I looked at the floor for several moments before I finally answered, “For a while. I lived there…I couldn’t get away from him.” Then I said, “I’d prefer to talk about something else.”

“I hope you get to a place where it’s okay,” he replied.

“Yeah, me, too.” I knew I owed Warren my story, he had given me his. But my story didn’t have his happy ending, or any ending at all, and the shadows were still too deep for me to venture easily into them. I changed the subject. “It does appear that Cissy is being molested. By whom or where is up in the air.”

“Any suspects?”

“Her mother has a new boyfriend.” I couldn’t help but wonder if he didn’t have something to do with Barbara’s banning me from seeing Cissy.

“Are you worried about Cissy?”

“I’ve known her, and her family, for a while.”

Warren nodded, as if that were a better answer than it really was. Then he asked, “Do you suppose anyone can do anything? Given the right reason?”

“I suppose. Given the right reason.” I thought of how far I was going—had gone—to protect Cissy.

“Could you?” he asked.

“Yes, I guess I could,” I answered. “I probably…have.”

“I’ve always wondered about that,” Warren said.

“That’s only my answer.”

He nodded again, as if it were the answer he wanted, then asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to help me track down the villains?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” I shook my head. “Let me know what happens. I’ll be glad to look over your shoulder and offer advice.”

“Be careful, I might take you up on it.”

“I’m always careful about what I offer.”

We were interrupted by a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, the custodian entered. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Kessler. We got a leak in one of the second-floor bathrooms and it’s making a mess.”

Warren sighed and said to me, “Thanks, Micky, for coming by.”

“You’re more than welcome,” I said, standing up. “Call me again if you need to.” I left him to the custodian and the plumbing problems.

As I walked into the chill of late afternoon, I wondered if I should have told him what had happened to me. Maybe I needed clear space and time, not the worrisome arena I was now in, a world cluttered with pretense for Joey, worry about Cissy and the pain of losing Cordelia. Maybe in a few weeks, or months, when this was all over, it would be time to fight my own ghosts.

I spent most of the weekend at my apartment. No one called me, and I called no one.

Chapter 26

The chill of autumn had settled in. Monday was gray and overcast, the high humidity of a city between a river and a lake and the cool air combining to create a biting wind. I had started down my stairs, but the cold air in the stairwell caused me to reconsider. I went back upstairs, put on a heavier jacket, and, a real concession to winter, a scarf. With it wrapped tightly around my neck, I again descended the stairs, on my way to see O’Connor.

Since bounding into a cop shop might cause suspicion should the wrong person catch me at it, we had agreed to meet at a coffee shop up on Magazine Street. It was not a place either of us ever went to.

I left my apartment an hour early. Part of it was caution, but part of it was that I wanted to be about and moving, as if motion could dispel the cold and gloom of the day. I decided on the bus, several buses actually; my car was a lime green beacon to anyone looking for me. One bus took me to Canal Street, the sometimes grand, sometimes gaudy dividing line between the French Quarter and what is now the CBD. When Louisiana was newly sold to America, the French left stranded in New Orleans did not take kindly to their American cousins. The new settlers, not welcomed in the French Quarter, took up residence on the uptown side of Canal Street. It is not for nothing that the medians in New Orleans are known as neutral grounds. The Americans wouldn’t even use the street names from the French—for example, Royal Street becomes St. Charles Avenue.

Canal is broad, supposedly the widest street in the world. Three lanes of traffic on either side of a neutral ground, median, if you prefer, that is wide enough to have two bus lanes (streetcars a generation ago) plus pedestrian room. It is impressive to see that space filled on Mardi Gras, but the real effect of all that width is to keep one’s foot light on the gas pedal when the light turns green. Savvy New Orleans drivers know that it is a Crescent City tradition to gun for yellow lights. On streets as wide as Canal, a light that is yellow when one starts to drive across is solidly red before one gets to the other side.

I stood on Canal Street, watching a few near misses, tourists who were unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of Big Easy drivers, the ubiquitous drunks. Twenty-four-hour bars and alcohol sold in everything from drugstores to gas stations doesn’t improve driving conditions here. After loitering long enough to make sure no one was following me, or, at least, if I was being followed it had to be by two, if not three, people, I caught a bus uptown.

I let the bus travel several blocks beyond the coffee shop before getting off. I meandered my way back, stopping to look in the windows of the antique shops. A deep cobalt glass bottle caught my attention. It was probably an old medicine bottle of some sort. Cordelia would love it, I thought. She had a small collection of them on her mantel. I started for the door of the shop before I realized that I probably wouldn’t be seeing her anytime soon, let alone giving her a gift.

I continued walking down the street. When I got to the coffee shop, O’Connor wasn’t there yet. It wasn’t very crowded, only a few late lunches and two solo coffee drinkers. I ordered expensive Jamaican coffee, hoping the luxury of it might prove to be a distraction. I didn’t want to think about a blue bottle I would never give to Cordelia.

Shortly after my coffee arrived, O’Connor appeared. He was dressed casually, almost as if he was a tourist doing the trendy junque shops of Magazine Street.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“Too lime green. I bussed it.”

“No one can follow a city bus. So, what do you have?”

“I can’t show it to you here, we’d probably get arrested,” I said as I took the porno magazine out of my knapsack. It was in a paper bag wrapped in a plastic bag. I handed it to O’Connor.

“Is your client in here?” he asked.

“No, but a classmate of hers is.” O’Connor raised his eyebrows, and I continued, “A dead classmate.” He raised his eyebrows even further. I explained about Judy Douglas as best I could, who she was and how she died, without revealing Cissy’s identity.

“I’ll double-check her autopsy report. This is getting awfully messy,” O’Connor commented.

“It gets messier. My client has pretty definitely been molested. A doctor uncovered some physical evidence.”

“You think it’s linked to this other girl?”

“It’s possible. Of course, two girls being molested out of a class of several hundred has to be connected, doesn’t it?” I added sarcastically.

“You know, and I know, that if only two kids out of that class are being abused, it’s a miracle.”

“Yeah,” I grimly agreed. “But my client knew the dead girl, although not very well, and she’s afraid the same thing could happen to her.”

“I don’t gather she gave any indication of who might have abused her?”

“No, none.”

“Did she and this other girl ever go anywhere together, do anything that might link them?”

“I don’t know. Her mother gave Judy Douglas a ride home from school once or twice.”

“A field trip with a certain teacher, belonging to the same Girl Scout troop, anything like that?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any chance you can ask?”

“Not really,” I slowly replied.

O’Connor didn’t ask a question, he just waited for me to elaborate.

“Her mother is…upset,” I continued. “And doesn’t want her to see anyone outside the family.”

“Including you?”

“Especially me.” The bitter reply escaped before I thought about whether or not I wanted to reveal this to O’Connor.

“Why’s that?”

I shrugged. He let the silence hang. I guess it bothered me too much to remain quiet. “All us queers molest children. Come on, Tim, old buddy, you’re a good Catholic family man, surely you know that. Her mother decided she didn’t want a perverted, baby-snatching lesbo around her snookums.”

O’Connor remained stoic under my attack. “You’re upset about this, aren’t you?”

“Upset? Why should I be upset?” I acerbically shot back.

Again, O’Connor didn’t reply, leaving the silence for me to fill.

“Just because a woman I thought was a friend of mine accuses me of, at best, consorting with someone who would molest her daughter. And, at worst, being… Why should that upset me?”

“Because it’s a very ugly thing to be accused of,” O’Connor stated. “For what it’s worth, I think I’m pretty good at reading people. You could be a murderer. I can see you angry enough to pull the trigger. But an adult having sex with a child, that requires being slimy and underhanded. It’s not your style. You might tangle with giants, but I can’t see you fooling with kids.”

“Thanks, I think. I guess if it comes down to it I’d rather be a murderer than a child abuser.”

“Don’t ever repeat this from me, but some people deserve to be murdered. No kid deserves to be abused.”