I grinned at his use of tv cop show cliché, then said, “I’ll do what I can. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something to report.”

“Okay. Wait, maybe I’d better call you. Mom might wonder. Cissy’s upset about this and doesn’t want her to know.”

“You’re the boss,” I told him. I returned to my car, waved one last time to Patrick, then drove away.

Had Judy Douglas been murdered? It was possible that to avoid scaring the kids, parents and teachers had concocted the accident story. I decided the newspaper room at the library might hold a few basic answers. The public library was about to close, so I gritted my teeth and headed uptown to Tulane. In just under an hour of searching I found what I was looking for—a brief article in the Metro section of the Times-Picayune.

Judy Sullivan Douglas had been playing in the local football bleachers with several other kids after school. She was jumping from seat to seat, tripped, and hit her head on the corner of a bleacher. The blow had killed her. Nothing in the article hinted at foul play, just a tragic accident. But papers don’t always tell you everything, either.

Back in my car, I got out a map and figured out which precinct was closest to the accident site. I thought about calling Joanne to see if she could grease a few wheels, but decided against it. I wasn’t up to dealing with her.

I didn’t recognize the desk sergeant. I introduced myself, then bantered a bit about the Saints’ chances for the playoffs this year.

“Judy Douglas. Yeah, I remember that one,” he said. “Real sad. Hey, Bill. This little lady’s looking into that little girl’s accident. The one that bashed her head in,” he called out to a middle-aged man across the room. “Bill took the accident report,” he confided to me.

Bill sauntered over to us, holding out his hand to shake. His hair was dark brown, going to grey, his hairline sparse, the lines in his face those of a man who had spent too much of his youth in the sun.

Bill waved me back to his cramped cubicle. “Why are you interested in Judy Douglas?” he asked after offering me some industrial-strength coffee.

“You know how parents are about their kids. Particularly uptown parents. They want to make sure that what happened to Judy doesn’t happen to their Susie or Johnny.”

Bill nodded. “Well, Ms. Knight, I don’t usually talk about official police business with non-police, but I’m a parent myself so I’m willing to do you a favor.” Bill looked at me. I nodded. Quid pro quo. A New Orleans tradition.

He pulled a file out of a battered gray file cabinet. Opening it, he read, “Judy Douglas, age nine years, seven months, died from head trauma caused by an accidental fall.”

“Was it definitely an accident?” I asked.

Bill glanced at me. “You have some imaginative parents. A couple of teachers were in the stands. The junior high band was practicing on the field.” He looked again at the file. “No one was within fifteen feet of her. She tripped and hit her head. Brain dead by the time she reached the hospital. She passed several hours later. Tragic, yes, but not suspicious.” He handed the file to me.

I opened it and started reading, although I knew it would back him up. Bill did paperwork until I decided I had read all of the autopsy report that I cared to. I handed the file back to him.

“Thanks,” I said. “You know how parents can be.” I got up to leave. But something caused me to turn and ask, “What do you know about the Sans Pareil Club?”

“Nothing,” Bill replied, then added, “Nothing that you don’t already know. Any problems, they take care of them. No grubby police presence to disturb the clientele,” he finished, shaking his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity.”

“Which has killed better cats than you, Ms. Knight,” Bill replied.

“Someone invests fifty thousand dollars and a month later gets seventy thousand back. Wouldn’t that make you curious?”

Bill let out a low whistle, then nodded.

“Could that be legit?” I asked.

“Only if I could be the pope, and I’m Jewish. Drugs most likely. How did you hear about this?”

“An acquaintance.”

“In the Sans Pareil Club?”

“Possibly.”

“Wouldn’t want to give me any names, would you?” Bill asked.

“Client confidentiality.”

“Of course. Why don’t you ask your client?”

“Because my client doesn’t know. And if he (I deliberately changed the pronoun) did, he’d lie. You might try a search warrant.”

“For the Sans Pareil Club? No thanks, I need to be able to work in this town at least until my kids finish school.”

“Are they that far beyond the law?” I asked.

Bill grimaced, then shrugged, and said, “Maybe. I wouldn’t want to be the one to put it to a test.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” I stood to go.

“Ms. Knight. Tread lightly. To men like Anthony Colombé, you and I are just insects. He’ll slap you like a gnat.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said as I walked away. I didn’t enlighten Bill that I had no intention of tangling with Anthony Colombé.

Well, I thought as I got into my car, I’ve solved one case. Judy Douglas hadn’t been murdered. But I knew the real solution would be ridding Cissy of her fears. And I wasn’t very sure I would succeed there.

Chapter 6

The next few days I was busy doing some industrial spying. One Mardi Gras krewe had hired me to check out how another krewe’s floats would be decorated.

Karen left messages twice, but I ignored them. I would call her back when I felt like it. I was hoping that Patrick would call so I could tell him and Cissy what I had discovered.

The best thing that happened all week was that it rained from Saturday morning to late Sunday afternoon. Instead of jogging in misery, I spent Sunday in the ecstasy of a long, lingering brunch, then sitting on Cordelia’s balcony watching the rain and holding hands until handholding became a woefully inadequate form of physical contact.

I realized later, as I lay beside Cordelia watching her sleep in the dim reflected light from the street, that I had lost my hesitancy and ambivalence from last week. The demons were gone. And, I assured myself, they would not come back.

On Monday afternoon Patrick called. I told him I had some information for them, and we arranged to meet the next day after school.

Instead of going to the local burger-thing, we got snowballs and found a shady spot in City Park.

“I saw the official police report on Judy Douglas,” I started as soon as we were comfortably settled. “Her death was accidental. She tripped and hit her head against the corner of a bleacher. Most kids who fall don’t get hurt like she did.” I looked from Patrick to Cissy. Cissy wasn’t looking at me, her eyes downcast. She was putting a lot of attention into eating her snowball. “So you see,” I continued, “You don’t have anything to worry about.” I put my hand on her forearm to reassure her.

“I told you it was okay,” Patrick added.

Cissy just gave a quick nod of her head, then another one of her shrugs.

“You look like you don’t believe me,” I said, still keeping my hand on her arm.

“I believe you,” she said with a quick look at me, then down to her snowball again. “It’s just that maybe other things can happen. Maybe Judy got shot with a ray gun or something like that.”

“You mean aliens attacking us with unknown weapons?”

“That’s silly,” Patrick interjected.

“Perhaps not silly,” I said, “but certainly unlikely.”

“It’s silly,” Cissy said. “Patrick’s right.”

“See, it’s all okay,” he added, the triumph of a brother being acknowledged right by a younger sister.

“I’ll make it as okay as I can,” I said quietly, trying as best I could to reassure this young girl with her downcast eyes. I gave her arm a reassuring squeeze then let go of her.

Cissy grabbed my hand, her small child’s fingers wrapped around mine, holding fiercely. In her eyes I saw a moment of terror. Abruptly it was gone. “Thanks, Micky,” she said, and just as suddenly let go of me, her eyes again opaque and downcast.

What terrifies you so much,I wanted to ask, but realized that Cissy would not, perhaps could not, answer that question.

We got into my car, and Patrick and I chatted about school, how he was looking forward to junior high next year. I pulled into the driveway just moments after Barbara Selby did. She was taking groceries out of the trunk of her car.

“Hi, Micky,” she called out. “C’mon, kids, help with this stuff.” Barbara cheerfully admitted that she was on the wrong side of forty and a size fourteen. She wore tortoiseshell glasses that kept sliding down her nose. Her eyes were a deep brown, alert and alive, the kind of eyes that proclaimed that this was an intelligent and exuberant woman.

Patrick grabbed two bags, then, seeing that I was coming around to help, handed them to Cissy, saying, “Here, these are light, you can take them.”

Cissy took the bags, rolled her eyes, and headed into the house. Patrick reached into the trunk and got four bags, two in each hand. He tottered a bit as he swung the bags out, then steadied himself and muscled the heavy bags into the house.

“Those four bags were for your benefit,” Barbara said as she closed the trunk. “He’s never that ambitious when it’s just me. How does it feel to have a twelve-year-old boy have a crush on you?”

“Decidedly odd. I’m not his type.” Barbara knew I was a lesbian.

“I think it’s cute,” Barbara replied, taking one of the bags I was holding and heading for the door.

“Would you still think it’s cute if it were Cissy?” I asked.

Barbara turned back to face me, an unfamiliar look on her face. She shifted the groceries in her arms, looked away for a moment, then back at me. “Well, that caught me out, didn’t it?”

“Don’t worry,” I said brusquely, “I’m sure Cissy will grow up to be heterosexual and live happily ever after, just like you have.” Barbara’s husband had left her and her kids.

“Ouch,” Barbara said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s hard for mothers to conceive of their children as sexual. You’ve just blindsided me with not only the concept of my nine-year-old daughter’s sexuality, but the possibility that she could be gay. Give me a few seconds to adjust before you bite my head off.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s been a long day.” Your daughter’s terrified of something,I wanted to say. If you were a better mother, you’d have done a better job of protecting her.I didn’t want Cissy’s terrors weighting on my conscience. Or the promise I’d made to Patrick not to tell Barbara about Cissy’s fears.

“Sorry,” I said again. “I’m probably just angry at the world. Or my mother.” I remembered my mother, how tired she was when I had woken her with my nameless terrors, sinister shapes in the shadows of a dim moon.

“Does your mother know you’re gay?” Barbara asked.

“My mother doesn’t know I’m alive,” I answered, then elaborated, “She left when I was five. I’ve never heard from her.”

“I’m sorry,” Barbara said. “Why don’t you come in and have supper with us? Patrick can practice his fledgling flirting skills with you.”

“Thanks, but…”

“Oh, hell, Cissy can even have a crush and flirt with you,” Barbara said as she led the way to her kitchen. Patrick and Cissy were already in the living room watching TV.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you just now.”

“It’s okay, Micky,” Barbara replied. “I’m just worried about Cissy, she’s been in such a sullen mood lately. I keep hoping that it’s just early adolescence. The hope being that if it starts early, it ends early.”

“Wasn’t there a girl in her class who died recently? Could that be upsetting her?”

“Maybe, but she didn’t seem upset at the time. Who knows with kids these days? So, how about supper?”

“Thanks, but I have a previous engagement.” For a moment I thought of breaking my promise to Patrick and telling Barbara about Cissy’s apprehension. But maybe it would pass and attention to her fears could cause them to linger.

“Anyone I know?” Barbara asked.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “A friend of Alex’s.”

“By the way, let me thank you again for telling me about this job. Alex is a great boss. So which friend is it? She seems to have tons of them.”

“Cordelia James,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation, wondering how much claim I could lay on her. And how much I wanted to. “She and Alex have been friends since high school,” I explained.

“So what does Cordelia do?” Barbara asked as she put on some rice.

“Are you one of those people who judge a person by their job?” I asked.

“No, just curious. Is she unemployed? Believe me, I understand that.”

“No, she works.”

“As? Come on, Micky. What is she, a dishwasher?”

“No. She’s a doctor.”

“A doctor? That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I wouldn’t be ashamed of her if she were a dishwasher,” I answered sharply. “And there are doctors I would be ashamed of.”

“Micky, have you had a rough day?”

“No. Yes. It doesn’t matter. Why assume that doctors are automatically better than dishwashers? It’s an ugly form of classism.”

“I suppose,” Barbara sighed. “But raising two kids as a single mother gives one an appreciation of a doctor’s income.”

“Having money is just luck and privilege. That’s all.”

“Going to medical school is a bit more than just luck. Occasionally studying, for example. However, I have to feed two starving children. Cordelia will not like me if I keep you here arguing or send you off in a cantankerous mood.”

“Sorry, Barbara,” I replied for the umpteenth time.

“Do come by for supper sometime. It will probably inspire Patrick to help out in the kitchen without grumbling or dawdling.” Barbara gave me a hug good-bye. I gave her a quick hug in return, called out a farewell to Cissy and Patrick, then headed out.

Chapter 7

I had spent the night with Cordelia, then got up at a brutal hour to take her to the airport. She was going to a doctors’ convention in Boston. When I got back to my place it was still a forbiddingly early hour as far as I was concerned, but I was too awake to go back to bed. I did chores until what I called morning arrived, then started on my latest paying job. I had been hired to get the recipe for crawfish jambalaya that a new restaurant, Aunt Eula’s Cajunfest, was packing them in with. My client suspected that they had stolen her recipe and wanted it back or at least a cut of the profits. I spent most of the day loitering in a French Quarter alley, noting down what was delivered to the restaurant.

It was late, and the day had advanced to the grand master level of humidity by the time I got back to my place. The phone rang, but I wasn’t in the mood to answer it, so I let my machine pick it up.

“Micky, please call me. It’s very important.” It was Karen. “I have to see Joey tonight and I’d really like your company. Paid, of course,” she added, quite necessarily.

“Better leave your phone number. I seem to have misplaced it,” I told her disembodied voice.

“This is Karen,” she continued.

“I know that,” I growled.

And then she left her phone number.

I let an entire hour pass before I called her back. I got her answering machine, which made me happy. “Karen, this is Micky Knight returning your phone call.”

“Micky, I’m so glad you called back.” Karen had been screening her calls and picked up the phone. “I’m meeting Joey at the club again tonight. Will you go?”

“Same price as last time?” I coolly responded.

She paused for a moment before replying, “Yes, the same amount. I’ll give it to you in cash. That way, you won’t need to declare it on your taxes.”

“Are you suggesting I cheat on my income taxes?” I baited her.

“Well, uh, no. I’ll pay you by check if you prefer.”

“Cash will be fine, but I will give you a receipt,” I answered.

“Good, I’ll pick you up around seven.”

“Yeah, around seven,” I answered and then hung up.

I only left the office long enough to swing by Torbin’s to pick up a basic black dressy thing, with enough time to take a shower, before Karen came to pick me up. She was willing to come downtown to my neighborhood, a major concession on her part.

“You look good in black, Micky,” she told me after safely power-locking all the doors.

“It probably suits the evening to have me in black and you in blue,” I commented. Karen was dressed in an elegant silk dress, its cobalt blue matching her eyes, bringing them out better than the discreet amount of makeup she had applied.

I turned away from her, annoyed that I had to acknowledge that Karen was an attractive woman with good taste in clothes. She didn’t bother with small talk as we drove uptown.

The Sans Pareil Club was as opulent as ever. Even more so, since it was no longer enshrouded by rain and mist. The massive front columns, with their perfectly trimmed ivy, rose to a wide balcony surrounded by an intricate lacework of wrought iron. This antebellum mansion had been built with money and maintained with money over its long life.

Karen led the way to a secluded table in the back.

“What will you have?” she inquired of me, a waiter hovering instantly.

“Club soda,” I answered.

“The same,” she instructed the waiter.

She remained silent until he returned with our drinks. It was only after he left that she looked at me and said, “Thank you for coming. I know you didn’t want to.”

“Money and curiosity. Not very high-minded reasons.”

“Perhaps. Joey makes me nervous. He…” She paused. “He called and suggested I reinvest my money again.” She paused again. “It wasn’t much of a suggestion. More like a…” She stopped.