The Dead Saint (5 page)

Bubba took a sip of
café au lait
and set his mug down. He turned Elie's medal over and ran his finger across an engraving on the back. "I wonder what it says."

The tough linebacker's tenderness pulled at Lynn's heartstrings. She peered thoughtfully at the letters. "It's his name."

"You can read that?"

"Not really. But I learned the Cyrillic alphabet for a visit to Russia, and I can figure out words." She smiled. "It's their meanings that stump me."

"You are amazing, Bishop Lynn."

She shrugged. "Not amazing. Just cursed with curiosity."

"Did you know that Elie's mama lives in Sarajevo? He told me she spent a good while in a refugee center."

"I visited a lot of those centers when I was there before. Not a pretty memory. War is only glamorous in fiction."

"He was sure his daddy ended up in a mass grave."

"Most of the women refugees had lost husbands, sons, fathers. I've been in some scary situations. But nothing like Bosnia." The sounds and sights vividly returned. "I can still hear the shelling and the roar of planes carrying bombs. Galen and I would eat lunch in the mess tent with soldiers and then watch them load into tanks and head into harm's way. And it wasn't a movie. It was real." Even now, just talking about it tensed her stomach and raced her heart.

"It's bad over there again. Aren't you afraid?"

"Yes. But there's also a sense of peace. It was the same way last time." Fear wrapped in peace—a puzzling and illogical reality.

"Elie sent his mama money regularly, but she didn't always get it. He said it's common for them to steal foreign mail." Bubba looked away. "He always hoped to bring her here." Grief enshrouded his words.

"My heart aches for her. Both her husband and her son." She thought of precious Lyndie and felt the familiar bolt of pain.

Stay in the present, Lynn.

"I've taken the long way 'round to ask the favor. It might not be possible, and I'll understand if you can't. But while you're in Sarajevo, would you try to find her and give her Elie's medal?"

"I can't do much for Mrs. Darwish, but I can at least do that."

When? Your schedule is too tight, Lynn. And how would you find her in the Balkan chaos?

Butt out, Ivy! "I promise, Bubba," she vowed. He passed the medal over with reverence. Its greenish-bluish crescents jogged her mind once more but still remained a mystery.

"Thank you." His eyes misted and he lowered them, fumbling to pull out his wallet, giving himself time to regain control. He removed five one-hundred-dollar bills. "I hope this will help her out until his affairs are settled."

"How thoughtful and generous." Typical of Bubba.

"I wrote her a note. Maybe someone can translate it." He folded the bills and put them inside.

Since Lynn avoided carrying a purse in the Quarter, she stuffed Bubba's bulging note in her skirt pocket, wrapped the medal in a paper napkin, and put it in the other pocket. A feeling of being watched swept over her. She glanced toward the stranger in opaque sunglasses. He appeared to be reading the newspaper. She tried to dismiss the feeling: more people know me than I realize, so it isn't uncommon to be recognized and observed. Besides, every Saints fan in New Orleans can identify Bubba Broussard. Her logic failed.

Alert and uneasy, she stood to leave. "When Galen and I return, I'll tell you all about Elie's mother."

"And you
will
return," he said, unfolding from the chrome chair. "Even this sinner will pray for that."

"You look like one of the Saints to me, Bubba." She reached up and hugged her friend goodbye. As she wove around the crowded tables, she glanced again at the man in the corner, her yellow flag still flying. The dark glasses that hid his eyes aimed at her. She moved her mental file on him from
C
for caution to
D
for danger.

Zigzagging through the tourists, Lynn headed for the corner of Canal and Carondelet to catch the St. Charles streetcar. Concerned about Bubba's money in her pocket, she walked fast but not fast enough to attract attention. New York was the place to rush, not New Orleans. A long line waited to board and pay as number 921 drew up. A new driver watched people clink exact change into the slot.

"Where's Louie?" she asked.

"He called in sick."

"I hope it isn't serious."

He winked. "Good fishing on the Atchafalaya today."

She laughed and found an empty seat midway. It was faster to ride than drive in the traffic and find a parking place in the Quarter. But today heat and humidity encapsulated the crowded streetcar like a natural sauna. Fumes from the traffic drifted through the open windows. But she enjoyed riding it—a big red flowerbox on wheels bursting with human blooms of all colors. Weary of intrigue, she lowered her yellow flag to half-mast.

Suddenly, an iron-strong hand grabbed the closing door. He squeezed his broad shoulder through and shoved till he forced it open. The stranger in sunglasses stepped aboard. Once again his opaque lenses aimed toward her.

The stranger claimed the aisle. Neck rigid. Jaw tight. Black canvas bag over his shoulder. People stepped aside. He advanced toward Lynn and took the seat directly behind her.

Her yellow flag turned red. She couldn't see him, but she could feel him, like rays of negative energy. The hackles rose on the back of her neck. She slumped down in the wooden seat, feigning invisibility.

You're not invisible, Lynn. Pretending to be isn't helpful.

True. She took a deep breath. Tried to calm herself. She stood to get off as they reached the next stop. He stood also. She sat back down. He moved into the aisle and gestured to a standing woman to take his seat, continuing to stand behind Lynn's seat.

She decided to ride the streetcar until at least one stop after he got off. To the end of the line and start back again if necessary. The old streetcar would reverse directions, with the rear as the front and the seat backs flipped to face forward again. At that point I'll know for sure, she thought. I'll call Cy Bill at the police station. No way will I endanger Galen. Or Bubba.

Endanger Bubba, Lynn?

I should have taken karate, she thought.

At Lee Circle, a tall woman boarded. She smiled at Lynn as she approached.

Lynn nodded. Should I know her? She had kind brown eyes and dark curly hair cut short. She wore a neat cream suit, gold earrings, and a mint scarf at her neck. Lynn tried to remember but didn't know which mental disc to pull up for a search. There were too many faces from too many places.

The woman passed Lynn's seat and stumbled. Lynn turned around to help. The woman grabbed for something to break the fall. Her hand bumped the stranger's face and knocked his sunglasses askew.

Immediately he straightened them. But Lynn saw! For an instant she'd looked again into icy gray eyes with an alarming capacity for cruelty. The mime!

Stunned, she found herself outside the scene, like watching a slow-motion movie. She watched herself bend down beside the woman. Watched herself carefully avoid looking at the mime. Watched herself pretend she didn't recognize him.

But she knew! And she feared he knew she knew!

The driver immediately stopped the streetcar. He glanced at Lynn in the rearview mirror. "Is she all right?"

"I'm OK," the woman answered. Lynn took her arm to help her up.

The mime, sunglasses secure, reached down to help also. He bumped against Lynn. "Excuse me," he said with a foreign accent. He nodded toward an empty seat. Together, they eased her into it.

The driver watched through the mirror. "Are you sure you're not hurt, ma'am?"

"I'm OK," she repeated. She looked at Lynn and managed a smile. "Just embarrassed."

As the streetcar started again, the mime moved silently to the door, his back to Lynn. She pulled her phone from the pocket of her blouse and waited for the next stop. She flipped it open as the door released. Pretending to make a call, she aimed the lens toward him, clicked and stored his right profile. She wanted to capture a frontal view of his face, but he stepped in front of the streetcar and hurriedly crossed St. Charles. Still pretending to make a call, she caught his left profile through the window.

For a moment she felt relieved that he was gone—but only for a moment. Those gray marble eyes hurled through her mind like a hurricane. She pondered his accent. German. But not quite. It was hard to peg in only two words. A tap on the shoulder startled her. She jumped reflexively.

"I'm sorry, Bishop Peterson," said the woman who'd fallen. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Lynn smiled. "I was lost in thought."

"You may not remember, but we met when you came to my church. I'm Rosa DuBois, a member of Mt. Zion Church."

"It's good to see you again. I hope you really are all right."

"Just clumsy, I guess."

"Aren't we all! That was quite a tumble."

"It surely caused a commotion. One second I was walking down the aisle, and the next second I was flat on the floor." She paused. "That man was nice to help me."

Lynn would have chosen an entirely different adjective for him.

"But you know—" She raised her eyebrows, puzzled. "It sounds silly, but I'd almost swear he tripped me."

Lynn remembered feeling him bump against her and immediately put her hand in her pocket. Relieved, she felt Bubba's money and note. She checked the other one. Nothing! Elie's medal was missing.

Troubled, President Helena Benedict stood erect beside her dark cherry secretary in the private quarters of the White House. Confidential information seemed to rebound into heightened conflict and chaos. Am I growing paranoid? she wondered. Or is someone playing sinister background music in a
Phantom of the Opera
crescendo? Someone well-informed, someone close. She scanned the list of staff, advisors, Secret Service agents, Cabinet and Inner Circle members. One of these names could be at best her enemy, at worst a traitor to the country. Contrary to her trusting nature, she decided to pay very close attention to them individually and in meetings.

Feeling very much alone, she set the list down, withdrew a small key from the hidden compartment in the secretary and crossed the room to the old brown trunk at the foot of the bed. Its gold trim glistened in the late morning light. She kept it unlocked to avoid suspicion that a secret hid inside. She sifted through the trunk's mementos and lifted out the one significant item, a beautiful rectangular box inlaid with ebony and pearl in an alternating pattern of small squares. It had been one of the items in the ancient saddlebag her father, retired Senator Matthew Morgan Heffron, III, presented to her as an inauguration gift. When he died three weeks later, she emptied the saddlebag with its distinctive M for McGragor tooled on the flap and displayed it in the Oval Office where she and her father were sitting when he gave it to her. She'd moved its simple treasures, each one part of her family story, to this beautiful box that brought a tactile sense of his presence in his absence. Using the small key, she unlocked it and felt again the centering power of connection with her roots. The smell of old paper brought back her vivid memory of that day, easing her loneliness:

His eyes sweep the Oval Office. "During my four terms in the Senate, I sat in this room many times with many presidents." He focuses on the presidential desk. "My life goal is unachieved: to be elected to sit behind that desk. But now it is fulfilled in you, Madam President." His watery old eyes shine with pride. He opens the saddlebag and begins to tell her a story, displaying its precious contents one by one as he talks. He concludes with a family secret of defining-moment proportions. A secret that changes nothing. A secret that changes everything. A secret known only to him.

And now known only to her. A secret so buried that even presidential historians would never be able to uncover it.

She is proud of these unknown ancestors, proud that her heritage includes an Apache great-great-grandfather. Her father's story brings her strength during the tight spots—and they come daily in the presidency. It reminds her that serving boldly is more important than serving again, and gives her courage to make responsible decisions despite the risk of losing the lobbies' financial support—and the concomitant risk of losing a second term. She smiles as she remembers his view on polls: Essence explains the simplistic fallibility of polls. Statistics deal with percentages, and percentages miss essence. Not being linear, essence can't be measured. But it can be sensed, discerned, grasped. The power of polls is manipulative: they initiate a self-fulfilling prophecy. That day he gave her a brief but deep course in wisdom. Did he know it would be the last time he saw her?

She caressed the inlaid lid of the box, longing to reach out and touch her father. She needed his wisdom. Yet she knew what he would say: Words are mirrors. Listen to a person's language and the patterns of logic behind it. Look for the values and motives the spoken words expose. Watch the eyes, their blinks and movements, and the soul they reveal. He was a man too pragmatic to ignore the human soul—the essence of a person. She realized how difficult it would be to ferret out her enemy. Or enemies. Perhaps impossible. But she planned to walk into meetings with acute perception, practicing what her father had taught her. Listening. Watching. Seeking to glimpse the essential character of each one there. Beginning this afternoon with the Inner Circle.

She ran her hand across the monetarily worthless but essence-filled contents, then closed the box and locked it. She held it close for an instant, crossing her arms around it and hugging it against her heart, cherishing her father and the story that gave her courage.

Lynn had intended to get her car from home and drive to her office to make the eleven o'clock meeting. But feeling violated and heavy-hearted, she called her executive assistant and asked him to attend on her behalf. She left the streetcar at her stop and made her way through the traffic across the boulevard. She hurried down the cracked sidewalk that arched and sagged over hidden roots of ancient oaks. St. Charles Avenue no longer felt like a friendly place to be. Wariness wrapped around her like the humidity. She glanced from side to side and listened for the click of steps behind her.

She fumbled with the house key, dropped it twice, and finally unlocked the door. She punched in twelve-ten.
Lyndie.

The streetcar scene replayed in her mind like a nightmare in daytime. When something was hard for her to handle, she usually took a long bath and soaked it away. But how do you soak away murder? And riding on a streetcar with the murderer?

She felt again in her pocket, hoping for a miracle. None came. She took pride in her ability to resolve problems—to mend broken systems and restore hope to broken souls. But she couldn't fix this. Now poor Mrs. Darwish would not get to have Elie's medal. Not get to hold it to her heart and feel his presence. Lynn's eyes teared. "I'm so sorry," she said aloud. Guilt's silence engulfed her.

You have to get it back, Lynn!

But how, Ivy? She ignored the beep that signaled phone messages. Not now. She felt enough weight on her shoulders. And messages always brought something else. She turned the kitchen radio on and heard happy Cajun music. A dirge seemed more appropriate. She debated whether to call the police about the medal and the mime. Robotically she iced a diet Dr. Pepper, added a stemmed maraschino cherry, and spread pimento cheese on whole wheat bread. And tell the police what?

Tell them I got my pocket picked?

Right, Lynn. You and a zillion other people.

Tell them the eyes of the stranger in sunglasses matched the mime's?

They'd roll their eyes and hang up—another paranoid-schizophrenic conspiracy theorist.

Tell them I have photos of his profile?

Pictures of one more tourist in a T-shirt? Big deal.

Tell them the stolen medal belonged to Elias Darwish, and Bubba Broussard took it from the crime scene? Lynn didn't need Ivy to know the outcome of that: FBI agents, whom Bubba considered as useful as a life jacket in a hot tub, would be all over him again.

Talk to Cy Bill about it?

Brilliant, Lynn. His first responsibility is to the law. If he takes you seriously, he'll probably have to report what you tell him.

Bottom line: Don't do anything to get Bubba in trouble. The Cajun music abruptly stopped.

"Listen up, ya'll. We're going to patch in to a live NOPD news conference with Chief Martin Luther Armstrong about the murder of Elias Darwish, our Saint with a perfect record."

Lynn turned up the volume.

"I am proud to announce that due to the tireless efforts of the NOPD during the last twenty-four hours, the murder of Elias Darwish has been solved." He paused, giving the words a chance for impact. "Yesterday I promised to provide the good citizens of New Orleans full information. Today I want to make the evidence public."

No mention of the FBI, Lynn noticed. This was still his city.

"First, a piece of red fuzz found in the suspect's hair matches the mime's wig. Second, the ballistics report shows that the gun found at the scene with his fingerprints on it fired the bullet that killed our star kicker. Third, his fingerprints identify him as a man wanted by the federal government for another murder."

"They've caught you since you got off the streetcar, Mr. Mime! Or they're about to!" Cynicism caught up with her elation. "But you'll probably hire a slick lawyer and go free." Too often justice related more to a lawyer's guile than a defendant's guilt.

"Unfortunately, we cannot seek a confession or take this case to trial. The mime who murdered one of our favorite sons was found dead at dawn. There were signs of a struggle, and he was shot with his own gun. The NOPD solved the heinous murder of Elias Darwish in record time. And justice has been served by a Higher Court."

Slowly his words sank in.

Reporters began asking questions. So did she. If the police found the mime dead at dawn, how could he have been on the streetcar half an hour ago? Who made a mistake? The police? Me? Could two different sets of eyes be exactly alike?

Pondering the chief's statement, she took her lunch outside and sat down at the glass table on the back veranda. A rainbow of flowers encircled the courtyard, but their color faded as rain clouds rolled in. Gray sky. Gray eyes. Cold marble eyes stared at her from gray bushes in every direction. Eyes of the mime. Eyes of the stranger on the streetcar.
The same.
The same. Lynn was sure about that.

Chief Armstrong had made a terrible mistake! Her mind whirled in circles like a paddle wheel. What if the mime set up his second victim to look like Elie's murderer? What if he planted evidence easy to find? What if the two killings added up to one double murder?

Perfect. The accused can't proclaim his innocence and the double murderer roams freely about town. Drinking coffee at a cafe. Riding the streetcar. Stealing a medal.

The diet Dr. Pepper trembled in her hand. An old cliché came to mind: Dead men don't talk.