Crescent City Connection Read online

  Praise for CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION (formerly Crescent City Kill), the seventh book in the Skip Langdon series by EDGAR AWARD winning author Julie Smith.

  “If it’s gritty realism you’re craving, gently simmered with spicy suspense and marvelously memorable characters, Smith is the perfect New Orleans tour guide … [A] powerful tale of justice gone awry. Crescent City Kill’s finale is Smith’s strongest finish yet, wired to blow at the slightest shudder …. The inevitable showdown rakes in more than just good vs. evil…. Julie Smith never fails to turn up the New Orleans heat.” —The Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, MS)

  “A superbly written piece of drama even by Smith’s high standards. There are plenty of subplots to keep things moving … [and] a wonderful description of the city’s bizarre Easter parades.” —The State (Columbia, SC)

  “SERIOUS SUSPENSE … The style of the novel is characteristically Smith, full of surprises. The author presents seemingly unrelated plots, from divergent viewpoints, then tantalizingly reveals the grand connection.” —Santa Barbara News-Press

  “Sizzle[s] with action, making this the most memorable of the Langdon novels. In the Rev. Errol Jacomine, Smith has created an adversary equal to the deadly Professor Moriarty who battled Sherlock Holmes nearly a century ago.” —Monterey Herald

  “If you like your mysteries Cajun style, you may enjoy Julie Smith’s Skip Langdon series … Smith knows the territory—and it has paid off handsomely.” —Rocky Mountain News

  “Fans of Kindness of Strangers and House of Blues will enjoy Crescent City Kill … Smith invokes a number of major issues, including cults and vigilante justice.” —New Orleans Times-Picayune

  “Surprising … Smith’s colorful characterizations and the showdown with Jacomine make this an excellent addition to the series.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Intriguing … Smith’s fans will no doubt relish the return of Jacomine, the psychopathic (yet charismatic) preacher.” —Booklist

  The Skip Langdon Series

  (in order of publication)

  NEW ORLEANS MOURNING

  THE AXEMAN’S JAZZ

  JAZZ FUNERAL

  DEATH BEFORE FACEBOOK (formerly NEW ORLEANS BEAT)

  HOUSE OF BLUES

  THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

  CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION (formerly CRESCENT CITY KILL)

  82 DESIRE

  MEAN WOMAN BLUES

  Also by Julie Smith

  The Rebecca Schwartz Series

  DEATH TURNS A TRICK

  THE SOURDOUGH WARS

  TOURIST TRAP

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  OTHER PEOPLE’S SKELETONS

  The Paul Macdonald Series

  TRUE-LIFE ADVENTURE

  HUCKLEBERRY FIEND

  The Talba Wallis Series:

  LOUISIANA HOTSHOT

  LOUISIANA BIGSHOT

  LOUISIANA LAMENT

  P.I. ON A HOT TIN ROOF

  As Well As:

  WRITING YOUR WAY: THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL TRACK

  NEW ORLEANS NOIR (ed.)

  CRESCENT CITY CONNECTION

  Formerly CRESCENT CITY KILL

  A Skip Langdon Mystery

  BY

  JULIE SMITH

  booksBnimble Publishing

  New Orleans, La.

  Crescent City Connection

  Copyright 1997 by Julie Smith

  Cover by Nevada Barr

  ISBN: 9781617507618

  Originally published by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.booksbnimble.com

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First booksBnimble Publishing electronic publication: March 2012

  eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz

  Dedication

  For Lee Pryor, my adored husband.

  Contents

  Praise

  The Skip Langdon Series

  Also by Julie Smith

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Acknowledgments

  The Skip Langdon Series

  Also by Julie Smith

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  About the Author

  One

  THEORETICALLY, THE POINT of Mardi Gras is that it precedes Lent, though it often seems no one remembers but the odd priest or nun. In New Orleans, no sooner do the Mardi Gras parades end than new revelry, in honor of Saints Joseph and Patrick, begins, with massive food altars and the throwing of cabbages from floats. Some people do go on diets during Lent, or at least give up sweets, though there is little talk of forswearing alcohol or cigarettes.

  In general, if truth be told, Lent is a fitful time. Some days are balmy, some humid and sticky, some below freezing. It can seem as if the city is just marking time until JazzFest.

  But officially, it’s over at Easter and sure enough, the mood seems to change overnight. Good Friday is often gray and chilly, yet Easter Sunday generally dawns bright as a sequin.

  It’s a big holiday for most families, even those who aren’t Catholic. To out-of-towners, used to nonobservance, it’s a bit of a shock to see the young men still in their Saturday night eyeshadow rush home at mid-morning to wash their faces for Easter lunch with their mothers.

  Since New Orleans is well known as the city where too much is not nearly enough, there are no fewer than three Easter parades, all in the French Quarter.

  The first one consists of a caravan of horse-drawn carriages making their way from Arnaud’s Restaurant to Jackson Square, where the occupants, ladies of fashion known as the Friends of Germaine Wells, alight to promenade before going to church at St. Louis Cathedral.

  There is irony in the name they have chosen, as Ms. Wells, daughter of Count Arnaud and the late owner of the restaurant bearing his name, was no lady, it is said. Or at least her friends were no gentlemen. To be perfectly honest, rumor has it Ms. Wells’s head was easily turned by a tattoo.

  That head, however, nearly always sported outrageous hats, hence the Easter connection. The ladies of the Friends go all out. Some go vintage, some contemporary, some head-to-toe purple, some delicate peach. And these are only their frocks. Hat diameters have been known to reach a good thirty inches, and chiropractors to retire on the resulting sore-neck proceeds.

  Before reaching the square, the ladies will have begun at Arnaud’s for hat-judging and a Bloody, and after church, they’ll return for brunch and more Bloodies.

  About that time, Chris Owens’s Easter parade begins. Ms. Owens is a Bourbon Street club owner and renowned dancer, though not a stripper. Be that as it may, she does bare quite a bit, and everyone agrees it’s a splendid-looking body for anyone, much less a woman said to be somewhat Tina Turner’s senior.

  Besides herself, Ms. Owens’s parade features a number of la
dies, some in carriages, some in cars bedecked with pastel balloons, all wearing the requisite eye-popping hats. Many drip chiffon veiling, some sport bunny ears. These ladies, unlike Ms. Wells’s friends, cover a range of ages, from eight or nine to well over eighty, judging by appearances. Those in between frequently display ivory fields of bosom and unsubtle makeup. They throw nice beads to the masses.

  Around two o’clock, as the last of Ms. Owens’s carriages disappears down Bourbon Street, the day’s first drag queens begin to venture out. Theirs is the least formal parade of the day, consisting mostly of afternoon saunters between Good Friends Bar and the Rawhide. Full drag frequently occurs, with all its high-heel teetering, but the point, as in the other parades, is hats. The gentlemen’s hats can get outrageous (sometimes reaching three feet across), but for once, not that much more outrageous than those of their female counterparts. Easter’s an all-out kind of day for everyone. Biblically, it will be recalled, Easter signals renewal, resurrection, a rising of the spirit.

  For Skip Langdon, newly returned to work after a leave of absence, resuming her job as a homicide detective was more like Lent than Easter—more fitful than triumphant, more gray than sunny, more edgy foreboding than happy expectancy. In short, morale that spring in Homicide—indeed in the whole department—was so low she couldn’t close herself off.

  There were four detectives in the car—everyone in Sergeant Sylvia Cappello’s platoon—on their way to a crime scene: A sixty-two-year-old woman had opened her door to a barrage of gunfire.

  “D’y’all hear? Cooper’s leaving.” The speaker was young, cynical beyond his years and experience.

  “Shit. That makes three this week.”

  “Fuck. What we doing here? Let’s take a vote—anybody in this car wouldn’t be out of here if they could?”

  Another senseless shooting. Another resignation. Another hot, crowded ride because there was no money for more cars.

  Skip tried to turn her mind off. If the job wasn’t meaningful, what was? She wasn’t waiting to collect a pension. She was too young for that, didn’t have enough years in and didn’t want to go anyway. She’d gone back to work after what amounted to an involuntary leave of absence (though technically it hadn’t been) because she loved the work, because it was the only thing she’d found to do with her life that truly pleased her, that made her feel alive and healthy and useful.

  But the mayor, when new blood was so sorely needed, had appointed a superintendent who was no more than a political pal.

  The City Council had decreed that officers who didn’t live in the city had to move back to be considered for promotion. And every mugger in town had heavy artillery; every other mugging, it seemed, turned into a murder. Two cops were currently on Death Row.

  The best way to get through was not to think about it.

  This shooting was in the Seventh Ward. The victim’s two sons and three daughters were on the sidewalk, one of them cradling a baby, some of them holding toddlers’ hands, all of them crying.

  The case wasn’t Skip’s—it belonged to Danny LaSalle, who assigned her the family. She walked over to the distraught little knot of humanity, and almost immediately one of the sons got in her face, or would have if he’d been tall enough—Skip was six feet tall and he was about five-six. “What y’all collectin’ ya salary fo’? Who wanna kill my mama?”

  “Who do you think would?”

  Evidently defying him, one of the daughters stepped forward. “Somebody want Herbert.”

  Bingo, she thought. “Herbert?”

  “Rudolph boy.” The woman pointed to the short dude.

  Skip said, “You Rudolph?”

  “Tawanda don’t know her pussy from her asshole. Nobody want Herbert.”

  It went like that for a while, but the story came out: Herbert ran with a bad crowd, Rudolph and his wife kicked him out, he sometimes stayed with his grandmother.

  Herbert would probably know who wanted to kill him, and therefore who had mowed Granny down like some enemy soldier, but by now he was probably halfway to East Jesus, having no doubt killed a two-year-old who got in the way when he tried to retaliate on behalf of Granny.

  Christ, Skip thought, I’m thinking like O’Rourke. Frank O’Rourke, the nastiest cop in Homicide.

  Nonetheless, when they left the crime scene, Herbert was by far the best lead they had. They found him at his sister’s in New Orleans East, bare-chested, wearing baggy pants and black running shoes, passed out on his nephew’s bed. The little boy had answered the door promptly, trustingly, as his great-grandma must have done. He’d apparently been watching television, lying on the floor in the living room. There was no one else in the apartment. The TV was so loud it had masked their entrance.

  LaSalle said, “Herbert, wake up.”

  The sleeping man had a well-muscled torso. His body jerked, a hand reaching under the pillow.

  “Police. Freeze.”

  He didn’t—the hand came out with a gun in it.

  Danny shot him. It was over in a millisecond.

  Skip ran back to the living room and gathered up the nephew, soothing him, lying to him.

  She wasn’t that good with kids, or so she told herself. But she took this one on as a project, and it was harder than watching his uncle get shot.

  Herbert died within the hour. After wading through the red tape surrounding the shooting, Skip was sent to interview his girlfriend, Renee.

  Renee said she had no idea who’d want to kill a guy like Herbert.

  By the end of the day, it looked pretty certain Herbert’s granny was going to go unavenged.

  “Damn shame, ain’t it?” It was the same cop who’d reported Cooper’s resignation, a three-year vet named DeFusco.

  “Damned ironic. Herbert was home free—he just didn’t know it.”

  “I’m thinkin’ about the poor old lady. Bastard who killed her’s out gettin’ loaded right now.”

  Adam Abasolo chimed in from across the room. “Don’t let it get to you, Joey boy. Seems like anybody we pop gets off, and if they don’t they’re back on the street in thirty seconds.”

  “Two minutes max,” said Charlie Dilzell. “Least this way there’s one less punk on the street. That’s some kinda justice anyway.”

  “However twisted,” said Skip, making a lame attempt to raise the level perhaps a millimeter.

  “Shee-it. When was the last time you saw anything resembling fucking justice?” Frank O’Rourke was the speaker—not Skip’s favorite person, but the words were spoken with such heartfelt outrage, they made her feel helpless rather than angry.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  But Cappello caught her before she left. “You okay with what happened?”

  “Hell, no, I’m not okay with it, but there wasn’t any choice. Anyway, it’s LaSalle’s case; I can’t worry about it.”

  “I didn’t mean the case. I mean … what you saw.”

  She meant watching LaSalle shoot Herbert. Skip brushed unruly curls from her forehead. “No. I swear to God I’ll never get used to watching someone die.” She didn’t mention it was all she could do not to wince. “But I take your meaning. Yeah. I’m okay.”

  “It didn’t bring back…”

  “It did. How could it not? But it was LaSalle, Sylvia. Not me. I watched him do it, and I knew he had to do it. It’s a different deal. You know?”

  “I needed to check.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I hear you were good with the kid.”

  “Sometimes you get a second chance.”

  Skip’s leave of absence had involved a shooting as well; but the dead man had a daughter, who witnessed it.

  Skip could work now; she no longer had nightmares, nor saw the girl in every child who crossed her path. Today she’d proven she no longer fell apart at shootings where there were children.

  But she was glad Cappello hadn’t asked if she was depressed. She was. She didn’t think she’d be human if she wasn’t.

&nb
sp; And it wasn’t only about Herbert. There was hardly a thing about the day that wasn’t depressing. She couldn’t wait to get home.

  She frowned. Actually, there were certain things about home that depressed her as well. One thing, anyway. A big thing, about a hundred and fifty pounds’ worth.

  It barked as she approached. Barked and snarled.

  “Napoleon, take it easy, boy. Come on, now, I’m your pal.” In a pig’s eye.

  At least the dog didn’t come any closer.

  He belonged to Steve Steinman, her long-distance sweetheart, who was visiting from California. Steve yelled down from the balcony. “Napoleon! Take it easy, boy.” The dog shut up and wagged his tail.

  Skip said, “You’re a dog magician.”

  “He likes people who like him.”

  “Don’t be mean. I feel awful.”

  “Be right down. Napoleon—stay.” But as soon as Steve stepped from Skip’s slave quarters into the courtyard, Napoleon leaped up lovingly, spilling the beer he’d brought for Skip.

  “Dammit. Maybe you’re right about this creature.” His T-shirt was soaked.

  “Napoleon! Hey, boy! Hey, boy. Come on.” Thirteen-year-old Kenny Ritter had dashed out of the Big House that also opened on the courtyard. “Want to go for a walk? Steve, can I take him for a walk?”

  “Please do,” said Skip. “Across I-10.”

  “Oh, Auntie.”

  “Now here’s my baby.” Angel, a black and white fluffball, frolicked at Kenny’ s heels. Napoleon sniffed at her rear end. Skip said, “You leave her alone or I’ll kill you,” and Kenny smiled, used to her. He left with the dogs.

  Steve said, “Cappello just called. She said either call her back right away or just watch the news.”

  “That’s weird.” Skip plopped into a dark green patio chair. “I think I’ll opt for the news.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” He massaged her neck.

  “That’s better. I swear to God that’s better.”

  “We’re here to serve.”

  “How about you go be a cop for a while.”

  “Uh-uh. I’d rather watch you suffer.” He was a filmmaker who’d become a film editor but never got over his first love. Right now he was back in New Orleans working on what was getting to be a long-term project: a documentary about kids who’d been shot—and, as Skip liked to say, the kids who shot them.