else I learned. I was her… him… for the duration.”
“ But you can't remember what you saw as Ms. Dumond?”
She detected the ripple of humor in his tone. “Nothing… a total blank, a protective measure. My subconscious has the negatives, though, and after hypnosis, I think I could piece together what I saw as Dumond.”
“ You'll have to forgive me, Doctor, but I'm just not convinced of any of this. Tell it to Captain Landry.”
“ Alex, what occurred was real.”
“ I think it's late. I'd like to get out of this hospital and go home. Can I drop you anywhere?” he asked, ignoring her now.
“ God, you're infuriating.”
“ Me? What do you think…” He hesitated and lowered his hands. “Look, how do you think I feel about you?”
“ You deny your own psychic abilities, repress them even, and you can't stand the thought of anyone else having any either, it would appear.”
“ That's the biggest load I've heard from you yet.”
“ You forget, I've seen the tape of you at the coffee shop. I've seen you in action.”
“ I claim no second sight.”
“ Claim it or not, you've got it.”
“ Listen, for the duration of this night, can we talk about anything other than this?”
“ I'd be happy to discuss any subject with you. Lieutenant- over dinner perhaps?”
“ Dinner?”
“ I still haven't eaten.”
“ Dinner? Okay, you're on.”
“ Good, then perhaps we can have a civil conversation?”
“ Perhaps.”
“ Have you all my things?”
“ Your handbag,” he said, lifting it from a nearby table.
“ Thank you.”
“ Shoes,” he said, handing these to her.
She took them and began placing them on. “Where's my gun?”
“ Right here. I suppose you have a permit for that. 38?”
“ I do.”
“ And what about these?” he asked, handing the rosary beads to her. “Got a permit for these?”
She gave him a mock look of disgust. “Where'd you get this?”
“ I've noticed you use 'em whenever you go into trance. What? Do the beads hold some special power or meaning for you?”
“ Haven't you seen these beads, this amulet before?” she asked, puzzled. “I mean, they must look familiar to you.”
“ No, Doctor, they don't.”
“ Stephens brought the rosary with him… I mean, sent it ahead for me to examine. Said he…said it was from one of the victims, Surette.”
“ Oh, yeah, I recall now. We found it where it'd fallen between his legs.”
“ I'll tell you what I told Stephens.”
“ Which is?”
“ The rosary beads belonged to the killer, not the victim.”
Alex measured this information carefully in his mind, testing it for meaning. “That's a remarkable leap.”
“ Are you willing to consider the possibility I'm right about the beads?”
“ Maybe. Like your gun, I didn't notice them until I picked you up and carried you down to my car. Told the people here you were a fellow cop, flashed my credentials.”
“ God, you didn't have to lie for me. The gun is registered.”
“ Guess I don't need to ask you why you carry one.”
“ Nowadays? With one fourth of the homes in this country touched by crime each year? No, no need to ask.”
“ I'll just let 'em know you're up and running; meanwhile, if you'd like a mirror and a sink, it's that way.”
She thanked him again and went to freshen up, the throbbing pain in her head reminding her to go slow.
In the mirror, she studied her image and tried to recapture what had been so shocking to her system; there'd been something unusual this time, something that didn't fit with the other attempts to see the killer. Something had changed and drastically, but she wasn't sure what it was, not yet, and the more she tried to revive the images, the more her head hurt.
She decided to sleep on it after a decent meal. Maybe it would return to her in time; maybe she'd need the help of a professional hypnotist. She'd never had to use a hypnotist before, but there was plenty of precedent for it in the literature when a vision was blocked by one's own mind, whether it was a simple memory or a psychic insight.
She would just have to be careful to instruct the hypnotist not to lead her in any way, but merely facilitate the process. She wondered if anyone on the case might suggest a competent person for the job, but she knew better than to ask Alex.
She did what she could with her hair and her face, fearing she could not do much. What little makeup she used about the eyes had run, giving her an Alice Cooper look that might easily scare Alex off. She rinsed her face of all makeup, opting for the natural look that shone through. She finished up just as he returned to the room for her.
23
Those sweetly smiling angels with pensive looks, innocent faces, and cash-boxes for hearts.
On the drive from the hospital Alex talked about how much he loved and hated New Orleans. “Food and jazz drives the urban soul here,” he told her with a short laugh that withheld any true humor.”The chefs here are like gods, feeding the soul-satisfying food of the earth and sea, and the musicians walk on water, and you can go down some streets here in full daylight and you'll find less-than-half-dressed whores in the doorways and windows, waving you up, many of them men. There's no place like New Orleans for a cop, no. All the chefs, the jazz musicians and the whores all have one commonalty: They all whip up their unique brand of appetite-suppressant by using their inbred intuition to improvise. The transvestite community's no different. You'll find more outrageous clothing per capita here than on any block in San Francisco, I assure you.”
“ I've seen quite enough between my hotel room and your precinct, thank you.”
They were traversing the large, long bridge spanning huge Lake Ponchartrain, heading for a favorite restaurant that seemed miles off the tourist routes, a place Alex called Leopold's.
The city of 1.2 million was wide awake, bustling, threatening to never sleep. The city had maintained, after all these years, its heavy European, eighteenth-century air-as if the same air breathed in by the pirate Jean Lafitte were still available for the modern visitor to inhale. It was a place for the rich to party, to bask in their wealth, as it had always been a haven for the sophisticated and worldly; but for the poor, many of whom were black, Spanish, Creole and Cajun, the city's lack of a manufacturing and industrial base extended very little hope of improvement, elevation or advancement over the years. Alex talked of these matters in a grim tone.
She tried to lighten him up a bit by saying, “When a Creole goes to heaven, first thing he asks Saint Peter is, 'Where's the jambalaya right?”
He laughed at the familiar saying. “Either that or file gumbo.” But he lapsed back into his somber concern.
