12

DAWN WAS JUST BREAKING ON TUESDAY MORNING AS I DROVE down the narrow street and stopped in front of the pink shotgun cottage where Pearline Brewer lived. It was a low-income neighborhood, but a neat one. The pink house was offset by blue shutters, and in the summer sun, it would be a bright and pleasant place. In the soft light, the house looked tired. The porch sagged a little as I walked to the door and knocked. An old Chevy in the driveway led me to believe that Pearline was home.

After two minutes, I knocked again, and louder.

The morning was brisk and I shifted from foot to foot as I waited. When there was still no answer, I resorted to pounding on the door.

A front porch light came on at the house next door, and a slender black woman in a purple robe stepped out.

“Whoever you are and whatever you want, you’d best be moving on before I call the police. Pearline’s gone,” she said. “Won’t be back for a week at least. Her mama’s ailin’ over in Lafayette.”

“Do you have a number where I can call her?” My voice showed my disappointment.

“No, she didn’t leave a number,” the woman said. “If she calls me, I’ll tell her someone was looking for her.”

I hurried down Pearline’s steps and trotted over to the neighbor’s house. Pulling one of my new cards from my pocket, I handed it to her.

“I’m working for Doreen Mallory,” I said. “I need to talk with Pearline.”

“I’ll be sure and tell her,” the neighbor said. She held the robe at her throat with one hand while she slipped my card into her pocket. Her gaze never left mine.

“Thanks.” There was nothing left to do but meet Tinkie for the prearranged breakfast.

I drove slowly out of the neighborhood and cruised down the streets. Pearline’s neighborhood was neat, but only four blocks west, the houses got bigger and were better kept. Gentrification would soon encroach on Pearline’s street. The flip side of renovation was that an entire class of people got shoved out.

At six-fifty-nine, I parked the roadster and sprinted to the front door of the restaurant. Tinkie was already seated. I watched for a moment as every man who passed her slowed and looked. With her hair swept up in a soft cluster of curls, she looked like a movie star. The coral cashmere sweater she wore accentuated her assets. Her perfectly healthy-looking assets. Tinkie could not be sick. I examined her face as she studied the menu. I’d lost everyone I’d ever loved, and I realized that in the past year I’d come to love Tinkie with the most precious of bonds—friendship.

I took a deep breath, forced a smile on my face, and slid into the seat opposite her. “Find anything interesting in the books?”

She raised her gaze from the menu and studied me. “Where did you go? I rang your room at six.”

“I went to Pearline’s but she’s gone to Lafayette to tend her sick mother.”

“Right,” Tinkie said, mirroring my own cynicism.

“I left a card. Maybe she’ll call.”

“Of course she will.” Tinkie rolled her eyes. “In answer to your question, I did find one tiny little tidbit.”

I leaned forward, unable to suppress my eagerness.

“Doreen wasn’t paying Pearline’s salary.”

“Who was?”

“Now that’s an excellent question,” Tinkie said, her coral lips puckering. “I think it’s a clue.”

“I wonder if Michael knows?”

“I wonder if he’ll tell,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “But first I need sustenance. I’m having the Cajun sausage and green pepper omelet, biscuits, and coffee. What about you?”

“Tinkie, you have excellent taste. In partners, clothes, and breakfast. I’ll have the same.”

Ten pounds heavier and nearly in a coma of satisfaction, I stumbled out into the street with Tinkie. We’d decided that I would go to the bail hearing for Doreen and then stop by to talk with LeMont and, hopefully, Trina Zebrowski. Tinkie was going to the Square to talk to some of the other tarot card readers in an effort to track down Starla.

I dropped Tinkie off across the street from the Café Du Monde and headed down to the municipal court building for Doreen’s bond hearing. It was set for nine. I’d be there right on the dot.

The hearing was a formality. I sat in the back of the courtroom and took note of Doreen. She sat perfectly still, her beautiful dark hair covering her like a cloak. The judge dispatched the case in less than five minutes, setting bond at two hundred thousand.

Jake O’Banyon didn’t raise an objection. He nodded at a young boy who sat behind him. The boy shot out of his seat and ran out of the courtroom like his pants were on fire. I figured him for the runner to the bondsman.

LeMont was on the prosecutor’s side, and I watched him carefully as he started toward Doreen.

“My client has nothing to say to you,” O’Banyon said, stepping in LeMont’s path.

“I have some questions and she’s going to answer them,” LeMont said.

“I have a question for you, Detective. Why wasn’t a juvenile detective assigned to this case? That’s normal procedure. Why are you clinging to the case like dandruff to a black coat?” O’Banyon smiled like a shark.

“What are you implying?” LeMont said, his mouth so tight and thin I was surprised words could escape.

“I’m way too smart to imply anything,” O’Banyon said, “but just let me point out that if anything funny’s going on in this case, the stink’s going to rub off on you.”

O’Banyon took Doreen’s arm and hustled her toward the front of the courtroom. They disappeared through a heavy oak door.

LeMont turned and when he saw me, he reddened. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Watching the wheels of justice turn,” I said, grinning. “Why are you handling the case, Detective?”

“There wasn’t a juvenile officer available.” He brushed past me.

“I talked to some kids at the Center last night. They said you questioned them. I’d like to see those reports. And any others you might have.”

“People in hell want ice water,” he said over his shoulder. He sped out of the courtroom without a backwards glance.

I ran after him, catching him at the front door of the building. “LeMont!” I grabbed his sleeve.

He started to shake free but stopped and faced me. “What?”

“The baby bottle with the barbiturate in it, did you have it processed for fingerprints?”

“At the time we thought we didn’t have to. Ms. Mallory said she’d held the bottle. The only prints on it would have been hers. Remember, when we first investigated, we thought it was a death by natural causes.”

Anger made my jaw tighten. “Things have changed since then. Doreen is charged with Murder One. I suggest you get that bottle printed.”

LeMont gave me a disgusted look and pushed through the doors. He trotted down the steps and disappeared into the throng of pedestrians that now crowded the city.

I stood for a moment, torn between hunting Doreen down and going after Trina Zebrowski. I chose Doreen.

I didn’t have to hunt long. Doreen appeared in the corridor while I was trying to decide where to look for her.

“Sarah Booth,” she said, her smile soft. “I saw you in the courtroom. Thanks for coming.”

“I gather you won’t have a problem making the bail?”

She shook her head as we started walking. “It’s covered. Michael is handling all of it.”

We pushed through the doors and stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Center, first. Then home.” She stepped into the street, lifted her hand, and began waving at a cab five blocks away. “I’m glad to be out in the sunshine.”

“Doreen, who was paying Pearline?”

She put her hand down and turned to face me. “I told Thad it wasn’t a good idea.”

“The senator was paying Pearline?”

She nodded. “Pearline works for him three days a week. He sent her to me two days. She needed a full-time job, so he made these arrangements.”

“And he paid for it?”

“Yes.” She held my gaze.

“And Pearline was with Rebekah all that afternoon and most of the evening?”

“Yes.” Her eyes held mine. “Pearline can’t even step on a roach. There’s no way she could’ve hurt Rebekah.”

“Someone did.”

“Not Pearline.”

“Then who?” She’d given me so little to work with.

“Why would Pearline hurt Rebekah? What would she gain?”

“I don’t have an answer to that question. Perhaps, though, she was acting for someone else?”

“You think Thad sent her to work for me like some kind of assassin?”

I’d wondered if Doreen could be rattled. Now I knew. She was spitting nails.

“If he thought the baby was his and he wanted to make sure you never filed a paternity claim, he could have.”

“Thad isn’t that kind of man.”

“And you aren’t that kind of woman, so who killed Rebekah?”

The taxi had pulled up to the curb and the driver shouted something out the window. Doreen ignored him. She stood motionless, looking into my eyes.

“I want you to find my brother,” she said. “I want to give him half the money my mother left.”

Doreen was a woman who operated on many levels simultaneously. I would be wise never to underestimate her. “That’s two separate cases. I don’t think I should splinter my time like that. He could be anywhere in the world.”

“Just work on it when you have spare time. My baby is the main focus, but I would like to meet my brother. It’s important that he gets half his inheritance. It’s important that I have a chance to know him.”

She opened the taxi door and got in. She leaned forward to give the driver instructions, and then she was gone. I stood on the curb for a moment, watching the cab blend into the packed traffic. I understood Doreen’s need for a family, but I questioned her timing. A brother wouldn’t do her much good if she was in prison.

My watch showed only nine-thirty, so I drove back to the Eighth District. LeMont needed another good prod, and I also wanted to talk to Michael Anderson’s main squeeze, the mounted patrolwoman, Ms. Zebrowski.

LeMont growled an acknowledgment as I sat down beside his desk.

“I need your help,” I said, deciding on my very best Daddy’s Girl manipulation.

“Go away.” He didn’t even look up at me.

“Detective, an innocent woman may spend the rest of her life in prison.”

He looked up at that. “Doreen Mallory killed her baby. That’s what the facts tell me and that’s what I believe.”

“What facts?”

“She was alone with the infant. There’s no sign of a forced entry. She admits to giving the baby the bottle.” He sighed. “We’ve been over all this, Ms. Delaney. Not even Ms. Mallory can think of another single suspect.”

“What if the barbiturate was put in the bottle during the day, when Doreen was at the Center. Someone could have prepared that bottle long before she gave it to Rebekah.”

He put down the file he was holding. “No one else had a key to the apartment.”

“Doreen had trysts with several men in the past year. They’ve all been in her apartment. They all had as much, or more, motive than Doreen.”

“How so?”

“Paternity.”

He actually flinched. “That’s the most cockamamie thing I’ve heard in at least two weeks.”

“The men are very powerful.” I didn’t want to tell him and violate Doreen’s request, but I was prepared to lay it on the line.

“What, she’s slept with the mayor and the police chief and who else, maybe the President? Now, four years ago, I might have believed that!” He barked a laugh. “Get out of here and quit wasting my time.” He lifted the file. “I’ve got fifty more of these waiting for me.”

“Doreen could well be innocent!” I stood slowly. He wasn’t even interested enough in Rebekah’s paternity to ask who Doreen was sleeping with.

He bent over the file, dismissing me.

“Have you questioned the maid, Pearline Brewer?”

He didn’t look up.

“Detective LeMont, the maid had ample opportunity to mix the barbiturate in the formula. If you’ve talked to her, I’d like to see that report.”

“Pearline Brewer has been out of town since the baby’s death.” He spoke to the top of his desk.

“You haven’t talked to her?” I was shocked and didn’t bother to hide it. “Maybe that should be the next item on your very busy agenda.”

“Beat it,” he said.

I stormed away from him and stopped at the front desk. It took only a moment to discover that Trina Zebrowski was riding a beat on Bourbon Street for a blues funeral.