Louis Massie lived in the lower 9th ward with his mother, a woman I was told everyone called Miss Sabine. Although it had been almost a decade since Katrina, many neighborhoods, including the one Louis lived in, still struggled to recover from the devastating aftermath of the hurricane. Vacant pockets of flattened land where homes used to be breathed a haunting reminder of the destruction that had poisoned the area. Some people had left their homes entirely, vowing to never look back, never return again. Others remained, strong and resilient. Raising a torch of unfettered bravery, they began anew. Miss Sabine was among them. On a quiet street where only a handful of homes remained, her modest, traditional-style dwelling with beige siding and white shutters looked newly remodeled, transformed from its former, battered self into a thing of beauty.
I parked at the curb, walked up a series of brick steps leading to the house, and knocked on the door. I stood for almost a full minute and waited. No one came. I spotted a neighbor across the street on her porch. She was rocking back and forth on a weathered, yellow rocking chair. A blanket was wrapped around her legs. When she saw me, she stood, draped the blanket around her body, and walked toward me, blanket ruffling in the soft wind. She looked to be in her upper eighties, I guessed, and had short, black hair and glasses, which were too big for her face.
“’Scuse me,” the woman said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m just looking for the people who live here.”
“No one’s home just now.”
“Do you know when they’ll be back?” I asked.
“Day or two, I guess. Why? What do you want with Miss Sabine?”
“I’m not here for Sabine. I’m here for Louis.”
“You’re the second person to come here lookin’ for him today. First was the police.”
“Did they talk to you?”
“Tried. I didn’t care to answer the door.”
Her hands moved to her hips, and she squinted, looking me over like she struggled to find even the smallest connection between Louis and me. “Louis don’t live here no more, you see. Sabine kicked that boy’s ass outta here. She don’t want him back neither. Not until he cleans up his attitude and cleans up his life. He does nothin’ but cause problems for everybody.”
“When did she kick him out?”
“Been about a week ago now.”
“Any idea where I can find him?”
She crossed her arms in front of her, leaned back like there was an imaginary wall behind her to hold her up, and said, “Maybe. Depends on who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“My name is Joss. I was in the bookstore where Louis worked the night Alexandra Weston died.”
“Who?”
“Alexandra Weston, the true-crime writer.”
She shrugged. “Never heard of her before.”
“She was murdered the night before last, at the same place Louis worked.”
The revelation failed to elicit a response.
“What does Louis have to do with it?”
“Maybe nothing. I won’t know until I talk to him. He didn’t show up for work today.”
She didn’t seem surprised.
“You don’t look like you’re from around here.”
“I’m not.”
“Where you from?”
“I work in California,” I said.
“I didn’t ask you where you work. I asked where you’re from.”
“Heber.”
“Where?”
“Heber City. It’s in Utah.”
“Huh. Never heard of it. You a special kind of cop or somethin’, sent here to investigate?”
“No.”
“Then why are you poking your nose into business that ain’t yours?”
“Alexandra Weston was a friend. We work in the same profession. We’re both authors. I’d like to know why someone wanted to kill her.”
The term friend was a bit loose, but it suited its purpose.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I was hoping Louis saw something the night she died that could explain what happened.”
She squinted one eye, looked at me like she was trying to decide whether what I’d just said was genuine. “Try Eddie Trumaine. He usually hangs out with him after work. Ask me, I bet that’s where he’s been stayin’ too.”