Out of the Easy(32)
“I’ll wait for it. That’s Moraine, M-o-r-a-i-n-e.”
“What, do you expect me to type it up myself? I’ll come up with something and Dottie will prepare the letter.”
“Two copies, please. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“No, I’ll have them sent by the bookshop when they’re ready. You won’t need to come back.” He raised his eyebrows and his glass. “And make me another one of these before you leave. Damn good.”
As I turned to leave Mr. Lockwell’s office, he stood near the window, fresh drink in hand. “Bye-bye, now, Josephine,” he said with what I thought might be a smile. He didn’t offer to walk me out. I made my way down the elevator to the lobby of the building, exhaling a mixture of relief and happiness as I walked through the door to the street.
“Miss Moraine.”
Someone touched my elbow, and I turned. It was a police officer.
“Detective Langley would like to ask you a few questions. Come with me, please.”
TWENTY-ONE
I sat, humming, on a cold metal chair in the hallway of the police station, staring at the gray tile floor. It reminded me of the floors in my grade school. When I was bored, I used to stare at them, imagining they were a cloudy vat of water and with a secret password, the seam in the tile would open and suck my desk straight down into the abyss. I’d have to hold on, I’d be moving so fast, my thick hair blowing a tangled tempest behind me. I didn’t know what the abyss was, but I was sure that something better than New Orleans was under the school’s gray tile. The police station floors didn’t feel at all promising. Filmy residue from a dirty mop had painted circular shadows near the legs of each chair. Whoever cleaned the station was lazy. You always moved chairs to mop properly.
A clatter of hacking and high heels stopped in front of me.
“Well, hey there, Josie girl. Your momma’s not here, is she?”
Dora’s sister, Darleen, teetered in front of me, the left side of her neck speckled with either hickies or a beating.
I shook my head. “No, she’s not here.”
“Thanks for waiting, Miss Moraine.” A pudgy man with a receding hairline leaned out of a doorway nearby. Darleen raised her eyebrows and then quickly walked away, the exposed nails from her worn stilettos tapping against the tile. I walked into the office.
“Detective Langley,” he said, extending his arm for a handshake. His palm felt moist and fat. “Have a seat.”
The windowless office was nothing like John Lockwell’s. Stacked file boxes lined each wall nearly to the ceiling, and piles of folders rose up around the detective on his desk. The air was thick with hot breath and nicotine. No photographs. The detective pulled a file folder in front of him and took a swig from a coffee mug that hadn’t been washed in months. I could see a caffeine skin on the inside of the cup.
“We’re lucky we caught up with you. Your friend from the bookstore told us you were running errands on Gravier Street,” said the detective.
I nodded. I had seen Frankie and Willie have conversations with the police. They always listened intently and spoke very little. I intended to do the same. Willie used to have a police contact who covered for her in exchange for time with Dora. He was fired and Willie no longer had an inside cop.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, Miss Moraine, but a gentleman from Tennessee died of a heart attack at the Sans Souci on New Year’s Eve,” said the detective. He waited for a response.
“I read about it in the papers,” I told him.
He nodded and held up a picture of Forrest Hearne. Handsome, sophisticated, kind Forrest Hearne. He was smiling in the photo, his teeth perfectly aligned like squares of clean chalk.
“Mr. Hearne’s checkbook register shows that the afternoon prior to his death, he made a purchase in the bookstore where you are employed. Do you remember anything about him?”
I clasped my hands together so they wouldn’t tremble, thinking of Forrest Hearne’s check crisply folded in the cigar box under my bed. “He . . . said he was from Memphis and was down for the Bowl.”
The detective didn’t look at me. Instead, he stared down at the file, sparked a match, and lit a cigarette. He held up the pack, offering one.
“No, thank you.”
He stuffed the pack in his shirt pocket. “What did he buy?”
“Keats and Dickens,” I said.
He made a note on a dog-eared pad in front of him. “That’s the title of the book?”
“No, those are the names of two writers. He bought a book of poetry and a copy of David Copperfield.”
The detective continued writing and yawned. His tongue was stained the color of mustard. My shoulders relaxed slightly. This man was what Willie called a Paper Joe, not someone actively pursuing a case, just getting notes for the record. He certainly wasn’t the chess match John Lockwell had been.
“Okay, did you notice if he was wearing any jewelry? The widow reported that the deceased had an expensive watch.”
An icy rod shot through my nerves and into my throat. The watch. Of course she noticed that it was gone. Under the engraving F. L. Hearne on the back were also the words With Love, Marion. It was obviously a gift. An expensive gift. And now she wanted to know where it was. Tick, tock, tick, tock—the sound pulsed through my head.