- •The Intersection of Law and Desire
- •I let her sit in silence for a few moments before repeating, “What do they have on you?”
- •I hesitated for a second, embarrassed at what came to mind. “Oh, hell. Jerking off,” I finally admitted.
- •I felt a touch of slickness between my legs. “I’m wet,” I acknowledged.
- •I brushed some of the water out of my hair, hoping it would spot her leather interior and muttered, “Whoever said, ‘Better late than never’?”
- •I would be seeing Cordelia tomorrow, I suddenly realized. And myself in the mirror later tonight. I gently removed Karen’s arms from around my neck.
- •I picked up her bike rack and my duffel bag with my oh so beloved running shoes, while Cordelia managed her bike and gear. After locking up, we headed down to put the bike on her car.
- •I turned sharply around to scan the road. “Nope. Not a Rolls in sight. The snootiest car visible is a Cadillac. And it’s not even this year’s model. I don’t think they’re watching you right now.”
- •I watched them as they pedaled away, Torbin riding abreast with Cordelia. She was nodding her head to something he was saying. Then a line of trees hid them from my view.
- •I stopped. Clearly we needed to have more than a one-sided conversation. Joanne looped back to me.
- •I shrugged noncommittally.
- •I nodded as I waited by the passenger door for her to open it.
- •I grinned at his use of tv cop show cliché, then said, “I’ll do what I can. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something to report.”
- •I didn’t recognize the desk sergeant. I introduced myself, then bantered a bit about the Saints’ chances for the playoffs this year.
- •I opened it and started reading, although I knew it would back him up. Bill did paperwork until I decided I had read all of the autopsy report that I cared to. I handed the file back to him.
- •I didn’t need to look around to know that Joey had arrived.
- •I let my disapproval hang in the silence for a long moment. “Eight months? And you’re just now wondering about it?”
- •I decided that sniping at each other wasn’t going to be helpful. “What do you do to calm her fears?”
- •I installed the night-light next to Cissy’s bed, then stayed up reading until a little after three, but no one stirred. Maybe the night-light would keep away Cissy’s fears.
- •I gave her a quick rundown while driving out of the airport maze. Then I asked the question I had been wanting to ask. “What do you know about child psychology?”
- •I shrugged, met her gaze for a moment, then looked away. “What do we do?” I demanded.
- •I stood gazing out the window to avoid looking at her while she packed up.
- •I nodded yes.
- •I thought for a moment. Barbara Selby couldn’t afford anything like it. Then I remembered the money Karen was paying me.
- •I decided to do some work on my one paying case and dialed Torbin’s number.
- •I didn’t reply, instead I crossed my arms and looked away from him.
- •I knelt beside Cissy. “I think I like the blue one the best. Which one do you like?”
- •I nodded, then said, “I’m glad you noticed.”
- •I nodded, then added, “I’m not asking for your money back.”
- •I started to ask her about Lindsey, but realized that I was picking at scabs, scratching and irritating them.
- •I sat next to her, taking her hand between both of mine. “Now tell me about your day.”
- •I shuddered beneath Cordelia’s embrace, warmth a fragile and fleeting thing.
- •I didn’t answer. I slowly leaned back into her embrace. Warm and alive and not in immediate pain seemed to be all that I could offer her.
- •I watched Cordelia as she spoke. She believed what she said, but if I gave in to her wishes, then the power became hers and I would have to trust that she would not use it.
- •I turned and led the way to the kitchen.
- •I quickly hurried down the stairs and out of the courtyard, feeling ragged and torn, unwilling to have her voice leave another mark on me.
- •I looked again at the matchbook. “Heart of Desire” was scripted in gold on a black background. Some of the gold lettering had begun to chip.
- •I said, “What are you working on? We might—”
- •I reluctantly gave him the number to Cordelia’s clinic.
- •I sat for a moment before finally replying, “I need to talk to a lawyer first.”
- •I put the black binder back on o’Connor’s desk, a faint unsettled queasiness rolling in my stomach.
- •I thought for a moment. Legally it would probably be Aunt Greta, but she was the last person I’d want involved. “I guess my cousin, Torbin Robedeaux.”
- •I watched Joey walk out of the bar. The fish had taken the bait. But look what usually happens to bait. I didn’t drive by Cordelia’s apartment on my way out of the Quarter.
- •I held my temper. Joey was playing with me, testing my limits. “I like men. I even love some men. I just get real bored with them when they take their clothes off.”
- •I started to say it wasn’t her money but her mortal soul that I was worried about, but Joey wouldn’t understand and I was beyond explaining it.
- •I turned into the driveway of Lindsey’s office.
- •I finally broke the silence by asking, “Is she okay?”
- •I knew she was right. Law and justice aren’t the same thing. “Is she okay? How badly hurt is she?”
- •I spun on my heel, angry at her. Then I turned back and said as gently as I could, “If you need my help, you know my number. Call me anytime.”
- •I headed in the direction he had indicated. For a moment, the sound of our footsteps mingled, then his faded into the distance and mine alone echoed.
- •I nodded and he continued.
- •I looked at the floor for several moments before I finally answered, “For a while. I lived there…I couldn’t get away from him.” Then I said, “I’d prefer to talk about something else.”
- •I spent most of the weekend at my apartment. No one called me, and I called no one.
- •I nodded slowly, but made no other reply.
- •I climbed into the backseat.
- •I got down to business. “So when does the ceiling fall on Zeke’s head?”
- •I handed the last box to Mr. Unfriendly, then hopped out of the truck. Zeke led the way back into the building. Mr. Silent followed me, closing the door on the cool night.
- •I gave both Betsy and Camille my phone number. Then, with Camille running interference, we headed back downstairs.
- •I didn’t know what to do except respond. I had not expected this. I had come up with dozens of scenarios, but none of them had included Lindsey kissing me.
- •I shrugged, then since she was fronting the money, answered, “No, not for you, it shouldn’t be.”
- •I crossed my arms over my chest, a barricade of sorts. “I need a shrink’s advice,” was my opening. “How do you say no when someone’s making a sexual advance that you’re not sure you want?”
- •I said nothing. I didn’t think Lindsey deserved the accident, but that was a road she had to walk.
- •I felt a surge of jealousy. I knew I wasn’t Cordelia’s first lover, but that wasn’t the same thing as hearing Lindsey describe this.
- •I checked the gun. It was loaded. I suddenly turned and pointed it at Algernon. He stopped and merely looked at me.
- •In the alley you will meet your escort to the boat. That way no one can follow you or recognize your car.
- •I switched it on and found the path into the dark woods.
- •I took one of the pay packets out and waved it in Vern’s face. Then I said, “I don’t pay sexist assholes. You want your money, you’d better deal with me.”
- •I didn’t. That was the horrible thing. “Load up the kids,” I said, to buy time. Maybe if I got enough men out of here I could chance pulling my gun.
- •I held the kiss a little longer, giving her time to get the key securely under her tongue. Then I broke it off. I wondered what Cordelia was thinking.
- •I padlocked the door. It would keep them in, but it would also keep the crew out.
- •I handed it to Ron, and said, “Thanks a lot. I’ve got to get these kids to bed now. It’s almost midnight and they’re very tired.”
- •I lifted the next girl. She was silent, asking no questions, expecting nothing. Cordelia was helping me now, we both put the next two girls in at the same time. Then in silence, the last two.
- •I aimed at him and fired.
- •I told my tale as best I could, still waiting for word on Cordelia and the kids.
- •I just shrugged, terrified to lift my barricades. I couldn’t admit how desperately I wanted to revive the time when I was sure she loved me.
- •I looked at Cordelia. Usually we’re locked in our own world, our own needs and desires. Cordelia had just let me into a place where she was small and scared. “I’m so afraid of you,” I admitted.
- •I let the tension ease out of me and closed my eyes.
- •I got up to leave. His money could buy many things. A lesson in the cost of betrayal was one of them. Francois had made his choices.
- •I ignored that. “Why do you think Francois won’t betray you?”
- •I started to point out that was clichéd, too, but decided that Kessler wasn’t interested in knowing that. I didn’t talk.
- •I slammed my heel into his instep, causing him to howl in pain.
- •I didn’t know if Barbara was asking a rhetorical question or asking me about myself. I answered as if it were the latter, “The memory remains. Don’t silence her. Don’t ever blame her.”
- •I watched them as they went down the hall, not wanting to go with them. Instead, I walked back the way I came, giving Barbara and Cissy time to find their way home.
- •I didn’t look back as we drove away.
I looked at the floor for several moments before I finally answered, “For a while. I lived there…I couldn’t get away from him.” Then I said, “I’d prefer to talk about something else.”
“I hope you get to a place where it’s okay,” he replied.
“Yeah, me, too.” I knew I owed Warren my story, he had given me his. But my story didn’t have his happy ending, or any ending at all, and the shadows were still too deep for me to venture easily into them. I changed the subject. “It does appear that Cissy is being molested. By whom or where is up in the air.”
“Any suspects?”
“Her mother has a new boyfriend.” I couldn’t help but wonder if he didn’t have something to do with Barbara’s banning me from seeing Cissy.
“Are you worried about Cissy?”
“I’ve known her, and her family, for a while.”
Warren nodded, as if that were a better answer than it really was. Then he asked, “Do you suppose anyone can do anything? Given the right reason?”
“I suppose. Given the right reason.” I thought of how far I was going—had gone—to protect Cissy.
“Could you?” he asked.
“Yes, I guess I could,” I answered. “I probably…have.”
“I’ve always wondered about that,” Warren said.
“That’s only my answer.”
He nodded again, as if it were the answer he wanted, then asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to help me track down the villains?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” I shook my head. “Let me know what happens. I’ll be glad to look over your shoulder and offer advice.”
“Be careful, I might take you up on it.”
“I’m always careful about what I offer.”
We were interrupted by a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, the custodian entered. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Kessler. We got a leak in one of the second-floor bathrooms and it’s making a mess.”
Warren sighed and said to me, “Thanks, Micky, for coming by.”
“You’re more than welcome,” I said, standing up. “Call me again if you need to.” I left him to the custodian and the plumbing problems.
As I walked into the chill of late afternoon, I wondered if I should have told him what had happened to me. Maybe I needed clear space and time, not the worrisome arena I was now in, a world cluttered with pretense for Joey, worry about Cissy and the pain of losing Cordelia. Maybe in a few weeks, or months, when this was all over, it would be time to fight my own ghosts.
I spent most of the weekend at my apartment. No one called me, and I called no one.
Chapter 26
The chill of autumn had settled in. Monday was gray and overcast, the high humidity of a city between a river and a lake and the cool air combining to create a biting wind. I had started down my stairs, but the cold air in the stairwell caused me to reconsider. I went back upstairs, put on a heavier jacket, and, a real concession to winter, a scarf. With it wrapped tightly around my neck, I again descended the stairs, on my way to see O’Connor.
Since bounding into a cop shop might cause suspicion should the wrong person catch me at it, we had agreed to meet at a coffee shop up on Magazine Street. It was not a place either of us ever went to.
I left my apartment an hour early. Part of it was caution, but part of it was that I wanted to be about and moving, as if motion could dispel the cold and gloom of the day. I decided on the bus, several buses actually; my car was a lime green beacon to anyone looking for me. One bus took me to Canal Street, the sometimes grand, sometimes gaudy dividing line between the French Quarter and what is now the CBD. When Louisiana was newly sold to America, the French left stranded in New Orleans did not take kindly to their American cousins. The new settlers, not welcomed in the French Quarter, took up residence on the uptown side of Canal Street. It is not for nothing that the medians in New Orleans are known as neutral grounds. The Americans wouldn’t even use the street names from the French—for example, Royal Street becomes St. Charles Avenue.
Canal is broad, supposedly the widest street in the world. Three lanes of traffic on either side of a neutral ground, median, if you prefer, that is wide enough to have two bus lanes (streetcars a generation ago) plus pedestrian room. It is impressive to see that space filled on Mardi Gras, but the real effect of all that width is to keep one’s foot light on the gas pedal when the light turns green. Savvy New Orleans drivers know that it is a Crescent City tradition to gun for yellow lights. On streets as wide as Canal, a light that is yellow when one starts to drive across is solidly red before one gets to the other side.
I stood on Canal Street, watching a few near misses, tourists who were unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of Big Easy drivers, the ubiquitous drunks. Twenty-four-hour bars and alcohol sold in everything from drugstores to gas stations doesn’t improve driving conditions here. After loitering long enough to make sure no one was following me, or, at least, if I was being followed it had to be by two, if not three, people, I caught a bus uptown.
I let the bus travel several blocks beyond the coffee shop before getting off. I meandered my way back, stopping to look in the windows of the antique shops. A deep cobalt glass bottle caught my attention. It was probably an old medicine bottle of some sort. Cordelia would love it, I thought. She had a small collection of them on her mantel. I started for the door of the shop before I realized that I probably wouldn’t be seeing her anytime soon, let alone giving her a gift.
I continued walking down the street. When I got to the coffee shop, O’Connor wasn’t there yet. It wasn’t very crowded, only a few late lunches and two solo coffee drinkers. I ordered expensive Jamaican coffee, hoping the luxury of it might prove to be a distraction. I didn’t want to think about a blue bottle I would never give to Cordelia.
Shortly after my coffee arrived, O’Connor appeared. He was dressed casually, almost as if he was a tourist doing the trendy junque shops of Magazine Street.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“Too lime green. I bussed it.”
“No one can follow a city bus. So, what do you have?”
“I can’t show it to you here, we’d probably get arrested,” I said as I took the porno magazine out of my knapsack. It was in a paper bag wrapped in a plastic bag. I handed it to O’Connor.
“Is your client in here?” he asked.
“No, but a classmate of hers is.” O’Connor raised his eyebrows, and I continued, “A dead classmate.” He raised his eyebrows even further. I explained about Judy Douglas as best I could, who she was and how she died, without revealing Cissy’s identity.
“I’ll double-check her autopsy report. This is getting awfully messy,” O’Connor commented.
“It gets messier. My client has pretty definitely been molested. A doctor uncovered some physical evidence.”
“You think it’s linked to this other girl?”
“It’s possible. Of course, two girls being molested out of a class of several hundred has to be connected, doesn’t it?” I added sarcastically.
“You know, and I know, that if only two kids out of that class are being abused, it’s a miracle.”
“Yeah,” I grimly agreed. “But my client knew the dead girl, although not very well, and she’s afraid the same thing could happen to her.”
“I don’t gather she gave any indication of who might have abused her?”
“No, none.”
“Did she and this other girl ever go anywhere together, do anything that might link them?”
“I don’t know. Her mother gave Judy Douglas a ride home from school once or twice.”
“A field trip with a certain teacher, belonging to the same Girl Scout troop, anything like that?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Any chance you can ask?”
“Not really,” I slowly replied.
O’Connor didn’t ask a question, he just waited for me to elaborate.
“Her mother is…upset,” I continued. “And doesn’t want her to see anyone outside the family.”
“Including you?”
“Especially me.” The bitter reply escaped before I thought about whether or not I wanted to reveal this to O’Connor.
“Why’s that?”
I shrugged. He let the silence hang. I guess it bothered me too much to remain quiet. “All us queers molest children. Come on, Tim, old buddy, you’re a good Catholic family man, surely you know that. Her mother decided she didn’t want a perverted, baby-snatching lesbo around her snookums.”
O’Connor remained stoic under my attack. “You’re upset about this, aren’t you?”
“Upset? Why should I be upset?” I acerbically shot back.
Again, O’Connor didn’t reply, leaving the silence for me to fill.
“Just because a woman I thought was a friend of mine accuses me of, at best, consorting with someone who would molest her daughter. And, at worst, being… Why should that upset me?”
“Because it’s a very ugly thing to be accused of,” O’Connor stated. “For what it’s worth, I think I’m pretty good at reading people. You could be a murderer. I can see you angry enough to pull the trigger. But an adult having sex with a child, that requires being slimy and underhanded. It’s not your style. You might tangle with giants, but I can’t see you fooling with kids.”
“Thanks, I think. I guess if it comes down to it I’d rather be a murderer than a child abuser.”
“Don’t ever repeat this from me, but some people deserve to be murdered. No kid deserves to be abused.”