Читать книгу A Grave Mistake - Stella Cameron - Страница 9

Well, hell, he hadn’t expected Jilly to do what she did, to make love until he never wanted to stop, then rush away refusing to even talk to him.

He had tried to hold her. She’d warned him off with a glare and outstretched palms. So he’d backed off and let her go, and got into his car to drive home. He couldn’t think of anywhere else he could go to find some peace.

Guy swung into the overgrown lane leading to his house.

Get rid of Nat. Figure out what just happened with Jilly—apart from the obvious—and decide how in hell you’re going to fix things.

He should be making her go somewhere quiet and talk to him right now. The longer they waited, the harder it would be for either of them to make any sense.

Unfortunately the lady had made it clear the next call was hers.

He wouldn’t wait very long.

Nat’s Corvette looked out of place in front of Guy’s wood-sided shotgun house. True to type, the building sat lengthwise on the lot, the front of which should have been a gable end, with the entrance leading to a passageway against the left wall and a single window to the right. Inside, four rooms stacked one behind the other opened onto the passage, which ran the length of the house. If you had a mind to shoot from the front door to the back door it was no big deal. Just stand in line with the front door and hold that shotgun steady.

Concrete pilings stood high enough that you could have put a second story under the only one the place had. He’d parked his car down by the gravel road, as was his custom. He preferred to walk quietly up the lane to the house in case someone he didn’t want to see was waiting for him.

He dipped his hat farther over his eyes and ran up the steps to the gallery. A single bentwood rocker, weathered to silver-gray, rested where he could sit, prop his heels on the railing and look at the sky through a dogwood tree.

“Is she all right?” Nat called from inside as soon as Guy touched the screen door. “I called the emergency number to see if she’d been taken somewhere but they said she hadn’t.”

“You did what?” Guy yanked open the screen door and strode into what passed as his living room. “How many times do I have to—”

“I gave a phony name. Get over here.”

“Did you use my phone?”

Stretched out on the couch—a queen-size tweed sofa bed—Nat reached for a can of beer he had set on the brown shag rug. He took his time over a long swallow before he said, “I’m sorry you think I’m a moron. Now, drop it. How’s Jilly?”

He probably shouldn’t say fantastic. “She’s good. Bit shaken up but it was mostly a fender bender. A hummer of a fender bender, to be truthful.” He tossed his hat on the TV antenna. The TV sat on the floor and the room was otherwise unfurnished.

A paper bag lay on its side near Nat with papers spilling out—and photographs, the kind Guy recognized as the artwork of NOPD.

Nat saw him angling his head to look and sat up.

And then the dratted, leggy black mutt from Homer’s place came down the hall, loped into the room and flopped down at Guy’s feet. “Where was he?” He didn’t want to tell Nat how Jilly tried to foist the dog off on him.

“She was sleepin’ on your bed. Tired out, poor pooch—and hungry. I had to give her that steak out of the refrigerator. You’re out of dog food as far as I can see. I cooked the meat just in case. She was really hungry, Guy.” Nat gave him a disapproving look. “You left her behind so I brought her home for you.”

Jilly had called the dog “he.”

This was his day for being outmaneuvered by females. He would take the dog and dump her on Jilly. Meanwhile, he’d act as if there was nothing unusual about a big mutt wandering around his house, eating Guy’s own dinner and sleeping on his bed. “Thanks for bringing Goldilocks home,” he said, and the dog put her head on his boot.

Dump the dog on Jilly, which means I’ll have to go see her. He smiled.

“I won’t ask how you came up with Goldilocks,” Nat said.

“Good idea.”

“A man called Pip Sedge got murdered in the Quarter.”

Guy waited for Nat to continue.

“Any bells ringin’?” Nat asked.

He wanted to sit down but didn’t like to disturb the dog. “No bells.”

“He was shot—three times.”

“Hoo mama, that’s a first.” As soon as he grinned, Guy knew his mistake.

“I didn’t come down to this morgue of a town because I needed your wisecracks.” Nat’s white teeth came together with a snap. He held his head by the top and the chin and snapped his neck in each direction. “You’re makin’ me tense.”

He’d always been good at doing that. “Give me something that makes sense. This isn’t the first DB found in the Quarter with three bullets in it.” Carefully, he pulled his foot from beneath the dog’s head and took a seat beside Nat. “If I can help you, I will.”

Nat leaned over and shuffled among the mess of papers on the rug. “I wanted to see if the name meant anything to you first. Take a look at this.” He gave Guy a photograph of a man in shirttails, shoes and socks, holding what looked like his balled-up pants to his chest. The legs were on the skinny side, very white, and defensively bent at the knee. He stood outside a closed interior door.

Guy flicked a fingernail against the shiny paper. “This was pinned up somewhere. Quite a few places at different times.” He indicated a scatter of thumbtack holes.

“Yeah, it was. Oliphant still had it on his bulletin board—under just about everything he’s collected forever. I recalled seeing it sometime ago—Sedge hadn’t changed much facially. He could still look like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

“Sedge is the vic?”

“Pip Sedge, yeah. Forty-nine, divorced.”

The guy in the photo could be midthirties or older. Pleasant-looking in a nondescript way with wavy, mussed-up blond hair. He stared into the camera lens as if he’d been blinded by high beams on a one-way street. “This used to be on the wall in the squad room. Jeez, Nat, how long ago?” He glanced at the date. “Eleven years? I was a rookie.”

“That’s what I figured. I knew it was a long shot that you’d remember much. I wasn’t on board yet.”

Nat found another photo—this one of the all-too-familiar crime-scene variety. A close-up of the vic’s face. Bits of hair were still blond, the rest was caked with blood.

“Shot through the back of the head?”

“Top,” Nat said.

“I’d like to know how that happened. It’s the same man. You’ve got a good eye—but we’ve always known that.”

Nat flashed him a quick smile. “This was a dirty crime. Sedge might as well have been executed. He was in a way. But you can read all about that.”

“Maison Bleue,” Guy said, suddenly remembering Detective Fleet, who owned the case. “On Chartres Street. Underage prostitution ring. Or that’s what they thought. The place had belonged to the Giavanelli family, but it was under new management.”

“Bingo. But they were looking for a missing girl that night. Someone thought they’d seen her there.”

“Had they?”

“Seems so, but she was found at home later—dead.”

Guy murmured, “Too bad,” and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fleet, God rest his soul, he thought this photo of a bare-legged Sedge was hilarious. Laughed every time he walked by. He used to say, ‘The douche bag got kicked out by a sixteen-year-old while she took a call from her boyfriend.’ Then he’d remind anyone who’d listen that, thanks to him, the guy in the picture ‘never did get his rocks off.’

“He also didn’t get arrested,” Nat said. “Comin’ up with anythin’ at all on him was dumb luck. I worked for Oliphant a few times. He was Fleet’s partner.”

“I was just one of Fleet’s water boys.” Back in the days when he still thought the good guys always won in the end. “I don’t even know what happened to the case.”

Nat aimed a long forefinger at the papers. “Reckon it’s in there. You may want to read it. If you lose any of that stuff, I’ll be sharing a drawer with Pip Sedge. Don’t ask me why, but none of it’s been entered.”

“I’ll make sure you get it back before it’s missed.”

“I’ll make sure I take it with me in the mornin’,” Nat said. “It may not have a thing to do with anything, not now. But we need to be sure.”

Guy didn’t comment on the fact that Nat intended to spend the night. “Look, maybe I’m obtuse, but I don’t get why you came to me with this. Sedge’s murder doesn’t have to be connected to the Maison Bleue case, and I know almost nothing about that.”

Nat took a folded file card from a pants pocket and handed it over. “The original is in the evidence room. I copied what was on it.”

“Jazz Babes,” Guy read aloud. This was Nat’s evening for guessing games. “Okay. Is it a club?”

“Affirmative. It’s the club that used to be Maison Bleue. Sedge had a matchbook from the place in his pocket when he died. Look at the back—most likely scribbled there by Sedge.”

Guy looked. “Toussaint?” he said, meeting Nat’s innocent eyes. The rest said, “Backs on Parish Lane—wall—gate unlocked.”

“Is there a Parish Lane in Toussaint?” Nat asked. “I didn’t find it on a map of the town.”

“Parish Lane is behind Main Street on one side and Catfish Alley on the other. You think Sedge was coming here with stuff on his mind? Like going through an unlocked gate and getting to someone’s place?”

“That’s what I think. I sure don’t have anything else.”

“This is your case?”

“Right on, Mr. Holmes. You can do what I can’t, not without half the town finding out there was a stranger creeping about. But you can wander along Parish Lane and figure out where this might be. You’re part of the scenery. You won’t get a second look.” He took back the card.

Guy stared at the dog. The dog stared back. “Just about all kitchens are in the backs of houses.” Goldilocks heaved to her feet and settled again—with her head on his left boot. “There’s a wall down both sides of Parish Lane. All the way down. And a lot of gates.”