl, but skittish … didn’t want to tell us what she was working on, couldn’t wait to get out.”

  This was for Noel’s benefit; Potter knew as much about it as he knew about Daddy’s daily schedule. He’d been promoted now, but he was still Daddy’s sometime bodyguard and chief of security—at least that was how he thought of himself—and he made it his business to know what Daddy was doing every minute of every day, just in case.

  Daddy was looking at Noel, bewildered, as he always was when he told this story. “We’d had someone make cookies for her, and we had tea all ready. But she just rudely spurned our hospitality—we never even found out why.”

  Noel asked, “What did she want?”

  “She was looking for a former member of our flock. Unfortunately we were unable to help her, though we did try. We tried to be as nice to her as we knew how to be. But for some reason, she seems to have taken a dislike to us. You know your Bible, Noel? Bible says it’ll be this way. It is written, it is predicted, and it should come as no surprise to us: ‘My enemy is like a lion eager for prey, like a young lion crouching in ambush.’ ”

  Potter knew there was going to be more. Daddy never stopped at one Bible verse. “ ‘The Israelites cried out to the Lord their god. Their courage failed, because all their enemies had surrounded them and there was no way of escape.’

  “‘All nations surround me, but in the Lord’s name I will drive them away. They surround me on this side and that and in the Lord’s name I will drive them away.’

  “This is my life, gentlemen—our lives, if you will. This is what we must bear if we walk the path we have chosen. I regret to say that this young woman is out to discredit us. This is the call I have just received. Potter— any questions?”

  Potter thought. “No sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Of course you will. Noel, I just wanted you to be alert to the situation. Mr. Menard knows what to do, you need not concern yourself.”

  Noel looked confused. “But what is she doing, Errol?”

  “The information we have at present is that she is trying to discredit us. Exactly why is not clear, though I expect the answer is quite simple—she is undoubtedly a Perretti supporter.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. If she’s a cop, this could be serious. Are you saying she’s got something on you?”

  “It will be Mr. Menard’s job to find that out.”

  “Okay, but I’m still confused. How do we know about this in the first place?”

  “Oh, we have quite an organization, as you’ll find out. Quite large and quite impressive, if I do say so.”

  Potter was itching to get to work. “Mr. uh, Errol, do you mind if…”

  He didn’t even get to finish. Daddy read his mind and waved him out of there.

  He got on the phone to a volunteer: “We have a situation here. A very disturbed person is harassing Daddy. We need information and we need letters. I want you to call ten people and have each of those people call ten people, and so forth…. Get each of them to report back to you with the names of the ten they called, and get each of them to get reports from their callers and get them to you. Then you get them to me.”

  “Potter,” asked the volunteer, “what exactly are we trying to do here?”

  “Why, nip this thing in the bud, Culotta. Any way we can. Do you understand what I’m saying? This person is a white police officer named Skip Langdon. She lives on St. Philip Street in the French Quarter. Her best friends are a homosexual named Jimmy Dee Scoggin and a black woman who works as a psychologist for the police department. Get each of your people to contact anyone they know in the police department or the French Quarter or the homosexual community or anyone who’s a psychologist or even in therapy. They’re to find out anything they can about her and write letters. Call me if you find out anything damaging or helpful in any way. Do you understand?”

  That was the small stuff. After he got that going, he settled down to the serious business of damage control. He dialed a number in the police department. “Hey, Rosie. Potter. Been thinkin’ about you, baby. She’s fine. Yeah, the kids are fine, too. Alexa’s taking riding lessons. Yeah, can you believe that? I’m scared of horses, too. She’s only ten and a half. Listen, baby, I need a couple of favors. Who do you know in the chiefs office?”

  He wrote as she talked. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. How about personnel? I need somebody’s file.

  “You can? Terrific. Now about this Tony in the chief’s office—how well do you know him? Think I could call him directly?”

  Next he called the man in the chief’s office. “‘Tony, this is Potter Menard over at Errol Jacomine’s. You know, we think the chief’s doing a really great job. Errol asked me to call and just let you know how much we admired your handling of that little PR problem you had last week— yeah, with the officer who put out the contract on that woman. Whooo-ee, talk about a tough one.

  “We loved what you said—just loved it. Errol said, ‘Now there’s a man who’s doing a great job. How many city officials can you say that about?’ He had me there, Tony, what do you say? How many could you say that about? So we just wanted him to know, that’s all.”

  “I’ll be sure and tell him,” said Tony, and Potter knew he would. The police chief was appointed by the mayor: a new mayor could mean a job in jeopardy.

  “Say, Tony, while I’ve got you, I came across something kind of odd a couple of weeks ago—forgot all about it till right this minute, but
I just happened to think, ‘Maybe Tony can shed some light.’ Do you know a detective named Skip Langdon?”

  Tony laughed. “Everybody knows that one. That’s kind of a high-profile cop you’re talking about. On the news every other day, it seems like.”

  “A real hot dog, huh?”

  “Damn good cop, though. Had some bad luck recently. Her partner got killed, and she ended up shooting the guy who killed him—kind of a double whammy for her.”

  “Hey, I’d have thought she’d be thrilled she got the guy.”

  “I’m sure it was better than not getting him, know what I mean? But he had a little girl, and Skip felt real bad about it. Matter of fact, I think she’s on leave right now.”

  “Oh, well, if she’s mentally unstable, that would explain everything.”

  “I didn’t say that. She’s on leave, that’s all.”

  “Well, all the things coming down, I kind of wondered.”

  “Hey, what’s happenin’, Potter? Talk to me.” Tony sounded suddenly alarmed.

  “Well, it’s very confusing. Frankly, we don’t know what to make of it. But she seems to be trying to discredit Errol.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “We have absolutely no idea. Maybe some personal reason of her own—we just can’t figure it; but now that I know she killed someone, I’m going to be doubly vigilant.”

  “Listen, Potter. Maybe I can help you. Let me ask around and see what I can come up with.”

  Potter hung up smiling: a satisfied man. He loved stuff like this.

  He was perfect for this job, technically called “campaign aide,” but really what it was about was two things—protecting Daddy’s butt and destroying Marvin Perretti’s credibility—and Seymour Jackson’s, if he had any left. Detective Langdon, rogue cop, might prove very useful indeed to the Jacomine campaign. The thing was like karate—you used the other’s strength against him.

  Satisfied with a good day’s work, Potter called his wife:

  “Honey? Yolanda, honey, I’m coming home early today. Why don’t you send the kids over to Oliva’s? Why? Because I want some time alone with my wife, that’s why. I’m bringing home a nice bottle of white wine—now what do you say?”

  The kids were still home when he got there, but they weren’t as scruffy as usual, had obviously been combed and groomed to go over to their aunt’s. Potter had brought not only wine, but also flowers and a cake. The cake was for Alexa and Mark to take to their aunt’s.

  Eight-year-old Mark ran toward him and grabbed him around the waist. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, guess what I did today?”

  Potter couldn’t help smiling. “What did you do today?” When the boy’s hands went around his waist, Potter’s mind went back in time, to those same hands around his calves, then his knees, and then his thighs. They were growing up so fast, Mark and Alexa. It made him sad, made him wish he could turn the clock back, or somehow make more time to be with them.

  He fondled the top of Mark’s head. “What did you do today?”

  “I scored three goals. Joey scored one and I scored three, and we won four to two.”

  “Who’d you beat?”

  “The Pandas! Yaaaaay. I hate the Pandas.”

  “Well, I’m proud of you, son. That’s really fine.”

  Alexa put her hands on her hips. “Well, guess what I did?”

  She was jealous.

  When Potter had been duly brought up to date and the kids complimented and petted, he drove them over to their aunt Oliva’s and returned to find his wife stepping out of the shower. “Hold it right there,” he said, and opened her robe.

  “I was going to put on something sexy.”

  He pushed the robe off her shoulders, let it fall to the floor. “Now that’s sexy.”

  “What?”

  “This.” He cupped a breast. “And this.” He kissed her.

  Yolanda leaned away from him, making him bend her backward, so that her body curved back gracefully, a reverse C, smooth and brown. Her hands kneaded his shoulder blades, and then found his zipper. She started to unfasten his trousers, but he grabbed her hand. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he slipped a hand under her knees, picked her up, and carried her to bed. Then he undressed slowly, knowing she liked to watch. He sat on the bed for a moment, stroking her breasts, and then he changed position. She reached for him, to pull him up by the shoulders, but he pulled away, parted her legs, and buried his face between them. Instantly, she began to moan. She liked this almost better than fucking—or better maybe; she loved it. And he could do it for her for hours. He felt like that tonight, like licking her until it was time to pick up the kids, forgetting entirely the nice bottle of wine, simply getting lost in her wet, slippery, pink-and-brownness.

  “That’s enough! God, Potter, that’s enough!” She was half laughing. “Come here.” And now she did pull him up by the shoulders, so that he was on top of her, his long, lanky body stretched against her soft one.

  She gave a little scream as he entered her, as she used to do, as she had always done until they had both become conscious of noise, of keeping quiet because of the children. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had heard it, and a shiver passed through him. “I love you,” he said. “God, Yolanda, I love you.”

  She screamed again, this time because she was coming. She often came like that, at first, almost the second he entered her, or she used to. It hadn’t happened in a long time, and the thought of that filled him not with regret, but with greater, deeper love for her, as the weight of their years together settled comfortably on him.

  It was as if they had always been together—she was as familiar to him as his fingers and toes—and he knew they always would be, that nothing could separate them.

  Some people, he thought, never get to love anybody like this, and he nearly exploded with gratitude.

  * * *

  Afterward, they warmed up the etouffée Yolanda had made and drank the wine. When they had progressed to coffee, Yolanda said, “What is it, Potter? It’s not our anniversary.”

  He put a hand over hers. “I was just feeling grateful to the Lord, that’s all.”

  “For what?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a beautiful wife and a great job—and of course, the campaign’s going good.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I swear, honey. I just wanted some quality time.”

  “Did I ever mention I love you?”

  Potter thought: You never thought you could do it, did you? You are one lucky sonofabitch.

  She said, “The campaign’s really going good?”

  “Great. Except …” He furrowed his brow, thinking. “I don’t know about the new press secretary. Noel Treadaway—remember him?”

  “From where?”

  “‘Think.”

  “Oh, yeah. Pretty boy on TV.”

  “That’s him. Quit to write a book, and now he’s decided to go into politics.”

  “He’s famous in this town, and he’s pretty. All he has to do is issue statements, right?”

  Potter laughed. “He’s really got to control the flow of information.”

  “You don’t think he can do it?”

  “He’s competent. He’s just a little green. I don’t know how tough he is.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

  “I’d feel better if he were a Christian.”

  “Oh, what difference does it make?”

  “It’s about commitment, honey. It’s all about commitment.”

  “I don’t see what you mean.”

  He patted her again. “I mean doing what you have to do. That’s all. I don’t mean anything more than that.”

  Chapter Five

  SHEILA’S HOUSE was so beautiful Torian was almost embarrassed to have her over. The apartment in which she lived with her mother was only part of a building the size of Sheila’s—about a quarter of it, probably. It didn’t even have charm. It was one
of the few French Quarter buildings with low ceilings, part of an apartment complex owned by one of her mother’s ex-boyfriends who was probably letting them live there for free. Torian didn’t know the details, but if she knew Lise, she’d probably bullied him into a free apartment.

  It didn’t get much light, which depressed Torian, and it was furnished with any old thing they could scrounge, most of it beyond tacky. At least Torian’s room was better than the rest of the place. She had gone to the flea market and found a few things—some antique lace curtains and some old pictures—but she had very little money and no way to get more. While Sheila had everything money could buy.

  “Except my mother,” Sheila would wail. “At least you have your mother.”

  “But I don’t have my dad.”

  “Yes, you do, on weekends.”

  It was true, but Torian still felt orphaned. Lise was never home—all she cared about was her damned boyfriend—and her dad lived in Old Metairie. At first she’d been furious that they’d moved to the French Quarter—the mingy little apartment, the crummy school, no other kids around, her dad on the other side of the planet—but things had worked out.

  There was Sheila now, and most of all, Noel. How she felt about Noel was indescribable. It was love, but it was beyond love; it was passion, but it was … so much finer, so much sweeter, so much rarer. It was the tenderest, most fragile thing, and yet it was also a strong, sinewy bond that nothing could break.

  Nothing!

  Torian had never been so sure of anything.

  The buzzer sounded, harsh, like most things in her life. Good—Sheila. She was coming over to work on a science project, but Lise was gone, so they could talk. That was the good thing about having her come over—total privacy; an adult-free zone.

  Sheila was in a snit. “God, Uncle Jimmy’s a dork.”

  “What’s he done now?” Torian led her into her bedroom, where she had lit candles and incense. It wasn’t dark yet, but the shadows were lengthening, and the effect was almost Anne Rice-ish. If only the ceilings were high and the walls were peeling; it was hard to live a romantic life in a modern box.