Killers of a Certain Age(31)

“We don’t know that,” Mary Alice argued.

I held up a hand. “Let’s call Martin Plan B. There has to be someone else who might have a line on what’s going on. Someone less vulnerable than Martin but with an ear for gossip.”

We were silent a moment, thinking. I tipped back in my chair, balancing on two legs as I considered. Natalie picked up the marker and started to doodle on a corner of the tablecloth while Mary Alice plucked at her paper napkin, tearing little pieces off and putting them into a pile. Helen simply sat, staring into the middle distance, and Minka finished off the last of the beignets.

Suddenly, I set the legs of my chair down with a thump. “Sweeney would talk.”

“I haven’t seen Sweeney in twenty years,” Mary Alice said.

Helen sat forward. “It might be worth asking. He’s always been very fond of us.”

“He retired last year,” I said thoughtfully. “He might not be as inclined to keep Museum secrets now that he has his pension.”

“Provided he knows any secrets,” Mary Alice pointed out. “If he’s not active, he might not be up on the latest gossip.”

“Targeting four active operatives is not exactly a story they’re going to be able to keep a lid on,” I said. “Trust me, people are talking.”

Nat looked up from her sketch—a male nude that was in danger of crossing over from tasteful to mildly pornographic. “Sweeney will help.”

I flicked her a look. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

Her expression was smug. “I ought to be. I slept with him last year.”

Anybody listening to what came next would have mistaken us for the world’s oldest slumber party.

“Euw, Nat, Sweeney—”

“You don’t like redheads.”

“Was he any good?”

The last was from me. Natalie grinned. “Better than you’d think.”

“But how?” Helen asked plaintively.

Natalie gave a satisfied little stretch, remembering. “It was in Osaka. We’d been assigned two members of the same crime family. Somebody in Provenance screwed up and didn’t realize they were related because the surnames were different. Otherwise we could have coordinated the job. As it was, when we crossed paths in the Ritz, we almost blew our covers. We had to compare notes, so he came to my room. One thing led to another.” She shrugged.

“So, you can get in touch with him?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We had a quickie before the job and then a nice encore after. He was out of my room by dawn. He had an early flight out.”

Helen gave a sudden exclamation and dove into her bag. “I’ve got it,” she said, waving her address book. She flipped through the pages. “McSween, Charles. Kansas City.”

She jotted down the number and offered it to Natalie. Nat stared at it like she’d offered her a spoonful of roadkill on a cracker. “I am not calling him.”

“But why?” Mary Alice asked. “You’re the last one who had any contact with him.” If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Akiko, she might have snickered at the word “contact.” God knows I wanted to. But she was annoyed, speeding up the on-ramp to seriously pissed.

I grabbed the piece of paper from Helen. “I’ll do it. Talking to an ex can be awkward.”

“You would know,” Mary Alice shot back. I didn’t flip her off that time, but I made a note to start a mental tally. I headed out, stopping by the drugstore for a fresh burner I bought with cash. I threaded my way through the narrow streets, cutting over to Jackson Square. It was getting dark now, the fortune-tellers and jugglers all packed up for the day, leaving the shadows for the vagrants. I passed a few benches where people had bedded down for the night, although it wouldn’t last. The NOLA police station was two blocks away and the cops would be along soon to encourage them on their way. They’d shuffle along to the darker side streets, bunking in doorways with elaborate arrangements of cardboard and moldy sleeping bags to keep out the chill.

One of the benches was empty, and I sat facing the river. I took a deep breath before keying in the number Helen had scribbled onto a piece of paper. I waited—three rings, then four. I was just about to give up when Sweeney answered, sounding a little sleepy. I could hear the annoying squeaks of a televised basketball game in the background. He must have dozed off watching, and I glanced up at the clock face on the front of the cathedral. Ten to seven.

I told him who it was and waited for the inevitable.

“Billie? Hey, it’s been a while—hey,” he said, drawing out the syllable in a long breath. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Just call me Lazarus,” I said.

“What the hell? I mean, what the actual hell?” His voice rose and the volume of the basketball game suddenly fell. He must have muted it as he waited for me to answer.

“It’s complicated. I can’t explain now, but I think we should meet.”

“Meet,” he repeated. He was playing for time, and I pressed him a little.

“Sweeney, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“If you’re alive, what about the others? Are they alive too? What about Nat?” God, it was like seventh grade all over again. Next he’d be asking me to leave a note in her locker after gym class. do u like me, circle y or n.