Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) (6 page)

The afternoons are not much better. The scum come out of their subterranean dwellings to crowd in doorways making deals and talking lingo. The tourist busses block traffic and the horse-drawn carriages leave sights and smells enough to jolt the sensibilities of a sewer worker: In the summer the streets get hot enough to fry an oyster

But in the morning just after dawn has tipped the rooftops with translucent color and the dampness smells like freshly ground parsley, there is no better place to be. Cool ruffles your eyelashes and your skin breathes the dew. The streets are empty but not forsaken. The pastel colors of the buildings emerge and wink in the sun. The quiet is backed by distant city rumblings making your isolation apparent. The early morning used to make my chest tight with a quiet, thoughtful kind of pleasure.

That night as I drove into the Quarter I got the same chest-tightening surge. It surprised me. I thought it meant I was finally losing my cop's view of everything and becoming an ordinary person. But then I realized that the presence of Catherine Garber in my consciousness was making me feel isolated from the rest of the world the same way that being the only one around to see dawn coming over those rooftops did.

The wooden door to Lucy McDermott's Madison Street apartment just off Decatur was locked. I started ringing all the doorbells until someone buzzed the lock open. A frizzy-haired, white-faced young man came stumbling out of his courtyard apartment. I told him I was looking for Lucy McDermott. He pointed up the stairs and went back inside. A whining guitar sound floated around the courtyard for a few seconds. I went up to the top floor and knocked on the door to Lucy's place. I got an answer from the floor below.

“Mister.” I took it to be a throaty woman's voice. “You, up there.” The voice had a coughing spasm.

I leaned over the banister. A slightly bent old lady craned up at me. I walked down to the landing she was standing on. She had on a dirty white blouse, washed-out red pedal pushers, and red rubber sandals that grabbed between the toes. Her dull gray hair was pulled into a ponytail that trailed thinly to the middle of her back. Her almost perfectly round head seemed to bob on its neck as her myopic eyes found my face. Her small pert nose was only a fraction above a turned-down mouth which the network of facial wrinkles emptied into.

“She's not up there anymore. Been gone over a week,” she said and winked at me. “Are you one of her friends?” The eye winked again and she drew one side of her mouth down even further to control it.

“No, I don't know her.”

“No. You're young enough to be one of her friends, but you don't look the type.” For some reason she left the “p” sound off the end of type and her mouth stayed open midword.

“When did she leave?” I asked, controlling my impulse to flick her mouth shut.

“I'll ask the questions, mister,” she snapped with more energy than I had credited her with. One foot slid along the floor, moving her to the side and into better focus. She blinked. “You a cop?”

“Sort of,” I replied, peeved at her astuteness.

“You mean you're a private eye?” I nodded. “You could have said so in the first place, mister. She in some kind of trouble?”

“Not that I know of. I'd like to ask her some questions. I could ask you some instead.”

“And I could tell you a lot, if I wanted to. What else I got to do but snoop?” I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not.

“I wouldn't want to push you into anything.”

She thought about that for a moment while we stared each other down. “You got a cigarette?” she asked. I said I did and got invited in.

She led me into a front room that had too much furniture in it. There were chairs of every assortment and period lining the walls and little tables with broken legs and marred tops scattered among them. It was like a showroom in a Magazine Street “junque” shop. A rocker was pulled almost to the glass of an old-time box television set. Religious pictures ran in a row along the wall. Slung across the corner of one was a rosary. Over the middle one a crucifix leaned precariously into the room. On the opposite wall was a yellowed picture of a beautiful young woman. She saw me looking at it and flapped over to take it off the wall. She handed it to me.

“That's me—a long time ago. Longer than I care to admit.” The comment was unemotional.

“A real knockout,” I said and meant it.

“Yeah. Sit down so I can see you.” She moved the rocker around to face me and wrapped wire-rimmed glasses around her ears. “I didn't have to wear a bit of makeup, not even rouge. She wears too much. Looks like an act for Ringling Brothers.”

“Miss McDermott?”

“Who else? That's who you're here to talk about, ain't it? What about that cigarette, mister?”

I offered her the pack. She took one out and folded her legs under her. I lit us both and she closed her eyes, taking three puffs in succession as if she were smoking a peace pipe. A fit of coughing followed the third inhale. “I don't smoke too often,” she muttered. “What's your name, mister?” I told her. “Okay, Rafferty, what is it you want to know?”

“Could you tell me what day it was Miss McDermott left?”

“Sunday. A week ago. In the afternoon.”

“Do you know where she was going?”

“No. Miss McDermott and me weren't too sociable. Look, Rafferty, don't you want to know any of the good stuff?”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Parry.”

“How do you know my name?” she demanded.

“It's on the mailbox downstairs.”

“Oh. Right. Now, let me tell you about Lucy McDermott. She's no spring chicken anymore, though you couldn't tell by the way she acts. In the,” she screwed up her eyes, “I guess year or so she's been up there, she's had all types and descriptions of men up there with her, but they're all younger than she is and they all look like losers. There's one that goes up there regularly—his name is Louie—and when he ain't around she has plenty of others. I usually don't see them more than once or twice. You should of seen some of them, Rafferty. One kid, and I mean a kid, had hair all the way down his back—as long as mine.” She twisted an arm around to feel the point at which her ponytail hit. “He was skinny and dirty. He was disgusting, but I kind of felt sorry for him. You know? One day when I came home he was waiting for her out by the front door. I had seen him go up there with her before. I try to be neighborly, even when it ain't returned, so I asked him if he wanted to come inside and wait. He gets in here and sees all my pictures around and he starts talking religion with me. I don't trust no stranger that talks religion with me, Rafferty. I could look at him and tell he was a weirdo, but then he starts telling me all about his hocus-pocus religion, that Satan and God are one and the same in his religion. I told him I never heard of a religion like that and that the only true religion is the Catholic religion. I told him talk like that would get him damned to eternal hell. He said that if it wasn't so about God and Satan being the same, then why did God let people practice human sacrifice on Jesus? I took that crucifix there right off the wall and ran him down the stairs and clear out of the building with it.”

I told her I was impressed and asked her about Louie before she could get going on religion again.

“Louie's her regular boyfriend. He's a big brute of a thing. Mean looking. When he's here they stay up all night drinking and fighting. He stays for a couple of days and then he's gone for a while. After he leaves I see a lot of liquor bottles in her garbage. I'm always glad when he leaves because then I can get some sleep. But I never complained about the noise. Not one time, Rafferty. So one night I was feeling kind of sad and lonely and I thought a drink might cheer me up. I didn't have any liquor here so I went upstairs and asked her if she would give me some. Just one drink. She outright lied and told me she didn't have any. I've put up with enough yelling and stomping around up there that her lying like that made me mad. I told her I'd appreciate it if she'd keep the noise down. So she tells me she'd appreciate it if I'd keep my nose out of her business. I told her if the noise didn't stop I was going to call the landlord. She told me she didn't care if I called the landlord. Well, I guess she didn't. She left the next day. You know what, Rafferty? I didn't mind all the noise half as much as I minded her lying to me. I can't stand that kind of dishonesty. If you'll lie, then you'll steal. If you'll steal, then you'll murder.”

“Did Miss McDermott leave with Louie?”

“No, she left with a woman. And you know what else, Rafferty? I think she left on the sneak.” I raised my eyebrows. “You know, without letting the landlord know. There hasn't been a soul up there at all since she left. Not anyone even to clean up.”

Now there was a bit of information I could use. I asked her about the woman.

“She was here about half an hour before they left.”

“Did you know her?”

“I don't know anyone who goes around with her.”

“Let me phrase that a bit differently. Had you ever seen her before?”

“Never.”

“What did the woman look like?”

“That I can't tell you.”

“I thought you saw them leave together.”

“I did, but she had on one of those wide-brimmed hats.”

“Then how do you know you never saw her before?”

“Look, Rafferty,” she said giving me a multiple wink, “I didn't even need my glasses to know that. I never saw
any
women visit up there. Only men.”

“Could you tell if she was short or tall or old or young?”

“All I could tell through the curtain,” she pointed at the sheer on the window, “was that she was on the thin side.”

I reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “Thanks, Mrs. Parry. You've been a great help.”

“I smell liquor on your breath,” she said, her glasses glinting.

“That's strange. I just had an onion before I came up here.”

“Funny, Rafferty. You got any more?”

I told her I didn't, but I'd bring her some if I came back.

“You do that, Rafferty. If I miss something because I don't have these on,” she said fingering the wire on her glasses, “I still hear pretty good.” Her nose was pretty good, too, if she could smell a brandy over an hour old.

She followed me out on the landing and watched me leave. I went back down to the courtyard and stayed there for a few minutes. I wanted to take a look around Lucy's apartment, but I didn't want Mrs. Parry to see me going back up there. She might think that was dishonest, or, worse, she might want to come with me. I started back up keeping close to the wall until I reached her doorway. I stopped for a minute to listen. I could hear water running. I ducked down and passed in front of the window and stopped again. The door didn't open. I moved toward the other side of the landing until I could just see in. She was standing at the sink. I hoped her peripheral vision wasn't too good and started up the stairs. I waited a moment in front of Lucy's door. I heard nothing.

I tried the door. It was locked. A thin strip of metal was peeling away from the side of the slated window high on the opposite wall. I pulled it off and went to work on the lock.

Lucy hadn't bothered to clear the trash out of her apartment. Clothes were heaped in one corner and a few pairs of chewed shoes were scattered about. In the kitchen there were empty Jim Beam bottles, some pots and utensils. I opened the refrigerator. There was nothing in it but half a bottle of soda water. In the second room the bed had been stripped down to a stained mattress. There were more discards and empty bottles. I looked in the clothes closet. Coat hangers and a wad of crumpled newspaper were on the floor. I picked up the newspaper and looked through it. It was a few pages from the society section dated August 17, the day before Lucy had left. There was an article about a tea given by Mrs. Mathilde Fleming. It described who had been there and what they had worn. I wondered if it was a clue.

I went into the bathroom, which was right off the bedroom. On top of the toilet tank was a plastic brush with some reddish hairs tangled in it and a can of shaving cream. That was all. In the third small room behind the bedroom was an empty bookcase with an old Underwood on top of it.

I was making my way back to the front door poking around once more in case I had missed something when I heard the heavy tread on the stairs. It reached Lucy's door and then a pounding started that jarred the walls of the apartment so hard that the pots rattled around the drain-board.

A man's voice called out, “Lucy, open up,” in a demanding tenor. He kept banging. “Come on, Lucy,” he whined, “it's me.” He started kicking the door.

I opened up for him. He stared stupidly at me, swaying slightly. True to Mrs. Parry's description he was big, but his muscles had gone to flab. I looked at his brown hair that was too short for his big face and the tiny, half-inch bangs that edged his forehead. He was the Boy Scout I had played pool with at Curly's. Big boy, still stinking of bourbon, had been playing with more firewater and was not too steady on his feet.

“Where's Lucy?” he yelled and looked past me into the room. His lower lip stuck out in a snarling pout as he took in the abandoned apartment. He more or less stumbled inside and went to take a look at the bedroon. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, turning back to me.

“Looks like we both missed her,” I said.

“Who are you?” He came over for a closer look. “Yeah, I thought so. You're that pip-squeak Zeringue's friend. That son of a bitch pickpocketed me and I don't plan to forget it.”

“You better watch who you call a pickpocket.”

“You watch, asshole. I'm gonna get him for it.”

“Don't fool with Zeringue, pal.”

He stepped closer, putting up a menacing fist. “What are you doing here, asshole?” I looked hard at him, feeling the anger rise into my throat. “Tell me where she is.”

I shouldn't have, but I baited him. “I wouldn't tell you even if she wanted you to know.”

“Why you son of a lousy . . .” he trailed off to concentrate on his big arm that was coming around in a mighty swing meant for my head. I ducked. He must have been too drunk to pull his punch because it kept going. It was forceful enough that it took him with it. He fell flat on the floor and his face hit with such a smack that it gave me sympathy pains. I heard soft flip-flops coming up the stairs. Mrs. Parry arrived securing her glasses to her face. She looked at the collapsed Boy Scout.