Jazz Funeral (36 page)

There it was. The shrinkage. She knew Richard couldn’t have a conversation like a normal person—she was what she was—but it still made Melody mad. “Ham’s the reason I ran away in the first place!”

She blurted it, and now she felt hot tears on her cheeks. Damn! She didn’t need this.

“Ham? But what did he do to you?”

“He didn’t feel me up, if that’s what you mean. That’s all anybody over twenty ever thinks about. No, my brother did not molest me. There’s other things that happen. Things so weird nobody’d believe them.”

“I’d believe them, Melody.”

She sounded so sanctimonious. Melody could have punched her. “Look, I just want to get out of here.”

“You need to be home with your family.”

Watch it, Melody, watch it. She’ll betray you in a minute. Everyone else has.

She said, “I like being on my own.”

“What happens when you run out of money? You haven’t even got enough for the crab stuff.”

“I have friends. People on the street look out for each other.”

“Won’t you at least talk to your mother? I’ll call her.”

“No!”

“Okay, okay. Look. My client’s coming in a minute. Why not go take a shower? And then I’ll take you to get the medicine.”

No way.
But she didn’t say it. She didn’t know what to say. Really, all there was to do was run. The minute Richard was out of her sight, she was dead. The whole damn thing had been an exercise in futility.

Richard said, “Melody, are you afraid I’ll betray you?”

Still she didn’t say anything.

Richard left the room and came back with an unplugged phone and a prescription. She fished in her purse for her car keys. “Look, take my car and the phone.” She pulled out two twenties. “And this. Go get your medicine, then come back and take your shower. I’ll give you a change of clothes so you don’t have to wait for yours to get washed. While you’re gone, I’ll be incommunicado. If my house burns down, I can’t even call the fire department.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you’ve been through something really bad and I want to help you.”

“You don’t even know what it is. You haven’t popped the question.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether or not I killed my brother.”

“That’s because I don’t care. If you killed him, I’m sure you had a good reason. And you’ve still been through something really bad.”

The doorbell rang. “It’s my client. Quick, go out the back. Don’t forget the phone.”

Once in the car, Melody had a wonderful sense of exhilaration, of having put something over on the enemy. She wondered if she should steal the car. She could drive to Memphis, maybe. Ti-Belle had gone there. She could even go to California. No, she couldn’t get that far on forty dollars. Houston, maybe. But what would she do when she got there?

I can’t do it. I’m scared.

She hated herself for being chickenshit. If she didn’t get out of New Orleans, she was going to get caught.

Did she want to get caught? Dr. Richard had taught her to ask questions like that.

But it wasn’t that, she thought. Weighing all the options, for a few days it was probably safer in New Orleans. Kids like her stayed in the Quarter for months and never got caught. She’d have to leave Joel’s, though. She’d have to figure out a way to make some money and go back to the Quarter. To the runaway underground.

She found a K&B and got the stuff. It was probably gross beyond belief, but nothing could be worse than feeling like Typhoid Mary. She wondered if she were getting little bugs and nits on Richard’s front seat.

Driving back, the exhilaration started to give way. It was being replaced by gratitude. And a weird feeling of tenderness for Dr. Richard. Richard didn’t have to help her. Why was she doing it? Melody didn’t know, couldn’t even begin to figure it out, but she almost loved her for it. Almost because she didn’t dare go for it.

Still, she was so grateful. So very grateful. She couldn’t ever remember anybody but Joel being this nice to her.

Joel.

She wondered if he’d like to go to Houston or somewhere.

But that was preposterous. Joel went to Country Day. He wasn’t a liberated minor like Melody, a former and about-to-be professional singer making her own way in the world.

Hang on to that thought, Melody. Just hang on.

That’s what would get her through. Keeping her eye on the goal. Focusing.

As she drove up to Richard’s house, she saw another car parking, kind of a scruffy one, not very well taken care of. A third car was there too, a nondescript dark one. She barely noticed it until she was in front of it—and then only because she caught a sudden movement. She hadn’t realized there was anyone in the car.

A young woman got out of the scruffy car, the one that had just arrived, and turned into Richard’s driveway. She was a big woman, a woman who looked as if she could take care of herself.

Richard hadn’t said she had two clients. She’d said come back after the one and they’d straighten things out. What was this woman doing here?

Melody put it together with the two cars. Cops. What else could it be? One was watching the house, the other going inside to wait for her.

Her scalp prickled, literally itched with fear.

Bitch! I should have known! Everybody has at least two phones—why did I believe her?

Carefully, so as not to attract attention, she drove to the end of the block and turned the corner. Then she floored it.

Asshole!
She meant herself.

Skip had a fleeting impression of short blond hair in the handsome little Accord that drove by as she was parking; drove by and hesitated. As she turned into Richard’s driveway, she glanced back for a second look and the car took off. Not only took off, but she had the definite feeling the driver had been looking at her, checking her out.

Grateful she hadn’t yet tossed her keys in her purse, she hopped back in the car and followed. Another car pulled out ahead of her and momentartly slowed her progress. But to her amazement, it speeded up instantly, took the corner as if it was the one chasing the Honda. And once around the corner, applied pedal unceremoniously to metal. If Melody was the one in the Accord, she had more than one nemesis. Skip’s heart started beating fast.

The car had been parked on Richard’s street when Skip drove up. She hadn’t noticed anyone in it, but then she hadn’t looked. And if it were someone tracking Melody, they would have hunched down anyway.

The Honda went through a yellow light, which promptly turned red, and the dark car ran it. Skip would have followed, but traffic was heavy. There was no way.

She peeled out on green, and had gone five blocks before she realized there wasn’t a prayer. Neither car was in sight and there were too many places they could have turned off—she hadn’t been able to get a plate number on either one, and had only the most cursory of descriptions. She radioed the detective bureau and asked the desk officer to phone Madeleine Richard, ask her if she had a little silver Accord.

Three more blocks, four more, drivers honking and cursing. Nothing.

The desk officer radioed back—Richard’s phone didn’t answer.

Damn! Damn, damn, damn! She kept driving, kept looking fruitlessly, depressed and panicky, mentally urging Melody on.

Drive, baby, drive. Outrun that son of a bitch. You can do it.
She kept saying it over and over:
You can do it.
Her whole being went into it, backing Melody up, until it seemed as if she was putting more energy into that than into actually trying to find her.

After half an hour she stopped, near tears, knowing it was hopeless. Her adrenaline should have been flowing, she shouldn’t have been so worried, so emotionally involved, but all she could think of was how close the second car had been to the Honda, how close the murderer to Melody.

Here’s wishing you a green light, baby.

She went back to Richard’s. It was a wonderful old Victorian camelback, near Audubon Park. With no Accord parked in front.

Richard wore khaki shorts, T-shirt, and a very worried look. She was pretty, with longish dark hair that was slightly wilted in the heat. She had a lot of color in her face and very white teeth.

The worried look gave way to disappointment when she saw Skip.

“Dr. Richard? Skip Langdon.” She showed her badge.

Richard looked suddenly very frightened.

“Do you own a silver Accord?”

“Yes. I lent it to someone. Has there, uh—been an accident?” Her voice was urgent.

“No. Not that I know of. But I need to talk to you about it.”

Richard relaxed a little. “Come in. Would you like some iced tea?”

The living room had a light, airy, lace-curtain look. It was done up in chintz and antiques, and had a window seat, which gave it a welcoming warmth.

“What a nice room,” Skip blurted. Richard smiled, seemed to relax.

“You don’t sound like a detective.”

“Don’t I?” Skip smiled back. “I’d love some tea.”

When she came back, Skip said, “Could you tell me where your car is right now?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me.”

“Are you saying it’s been stolen?”

“I told you. I lent it to someone.”

“Melody Brocato’s your client, isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid that information’s confidential.”

“Dr. Richard, let me tell you something. The person driving that car was last seen being pursued by someone in another car—a dark-colored American job, fairly old. Does that ring a bell?”

She looked alarmed. “No. Not at all.”

“Do you mind telling me who you lent your car to?”

“Yes!” She answered immediately. Then stood up and walked to the window, stared out. “Let me think a minute.”

Skip kept quiet.

“I think I have to tell you,” she said finally. “It’s Melody. She came here with a problem. I lent her my car to—”

“Dr. Richard, every second you stall could endanger Melody’s life. What problem?”

She shook her head slightly, waved a hand. “A nothing problem. A minor medical thing—but she didn’t know it was minor. I tried to get her to talk, and honestly I think I’d have succeeded if I could have had a little more time, but I had a client I couldn’t cancel. I lent her my car to go get the medicine, thinking that would show I trusted her, hoping maybe she’d—”

Skip was losing patience. “What on earth made you think she’d bring the car back?”

“She wanted to take a shower.”

“A shower. We’re talking life and death here!”

Richard’s smile turned very cold. “Well, I expect it felt like that to Melody. Detective Langdon, have you ever had crab lice?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That was Melody’s medical problem. Would you agree that’s none of your business?”

“So she did tell you she had no place to take a shower.”

“Yes, but that’s about all. Except that she was in love. It’s her second guy since her boyfriend dumped her the day she ran away.”

“Why’d she run away?”

“That’s what she wouldn’t say.”

“But she’s got a guy with no shower.”

“And she sang with a band once or twice. She didn’t say much about that either.”

“What’s the time frame?”

Richard shrugged. “She was only here about half an hour. My client came, Melody left, she didn’t come back, and you showed up. That’s about it.”

“Do you have any idea who’s chasing her?”

“I’m afraid I think the same thing you do.” The worried look came back.

“If she gets in touch again, get her to come back; or at least find out where she is; get as much information as you can and call me.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Richard said in a peeved tone, and Skip knew she had a right to it.

“Look, I’m sorry—I know you will, and none of what I asked is going to be easy. But I can’t stress how important this is.”

She liked Richard.
Watch out
, she told herself, and went back to headquarters to check her record. Richard had no Louisiana criminal past and she did own the Honda, which was her only car, according to the DMV. Still, she could have borrowed the dark car. Could she have chased Melody herself?

Skip called the dispatcher to see if anything had come of her bulletin. Nothing had.

As she hung up the phone, Frank O’Rourke strode in. “Frank. I thought you’d be at JazzFest.”

“Some of us have to work, Langdon. Listen, what do you have on the ex-wife?”

“Ham never got around to making a new will. She does inherit.”

“Goddammit! She could have the kid, Langdon. She could be holding her. Have you checked out her house?”

“She doesn’t have the kid. I saw Melody myself this morning.”

“You what?”

“She seems to have stolen a car.” Unhappily, she told him the story, knowing it didn’t make her look great.

True to form, he didn’t miss an opportunity. “You lost them? You didn’t get a license number? What the hell are you telling me?”

“Listen, I could eat my gun about it. I’m worried as hell about that kid.”

“I swear to God I don’t know why we keep you around, Langdon.”

She turned back to the computer and began calling up some imaginary record, anything so she wouldn’t have to look at him anymore, so he’d get the idea of shutting his obnoxious trap and going away.

But he said, “Find out if the ex-wife needs money.” She nodded very slightly, grudgingly, still staring at the screen. “And do it now.”

She stared at him.
How dare he?

“Report to me in an hour,” he said, knowing it was Saturday and she had very little chance of finding out any such thing.

Cappello, goddamn you! I could kill you for getting hurt.

She sighed.
Well, hell, consider it a challenge. Show the bastard.

She called her favorite twenty-four hour, full-service information spewer—Allison Gaillard.

“Skippy, I’m so worried about that poor little girl.”

“Me too, Allison. Just about beside myself. Listen, she’s changed her hair—she’s a blond with a purple streak if you hear anything.”

“Want me to call around?”

“I’ve got something a little more pressing, if you don’t mind. But listen, this is very, very confidential—it’s about Mason.”