She took the seat opposite him and waited until he was settled comfortably into his drink. “It’s about your friend.”
“What are you – the second team? I’ve been through this with the sheriff. This guy Charles Butler may be from New York, but – ”
“No, not him – the prisoner.” She looked around her, making sure there was no one within earshot. “Mallory.”
“So now the prisoner is a friend of mine?” And his smiling face said, Fat chance. “Your act needs work, kid. The sheriff does it better. He ran that one by me, too.”
“Then how do I know she’s a rogue cop?”
He threw up his hands in surrender, still smiling, as though he thought she might be the best joke in the world. “I give up, Deputy. How do you know? The sheriff says he has no idea what Mallory’s been up to for the past seventeen years.”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“Meaning you do?”
“I know she’s a cop.”
“How do you figure that?” He put a small cloud of cigarette smoke between them.
“My mother says it’s rude to tell people what they already know.”
The man was silent. He was letting her hang out in the breeze, just watching the show and appearing to enjoy it a lot. This was not the scenario she had rehearsed in her head. Lilith sat back, not rushing her words any. “Mallory never mentioned you by name, but I know you work with her in New York City.”
“The prisoner told you she was from New York?”
Lilith nodded, secure in the belief that she lied very well.
“If she talked like a New Yorker, I think the sheriff would’ve picked up on that,” said Riker. “He spotted my accent five words into the conversation.”
“But she doesn’t have any accent. She sounds like the television news-people from Nowhere USA.”
“Deputy, I hope you’ll excuse me for being rude and pointing out the obvious. The sheriff tells rne her prints haven’t come back yet. Now that should tell you something, unless you’re a rookie fresh out of the slot. If the prisoner was law enforcement, they would’ve had a match on her prints a long time ago.” He drained his beer glass and set it on the table less than gently. “That’s it, kid. School’s out.” He was looking toward the door.
“She’s a cop,” Lilith insisted.
Riker shook his head. “The sheriff would’ve known. Take my word for it, that bastard is smart.”
“Not where she’s concerned. He still sees her as a little girl. She used to live in this town with her mother.”
“I know. The sheriff told me the whole story. In fact, he told me a lot more than I ever wanted to know about this town. Ask me any damn question about Dayborn. No, really, go ahead. I even know this is the freaking bar where Babe Laurie had his famous syphilis party – quaint custom.” He slumped back against the padding of the booth and spread his hands, palms up with questions. “No trivia quiz? You don’t wanna play? Okay, let me ask you one. Did you ever tell Jessop this theory of yours about the rogue cop?”
“Detective Riker, do you trust the sheriff?”
“So you didn’t tell him.” There was a slight disapproval in his voice. “Why tell me? What are you after, kid?”
“I might be looking for a job in New York City. So I help you, and you help me.” Slow down, she told herself, you’re gushing. She took more time with her next words. “You don’t know this part of the country – I do. I can find her, and you can’t.”
He looked so tired when he smiled, as if he had heard all of this before. “Deputy, I don’t think you’d like New York City.” His voice was softer now. “Whatever mess you’ve made here, I’d advise you to stay and clean it up.”
She sat up ramrod-straight. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
He shook his head. “No, kid, I didn’t read your mind,” he said, reading her mind. “Rookie cops think every screwup is the end of the world. I guess we’ve all been there. Whatever it is you’ve – ”
“I can help you, Riker.” Was that high pitch in her own voice? “You need me.” Did she sound a little desperate? Shit! She lowered her tone. “The sheriff won’t have to know I’m working with you.”
“Stupid move, kid. If the sheriff can’t trust you, why would I? Why would any cop trust you?”
And now that he had hit her between the eyes with that bat, he leaned in close to complete the kill. “You’re young, Deputy. I guess I can overlook one small indiscretion. We’ll just keep this between the two of us. The sheriff doesn’t have to know you were gonna sell him out. I think we understand each other, don’t we, kid?”
Yes, she did understand.
She had just sold herself to the cop from New York City, and she had gotten nothing in return. But Riker had not done so well either, for he was only getting sloppy seconds from the feds, who had bought her first with promises – all lies, if Mallory could be believed.
He was rising from the table, gathering up his cigarettes and matches. “If you do run into Mallory, ask her where she got the gun. Tell her I’ll make a statement at her arraignment on the jailbreak charge. It’s a standard deal. Any judge will give her points for cooperation.” He pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it on the table for a tip. “And if I need anything else from you, I’ll let you know.”
She followed his progress across the bar and through a bright rectangle of daylight. Then the door closed behind him, and despite the crowd, she was alone in this place, dim and dank as a cave, watching clouds of smoke expelled from the lungs of men. She inhaled their secondhand breath with the mingled smells of their bodies and the leavings on their plates. The music from the jukebox died.
Lilith stared at Riker’s half-filled glass and then slid it over to her own side of the table. She sniffed the liquid.
Bourbon.
She tasted it.
Cheap bourbon.
Over a graduation drink in a New Orleans bar, her father had told her that cheap liquor was the mark of an honest cop. And Guy Beaudare had this on the word of his old friend, Tom Jessop, so he knew it must be true.
Lilith downed the glass in one long draught.
It wasn’t the stifling air of the bar or Riker’s bad bourbon that made her sick.
CHAPTER 16
Jimmy Simms passed through a patch of soggy ground, but one of his father’s overlarge shoes had not moved on with him. It was stuck fast in the mud. He dropped a bulky laundry bag in the grass at the side of the road, and then he did a crane dance on one foot as he pulled the shoe out of the muck and slipped it back on. He settled down beside the cloth bag on the grass and tightened the shoelaces, as though that would help much.
And now he eyed the heavy bag, a gift from Darlene Wooley. If there was a God in heaven, there would be a pair of Ira’s castoff shoes in there.
He had helped Darlene change the oil in her car, doing all the messy work at her direction. Then she had taken him into the house and cleaned his hands, as though she thought he could not do this for himself. Or maybe she thought he was as lame as Ira.
And perhaps he was.
No matter. He had relished this warm, mother contact, closed his eyes and made believe that his own mother was doing this small service for him. Darlene had scrutinized the oil spots on his clothes, lamenting that those stains would never come out. She had then sat him down at the kitchen table and made him a cold lunch. She had admonished him to drink all his milk, while she stuffed the bag with laundry-faded clothes, saying Ira wouldn’t wear them anymore. All of Ira’s shirts and socks must be bright red, she told him, and her boy would only wear dark blue jeans.
Darlene had also given him a crisp five-dollar bill. He had used part of it to buy a treat for Good Dog. A fine square of cooked meatloaf from the Levee Market was still warm in his pocket.