“Call me Landry. Have the police talked to you yet?”
“No, and I don’t talk to cops, except to say ‘yes, sir’ when they harass me about sleeping on the street.”
“Get ready. They want to talk to you and so do I. Here’s all I can tell you. I came to look around, the building was unlocked, and I found that girl you met unconscious in the courtyard. I called 911. The police interviewed me and let me go. I told them they should talk to you because you can observe everything from here.”
“I saw that girl come around dark. She fiddled with the door and got it open, and then she went inside. I wondered if she was coming out, but I gave up and went to bed.”
Landry figured out the time span. It was dark by seven-thirty and Landry arrived three hours later. During that time, Tiffany’s attacker struck.
“Did anybody else go inside yesterday?”
“A lot. It was a regular traffic jam. The ones who put the box on the gate came twice, and another person came after. She got the key out of the box, opened the padlock and went inside for an hour. Then she locked it back up and left.”
“Were there others after that?”
“Hard to say. I miss a lot during the day because I go over to Jackson Square and raise money from the tourists. I panhandle for a living. I was gone a few hours, but when I came back, I saw the padlock was open.”
“Did you lock it back?”
“Nope. It’s not my job to lock it. Strange stuff goes on in that old building. I told you that yesterday. You can laugh or say it’s the liquor talking, but I know better. It’s haunted. It scares the hell outta me.”
It scared the hell out of Tiffany too, yet she went in there by herself.
“Someone could have been hiding inside, right? You left, and when you returned, someone had unlocked the gate.”
“Might have been a ghost. I see lights at night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I said before that even us homeless guys won’t go in because we feel something’s not right. The building’s dark, but now and then I see flickers of light from those windows that are way up on the roof. Maybe it’s someone walking around with a flashlight.”
“Could it be moonlight shining through from the courtyard?”
“No way. If it was the moon, there would be light almost every night. And those windows are way up in the attic. In these old French Quarter buildings, the attics don’t open to the courtyard. Only the street side has attic windows.”
“What makes you think that?”
Jack gave a rueful laugh. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always a drunk living in a box. I was working on becoming an architect once. Seems like a long time ago, but it’s only been three years.”
“Alcohol?”
“And drugs. Back then I was in college, supported by my parents and living high on the hog. When the drugs took over, nothing else mattered. I kicked that habit, though. Can’t afford drugs when you’re living off what people will toss in your cup. Hard enough to get booze money.”
Landry looked hard into his face. “I’m willing to help you if you’re willing to help yourself.”
“Why?”
“For a couple of reasons. No one deserves to be where you are, and I doubt you can pull out of it by yourself. You seem like an intelligent guy who’s caught in a trap.”
“You’re right about the trap,” Jack admitted. “So what’s the other reason?”
“I want you to help me learn that building’s secrets.”
Jack straightened up a little and said, “You don’t know me. You can’t tell if my story about being an architect is true or if I’m a serial killer, and yet you’re willing to help. Nobody’s given me a second glance in three years. They toss me a quarter and move on, laughing at the bum in the gutter. Out of nowhere you come along and I’m thinking maybe I could get my life back. I can’t promise anything, Landry. The bottle has a tight grip on me — possibly too tight to ever let go. But I’ll give it everything I’ve got. I want to change and I appreciate your faith in me.”
“All I ask is that you try. Only you can make things work.”
Jack stood unsteadily and leaned against the doorway. “Where do we begin?”
“I don’t know,” Landry said. “I didn’t plan for this, so we’ll work on it together. By the way, is your architect story true?”
Jack laughed. “Yep. I’m Jack the architect. If you were looking for Jack the Ripper, you found the wrong guy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In New Orleans, Fat Tuesday is a holiday. Schools and businesses close so that residents can celebrate and enjoy the day before Lent, when the frivolity ends. With the day off, Landry had time to work on his new project — Jack Blair.
He took Jack to his apartment to shower and shave. He gave him a shirt, jeans, sneakers and a trip to a barber shop on Esplanade, where Jack got a shave and a haircut. Landry marveled at how he went from ragged hobo to clean-cut guy, and when he looked in the mirror, Jack wept.
They sat at Landry’s kitchen table, had a frank discussion about the situation, and agreed upon a set of rules. Landry couldn’t expect too much in the beginning. Recovery would come in baby steps. Jack desperately wanted a fresh start, and Landry agreed to provide financial and emotional support as long as there was progress.
They had to deal with housing first. Landry’s apartment wasn’t an option. Not only was
