Part 28 (2/2)
”I wish I could have gone, to see how the other half lives. How was Dr. James?” Millie said.
”Busy,” Hutch answered, explaining about Frankie and Cordelia's grandfather.
”Poor lady. She's a very good doctor. I'm a nurse. That's how I know her,” Millie explained for my sake.
”Yeah, I'm afraid Joanne was right. Sergeant Ranson,” Hutch added, catching himself.
”Don't worry. You can call Ranson whatever you want. I certainly have,” I said. ”What was she right about?”
”The kind of idiots those Federal guys were. They were more interested in having their first Mardi Gras ball than doing their job.
They marched us out and told us not to worry, that they had everything under control. They didn't,” he added bitterly. ”That's why I was there tonight, because Joanne wanted me there.”
Millie put some tea and toast in front of me and a mug of hot chocolate before Hutch. She joined me in tea.
”Do you think it was deliberate?” I asked.
”Somebody knew and took advantage of our sloppiness,” Hutch answered.
”Frankie said there was an informer on the force,” I volunteered, to see what reaction it got. ”Do you think he or she was there?”
”Had to be. It happened too quickly.”
”Supposedly only Ranson knew I was bringing Frankie tonight.”
”And Lafitte. It was his idea in the first place. Boy, does he feel bad about that. And Captain Renaud, of course. And the people from Was.h.i.+ngton,” Hutch rolled his eyes as he recited the list.
”d.a.m.n,” I said softly. He nodded.
”It's bedtime, boys and girls,” Millie broke in. ”I have to work tomorrow.”
* 189 *
I explained about my lack of suitable attire. Millie was several sizes too small for me, so I ended up in a T-s.h.i.+rt of Hutch's. I didn't need underwear with it because it ended below my knees.
I lay awake for a long time, feeling patches of blood I knew I had washed off.
* 190 *
CHAPTER 19.
Ranson arrived the next morning for baby-sitting duty. She commandeered Hutch for a reconnaissance mission to my apartment so I could get some clothes and my own toothbrush.
We were attacked by an enraged cat made vicious by starvation.
Other than that, my abode was as it always was. A mess. But my mess.
Hutch was sent out for cat food while I packed a suitcase. Ranson stayed near the door and kept a nervous watch on the stairs. I wondered if she had gotten any sleep the night before. I put in a bottle of Scotch while she wasn't looking.
After I was packed and food had soothed Hepplewhite, the savage beast, we left. Hutch followed behind us to make sure no one else did.
Ranson took me to her apartment and, after Hutch had checked out the neighborhood, she waved him off for half a Sunday of rest.
”You had breakfast yet?” she asked, the perfect host.
”You know me, I never have breakfast until after lunch.”
”Smarta.s.s. I'm in the mood for French toast. I'll make enough for both of us, in case you change your mind.”
”I always eat French toast for lunch.”
Halfway through our brunch, Danny showed up. She was carrying a briefcase, so I knew this visit wasn't purely social. She gave each of us a long hug, declining Ranson's offer of food.
”Micky, you're tromping around where sane people fear to tread,”
she told me. She and Ranson discussed the possibility of having me committed to keep me out of trouble. I was not amused.
Then Danny got down to business. She placed a tape recorder in * 191 *
front of me, then questioned me in painstaking detail about Frankie.
How I had met him, kept him undercover, the whole bit.
”Anything else?” she asked, her final question.
There was. What Frankie had told me before he died.
It couldn't be Ranson, I told myself. I was thinking of sleeping with this woman; she couldn't be a killer. Then again, I had slept with Karen Holloway, I remembered. And a lot of other women I didn't want to remember. No, I f.u.c.ked Karen, I wanted to make love to Ranson.
There was a difference. There had to be.
”Frankie recognized a voice. The real leader of the drug ring. He was there.”
”Three hundred invited guests. A number of those with dates and the like not on any list. Plus close to two hundred workers,” Ranson informed us. ”Pick a voice out of that,” she finished tersely. She looked at me, I looked down.
My silence hung in the air.
”What?” Ranson asked, knowing I was holding back.
”Before he died, Frankie couldn't tell me the name of the informer, but he gave me a few identifying clues,” I said. No one said anything. I continued, ”He likes jazz, Billie Holiday. Was wounded in action and...
his (I put too much emphasis on his) name has an R in it.”
<script>