Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) (15 page)

I pressed the bell and waited for the answering buzz but didn't get one. A group of tourists on their way to the Café du Monde for morning coffee passed by, chattering about ironwork and cobblestones. In the midst of their clatter I thought I detected the flap-flap of Mrs. Parry's rubber sandals. I peered through the small iron gate in the door and saw her slowly making her way down the narrow entrance alley.

“So it's you, is it,” she said as she stood on her toes to get a good look at me. “Did you bring any whiskey?”

“I promised, didn't I?” I held the Jim Beam up to the grating. The last couple of tourists straggled by as Mrs. Parry fumbled with the lock. Just as the door started swinging open, a gunshot exploded, wood splintering as the bullet embedded itself in the middle of the door above my head. I pushed the door open enough to slide through and shoved Mrs. Parry out of the way. The women tourists were screaming and scuttling down the street like a bunch of ferrets. I drew my gun and took a tentative look through the grating. Judging by the angle of the bullet, the shot must have come from a second-story window or rooftop across the street, but my vision was hampered by the design of the grate.

Mrs. Parry recovered herself from the bout of hacking that had been brought on by the excitement. “Hey, what's this?” she croaked. “Someone's shooting at you,” she said as if the first light of dawn had just seeped through.

“Sure looks that way,” I agreed, craning my neck trying to catch sight of my assailant.

“Haven't seen this much excitement since last night on ‘The Rockford Files,’” she said coming up behind me.

“Look, Mrs. Parry, take the bottle and go upstairs and calm your nerves,” I suggested, even though she looked as calm as a crocodile basking in the sun. “I'm going to open the door a bit and see if I can spot anybody.”

“And maybe miss something?” she demanded. “Not on your life, Rafferty.”

I started getting irritated. After all, I couldn't very well try to draw the culprit out with her in the way. “Well, then., move back there,” I pointed toward the stairway. She drew back not quite as far as I would have liked, but at least leaned up against the wall.

I opened the door a fraction. Everything was deathly quiet. A few curtains flapped in open windows across the street, but I couldn't see anyone in any of them. I opened the door some more and started going out, gun first. A bullet whisked by my hand so close that I felt the heat from it. There was nothing to do but retreat. I couldn't see well enough to tell exactly what direction the shots were coming from, but wherever it was, the person behind the gun had a perfectly good view of me. I tried edging out again and again a bullet smacked into the brick wall inches away from my gun hand. I heard sirens in the distance and counted on them drawing the attention of the assailant for a moment and dashed across the sidewalk, taking cover by a parked car. A bullet hit the concrete. I raised my head and peered diagonally to the right, which seemed to be the direction the bullets were coming from, judging by the angle of the last three. Another shot glanced off an iron pole supporting a narrow balcony. I ventured up to take a return shot and saw a movement on the roof to my right. Someone had quickly backed off. I stood up, aiming for the spot, but whoever it was had decided to leave, since the sirens were a bit too close for comfort and a getaway still had to be made. I tried to calculate where he would come down, but with the rooftops connected as they were, it could be on any of four different streets. I waited for the police, hoping they would be in time to surround the block and catch the would-be killer making his escape.

Police cars were suddenly swarming over the area. I walked down the street, still in the cover of the parked cars and with an eye on the roof. Several uniformed policemen jumped out of cars and took cover. I saw Rankin alight from an unmarked car on the cornet He saw me coming and waited, arms akimbo.

“Wherever there's trouble there's you, huh, Neal,” he said as I walked up. Fonte, as usual, was leering at me from behind his shoulder; his mouth working hard on a piece of gum.

“I always like to be where the action is. But it's all over now. Whoever it was took his pot shots at me from up on that rooftop.” I pointed. Rankin shouted instructions at the men to surround the area.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

“Nope. He managed to stay out of sight.” He told Fonte to go down the street and ask the tourists if they had seen anyone.

“Any idea who it might be?”

“Who could possibly want to knock off a nice guy like myself?” I asked. He answered with a sardonic grunt and slung a thumb in his belt.

“Sure,” he said, “some guy just sees your mug and decides he should take a few shots at you. Thinks maybe one might be lucky. Why? ‘Cause he can't stand the sight of your face. Saw you from across a crowded cafeteria and just’ hated your guts.”

“There are a lot of loonies running the streets, Uncle Roddy.”

He stared at me through narrowed eyelids, made a few clucking sounds, and moved on down the street. I went back to where Mrs. Parry was incautiously standing in the open doorway.

“Did they get him?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Somebody sure don't like you, Rafferty.” She swallowed a small mouthful of bourbon and screwed the top back on quite carefully. I declined her offer to stand me a few during the afternoon movie and found out that she paid her rent to a realtor located on Royal Street. Before I could bid her a pleasant afternoon, she managed to cop the better part of a package of cigarettes from me. There just aren't many like her. She flapped back to her television set in the same red pedal pushers she'd had on two days before.

Fonte fell into stride with me as I walked back down to the corner.

“Did anybody see anything?” I asked to be conversational.

“Naw. Whadya expect?” He jeered at me and bit into his gum like it was the side of a pig. I'd liked to have shoved his head into some ironwork and watched him bray. “Don't you know by now that people don't never see anything? You must not be as smart as I thought, Rafferty.” His lips smacked viciously.

“That's funny,” I commented, “I wouldn't have picked you as the type that went in for mental exercise. I figured you substituted mouth moving for brain work.”

He grabbed my arm in his less than viselike grip and stopped me. His shallow brown eyes glittered at me, betraying the kind of frustration that can be dangerous. “Play it safe, Rafferty, and button your mouth.” His upper lip raised into a snarl so he could show me how tough he was. Somehow the tip of pink gum showing over the edges of his teeth spoiled the effect. I wanted to laugh but he's the kind who would plant something incriminating in your room. I started to move on. His grip tightened. “I mean it, Rafferty. Nothin’ would give me more satisfaction than to see you buttoned for a long time.”

“I believe you,” I said.

We walked. Rankin came from around the corner.

“Anything?” he asked Fonte as we approached. He got a naw and a pop for an answer.

“Well, the boys aren't having any luck but they're still checking. Come clean, Neal. Why is someone showing you their fancy trigger work?” I could tell Uncle Roddy was worried about me, but was playing it tough in front of Fonte. I felt my attitude soften toward him and I wished I could come clean for him. I knew that telling him I didn't know was the same as telling him Mrs. Parry had a jealous boyfriend.

“Maybe I know something I don't know that I know,” I said. His face was as blank as a cloudless sky. “What I mean is, maybe I know something that's important to someone else but I don't know yet that it's important.”

“I got you the first time.” He sighed. “It's your life, Neal. Seems to me you're not taking real good care of it.”

“I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, but I honestly can't figure the gunplay. Or why my office was vandalized yesterday.”

He liked this new twist in the conversation. “Anything missing?”

“An unopened bottle of bourbon. It wasn't a search. A locked cabinet wasn't even broken into, just turned over and beaten with a club.” I didn't want him to get his hopes up. “Seems that somebody don't like you.”

“Yeah, that's what Mrs. Parry said, too.”

“What are you doing in this neighborhood, anyway?” Fonte cut in.

“I dropped by to see Mrs. Parry,” I said. “She's one in a million.” Fonte gave one disdainful laugh and stabbed at the concrete with a foot the way a horse does.

“You know, Lieutenant,” he said, “this guy's about as much on the level as the Rocky Mountains.” He was sure being talkative today.

A police sergeant came up to tell Uncle Roddy that no trace of the gunman had been found. I told him I'd be checking with him and made my way over to Royal Street.

The secretary at the realtor's office wasn't too glad to see me. Her boss was out and it was absolutely out of the question that I look at the records. Didn't I know that was confidential information on the record sheets? I told her emphatically that I knew it was and eased a ten out of my wallet while claiming that I would never ask such a thing of her if it wasn't a life and death matter. She considered it as she moved the bill along the desk and slid it under the blotter If it was really that important—I assured her it was—then she guessed it would be okay. She licked a finger and started flipping folders in a file cabinet. She extracted one and opened it up, licked her finger again and found the right piece of paper.

One glance told me that the information wasn't going to be worth ten bucks. There was her name, which I knew, the address of the apartment she wanted, which I knew, the previous address, André, which I knew, and for references, André and Garber. There were a few other odds and ends like the fact that there was a shelf missing from the built-in bookcase and the toilet seat was falling off. Not exactly what I had hoped for, but it gave me an idea I hoped I could credit myself with having had in the back of my mind all along: Maybe André had an inkling of where Lucy McDermott was.

21

Lucy

André's jungle retreat was a bit more cheerful in the daylight. As I walked up the concrete path I half expected bright-colored tropical birds to flutter into the sky at the sound of my approach. The outside of the house was in worse shape than I had realized. Dark green paint that had been used as a trimmer was flaking off everything it had been painted on. Where white paint hadn't completely peeled off the body of the house, it had become a dirty gray. The shutters on the front windows were intact, but all along the sides they were either hanging by a few threads or had fallen or been taken down and leaned against the outside walls. Whatever money André had left had gone on the inside of the place. Or he was deliberately using the outside as a front, so to speak. I wondered if it really mattered.

I finished my inspection and pushed the bell. He came to the door wearing the same benign smile, only this time it was complemented by a textured shirt and ascot rather than the purple smoking jacket.

“My dear Mr. Rafferty,” he nearly cooed at me, “how surprising that you should come back so soon after I practically had to toss you out for slighting my friend.” He spoke with an inappropriate theatrical intonation, as if he had a tongue in each cheek. His eyes twinkled merrily and his smile had fractionally broadened.

“You can cut it, André,” I said, trying to be tough but without being able to keep a touch of laughter from rippling my voice. “I had a nice long talk with your friend yesterday. I had to go all the way to New York to do it but he rewarded my ambition by coming clean. He even trusted me to return the Blake books for him. Surely that must make me a good guy.”

“Perhaps,” he said as if he didn't think it was possible, “but are you aware that I have had a visit from the police?” He posed the question like he was accusing me of some dastardly deed.

“The police do not take me into their confidence. Nor do I take them into mine. Which is why they came to see you about Lucy McDermott, not about the books. Am I right?” I felt like I was trying to sell myself for slightly more than he thought I was worth.

“Quite,” he said stiffly. “You know about Lucy McDermott?” he asked with genuine surprise.

“I've known about her from the beginning, but your daughter filled me in on her connection with you. The police visited you because they, like myself, are trying to find Lucy McDermott and she listed your address on a form she filled out with the realtor she rented her French Quarter apartment from. I'd like a rundown on her from you, since you knew her for twenty years.”

“I see,” he said from far away. “So you met my daughter.”

“Of course I met her. Wherever she goes, Carter Fleming follows. Right? Only she has a lot more natural sense than he does. It was on her prompting that he decided to quit being a fool and give up the books. She is also quite talented, André and very beautiful.”

It obviously pleased him that I thought so. “Well, then, I suppose I should invite you in now, since you have convinced me that you are indeed one of the good guys. “But,” he said with an enigmatic smile, “I caution you, Rafferty, do not tell me anything it is not necessary for me to know.”

I got the message. Subtle it was, but it came clear. He knew that Lise was not his daughter, but he was better off not being certain if she knew. She seemed to know it would hurt him if he was certain. It worked both ways: She didn't know if he knew she wasn't his daughter and she didn't want to know. It may sound like a word game but it was two people's understanding of their own and each other's capacities and limitations. It was silent knowledge that an unavoidable and perhaps irreconcilable breach would be caused if the territory were ever touched. To each other they would always be father and daughter. My respect for both of them went up several notches.

André led me through the house to the very back room, one that had originally been an open or perhaps screened porch and had been enclosed in glass. It was a pleasant room accented in yellow, with a full back view of the twisted, dense foliage André called his gardens. André had been fixing himself a late lunch and invited me to share it with him. I gladly accepted. We settled ourselves in wicker rocking chairs on either side of a round wicker table. I glanced over at a white desk with a typewriter and several stacks of paper on it.