sensitivity to her touch, for while she hadn't said a word about the ugly tattooed back, they'd never again slept together. And soon she'd disappeared altogether. Since then, he'd been unable to feel comfortable around any woman, until that moment when the eel had so frightened Kim Desinor and he'd instinctively taken her into his arms to comfort her.
He'd pulled over to the coffee shop, gathered his newspapers up, and stepped inside. The old friend behind the counter had his usual coffee waiting as he liked it the moment he walked through the bell-clanging door, having seen him park on the street out front. As Alex now read his newspaper and sipped the rich Peruvian black coffee, he grew increasingly depressed over the stories now beginning to appear in the press with lurid headlines about the “Thief of Hearts Circus” being conducted by the city, and the cops were the clowns. Speculation, theory and conjecture of every stripe filled the pages of the Times-Picayune alongside shots of Dr. Jessica Coran, whose purpose on the case was fully outlined. In a sidebar piece, there was a smaller photo of Kim Desinor and a story on the psychic “connection” citing the fact she was called in to help the bungling cops.
Sincebaugh scanned what he could stomach of the stories, gathering in what little information was released to the press about Desinor, his curiosity aroused. He went on to read the press versions of the killer's supposed motive and modus operandi, and most of what the press carried was nonsense verging on supposition about the heart-pounding case, little of it founded in fact. Still, Sincebaugh detected one truth: There were enough half-truths and twisted logic among the stories to know that the rumor mill was operating at peak efficiency, despite a gag order in the Department. Leaks were being fed to the press, and he placed blame for the unplugged hole at Frank Wardlaw's doorstep, for the few details that were true were all technical in nature, items that could only be gotten from the coroner's reports, items only he and deYampert and a handful of other cops working these cases knew about, all of whom were sworn to secrecy.
His blood boiled when he found details about the type of weapon used in the murders embedded in one story, details that were accurate: a cleaver-styled cutter in one murder, a specialized butcher's knife in another, a possible rib-cutter?
Such information was crucial to the case and should remain confidential; now that it was public knowledge, every butcher in the city was a target for his neighbor's fears, suppositions and allegations, and every nut case with a Swiss Army knife would want now to confess. They'd be showing up in droves tonight and tomorrow at every precinct sergeant's desk with cleavers in hand, stories well rehearsed about precisely how they did it, all chewing up valuable investigative hours.
True, every precinct in the city had at least two men working the case, separately and without task-force unity, and any one of these men might have spilled information to a shrewd reporter, but Sincebaugh wondered about Dr. Frank Wardlaw in this respect since he'd been under such fire from both above and below, and especially since the most vital information leaks had coincided with Wardlaw's being dismissed. The man certainly had more friends in the Fourth Estate than in the NOPD.
Sincebaugh felt like putting his hand through a window, felt like hitting or arresting someone, but he instead sat granite like and lowered the headlines just as the shop bell rang and two young punks dressed in natty, moth- eaten army fatigues stepped in. The fatigues were army-surplus issue.
Sincebaugh had never liked the wholesale wear of army fatigues, not since it had become the in thing; he believed a man should earn the right to wear them. Aside from this disgruntlement, he sensed trouble welling up from within the two punks the moment he saw their eyes.
One's eyes roamed about the place while the other's eyes fixed on Tully, the old man behind the counter, who'd started his shop here in 1962 after moving from New Jersey. He often told Alex he missed his family “but not a damn thing else there.”
Sincebaugh knew he'd have to time everything to the second to take out the two punks without anyone being hurt. He pretended to laugh at one of the comics and carried the paper over to Tully, saying, “Here, old man, you gotta read this. This Calvin and Hobbes kills me. Read this.”
“ No time for papers,” Tully dourly replied. “I got customers, Alex.”
“ Take a look. Will it kill you to take a fuckin' look?”
“ Hey, Alex, easy, friend…” Tully eyed him suspiciously and ambled over. The old man had started to grab the paper when Sincebaugh brought it crosswise into the eyes of the closest kid. The other one, closer to the door, turned and ran without hesitation. Alex decked the first punk, still fighting with the newspaper, before he could bring his gun to bear.
“ Call a cop, Tully!” Alex shouted over his shoulder, snatching free the punk's concealed weapon.
“ What? What for? You are a cop! 'Sides, what'd they do, Alex?”
Alex pushed the kid's weapon into Tully's hand. “They tried to knock over your place! I'm going after the other one!” Sincebaugh had seen the direction the second young fool had taken, and he was now in his car, in pursuit, calling it in. His adrenaline rush was exactly the fix he'd needed. A good collar might do wonders for his sagging spirits, he thought now, his eyes scanning the urban jungle for his prey. He saw an army-green and brown blur dart down an alleyway just as his car passed. The kid's camouflaging fatigues blended into the cityscape. But Alex's twenty-twenty vision fixed on him. It was him. He just knew it.
He called in his location and the fact he was leaving his vehicle in pursuit of the kid felon. Behind him he heard sirens, other cops rushing to the scene, but he wanted this one all to himself. He wanted to bust somebody, anybody, maybe belt the creep around a little while he was at it.
He found himself rushing too fast through the alleyway and out the other side where he could have easily met with an ambush. Instead there was silence all around. He saw nothing, no one, only a deserted courtyard, a high, wooden fence badly in need of repair, still swaying from someone's having recently vaulted over it. There was a padlock on the gate.
He inched forward and pulled himself to the top of the fence, eyes in windows following him now, a light Louisiana downpour, silver and fresh, cascading from nowhere and everywhere at once, drenching him in its warmth and calm, making him feel alive.
He now leapt over and onto the other side of the fence and into the alley. A cat scurried from behind some rubbish and pails.
“ Toss the goddamn gun away, kid, and come outta there with your hands showing high! Now, goddamn you!”
No response.
“ Do it, damnit, or I'll fire through the cans! So help me, punk!”
No response.
“ Does this son a falow lifin' — bitch think I'm playing games with him?'' Alex shouted to the sky, his months of frustration bubbling dangerously to the surface. All his training as a police officer told him no, but his finger on the trigger said yes. He aimed at a can, pulled his aim to the bottom, fired and sent up a powerful thunder from his. 38 which rocked the trash can, the bullet going harmlessly through the lowest point of the metal trash bin and into the earth below it, no doubt leaving a gaping hole through the bottom. Instantly, in response, a gun came flying out over the trash heap, landing at Alex's feet.
“ That better be all you're packing, kid.”
He saw the boy's hands, white and pale, come trembling up over the top of the trash. Shaking, the kid stepped out into the open, pleading for mercy.
“ What kind of mercy did you two have in mind for Old Tully back there, kid?”
“ We… we needed the money.”
“ Shut up and turn around and spread your legs.” He handcuffed the kid, who looked to be perhaps eighteen or nineteen, younger than the other kid. Then he Mirandized the boy, his anger subsiding.
The boy kept talking the entire time. “I didn't want to do it. It was Will's idea, all his. He's done time.”
The familiar phrase was like a red badge of courage to the young street punks of New Orleans. “Sounds like you're going to do some time now, kid. Hanging out with the wrong crowd, son.” God, he hated sounding like his father. “Come on. You can tell it to the judge.”
Only now, coming out of the alley and handing the kid over to a uniformed officer, did Sincebaugh realize that he'd actually not seen either boy's weapon at the time he had struck out with the newspaper, and that neither of them had actually made a truly threatening gesture before he himself had acted on instinct. Alex knew that a smart lawyer could get either or both off, especially since there were no witnesses to the so-called “crime.” In point of fact, there had been no crime. Still, Sincebaugh knew that he was the only one who knew this, and that all he
