black-bordered front page with a stark headline on another: MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. ASSASSINATED.
“ I dug up a copy of Kitty’s rap sheet.”
“ Ancient history. She got stupid, did some drugs, a little dealing. But she hasn’t done drugs for two years. What did Norris say about the sketch?”
“ Nothing. And you better not tell anyone Monica did it, understand? Keep her out of this.”
“ Norris is a shit! Why won’t he endorse it?”
Frank saw the guard step around the security desk and stand beside the doorway-shaped metal detector, twenty feet away now, ready for trouble.
“ Rona, the sketch is worthless. Nobody’s going to recognize anyone based on that mug. It could be any young punk in Louisiana.”
“ Not any young punk! Any white punk!”
“ You okay, Miz Rona?” called the guard, ostentatiously placing his massive dark-skinned hand on the Glock.
She looked over, gave him a tight smile. “Everything’s fine, Sam.”
The security guard nodded but kept his hand on the gun and directed a menacing glare at Frank.
“ Norris wants to interview Kitty,” Frank said. “How are you going to feel if he holds her in a cell overnight?”
For the first time he saw doubt in Rona’s eyes.
“ How can he? I didn’t use her name. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
He let out a sigh of exasperation. “Rona, you don’t get it. He knows I talked to her. You said so in your column. He knows she’s your informant. If I hadn’t told him her name, he’d have hauled you in to get it. Be interesting to see how long you’d hold out. Kind of tough, writing your column in jail.”
Her lips tightened and her eyes smoldered with resentment.
“ You put Kitty in danger.”
“ I didn’t use her name.”
“ You care more about your agenda than you do about Kitty. Did you forget about the john? If he’s the killer and he read your column, he’ll know she blew the whistle on him.”
Rona looked at him, her eyes flat and emotionless. He wanted to shake her. For all he knew the killer might be targeting his next victim right now and he was wasting time on a renegade reporter with a racial agenda.
He didn’t raise his voice but put an edge on it, leaning close to say, “You fucked me over, Rona. You used my name to lend credibility to your story. If you ever put my name in your column again, I’ll make sure no NOPD detective, no cop, no FBI agent ever talks to you again.”
_____
The next morning at eleven-thirty he parked in front of Kitty’s shabby little pink cottage. The adjacent house had royal-blue siding, spiffy white trim and intricate carved-wood shutters. Every house on the block looked better than Kitty’s, with its dingy peeling paint, shingles missing from the roof, broken slats in the shutters.
A woebegone house for a wretched life.
What had led her into prostitution, he wondered as he mounted the rickety steps. What did the neighbors think of the nameless, faceless men that went in and out of her house each night? Did they even notice? Did they care? Would any of them help her if she needed it?
He rang the bell and heard chimes clang.
A minute passed. Thinking Kitty might still be asleep after a long night’s work, he leaned on the bell and heard the chimes: clang, clang, clang .
Behind him, a dog barked. He turned and saw a bearded man on the opposite sidewalk holding a leash on a powerful German shepherd. Ears pricked forward, the dog eyeballed him and gave a menacing growl. The owner jerked the leash and set off down the sidewalk with his dog.
Frank put his ear to the door, hoping to hear footsteps, but he heard nothing. Apprehension roiled his gut. He walked around the house, recalling the interior layout, what he’d seen of it anyway. Heavy drapes and thick grime on the windows prevented any glimpse of the interior.
Empty beer cans littered a small backyard with overgrown bushes and weedy grass. On the back stairs, dead palmetto bugs lay on their backs, legs tucked to
“ I dug up a copy of Kitty’s rap sheet.”
“ Ancient history. She got stupid, did some drugs, a little dealing. But she hasn’t done drugs for two years. What did Norris say about the sketch?”
“ Nothing. And you better not tell anyone Monica did it, understand? Keep her out of this.”
“ Norris is a shit! Why won’t he endorse it?”
Frank saw the guard step around the security desk and stand beside the doorway-shaped metal detector, twenty feet away now, ready for trouble.
“ Rona, the sketch is worthless. Nobody’s going to recognize anyone based on that mug. It could be any young punk in Louisiana.”
“ Not any young punk! Any white punk!”
“ You okay, Miz Rona?” called the guard, ostentatiously placing his massive dark-skinned hand on the Glock.
She looked over, gave him a tight smile. “Everything’s fine, Sam.”
The security guard nodded but kept his hand on the gun and directed a menacing glare at Frank.
“ Norris wants to interview Kitty,” Frank said. “How are you going to feel if he holds her in a cell overnight?”
For the first time he saw doubt in Rona’s eyes.
“ How can he? I didn’t use her name. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
He let out a sigh of exasperation. “Rona, you don’t get it. He knows I talked to her. You said so in your column. He knows she’s your informant. If I hadn’t told him her name, he’d have hauled you in to get it. Be interesting to see how long you’d hold out. Kind of tough, writing your column in jail.”
Her lips tightened and her eyes smoldered with resentment.
“ You put Kitty in danger.”
“ I didn’t use her name.”
“ You care more about your agenda than you do about Kitty. Did you forget about the john? If he’s the killer and he read your column, he’ll know she blew the whistle on him.”
Rona looked at him, her eyes flat and emotionless. He wanted to shake her. For all he knew the killer might be targeting his next victim right now and he was wasting time on a renegade reporter with a racial agenda.
He didn’t raise his voice but put an edge on it, leaning close to say, “You fucked me over, Rona. You used my name to lend credibility to your story. If you ever put my name in your column again, I’ll make sure no NOPD detective, no cop, no FBI agent ever talks to you again.”
_____
The next morning at eleven-thirty he parked in front of Kitty’s shabby little pink cottage. The adjacent house had royal-blue siding, spiffy white trim and intricate carved-wood shutters. Every house on the block looked better than Kitty’s, with its dingy peeling paint, shingles missing from the roof, broken slats in the shutters.
A woebegone house for a wretched life.
What had led her into prostitution, he wondered as he mounted the rickety steps. What did the neighbors think of the nameless, faceless men that went in and out of her house each night? Did they even notice? Did they care? Would any of them help her if she needed it?
He rang the bell and heard chimes clang.
A minute passed. Thinking Kitty might still be asleep after a long night’s work, he leaned on the bell and heard the chimes: clang, clang, clang .
Behind him, a dog barked. He turned and saw a bearded man on the opposite sidewalk holding a leash on a powerful German shepherd. Ears pricked forward, the dog eyeballed him and gave a menacing growl. The owner jerked the leash and set off down the sidewalk with his dog.
Frank put his ear to the door, hoping to hear footsteps, but he heard nothing. Apprehension roiled his gut. He walked around the house, recalling the interior layout, what he’d seen of it anyway. Heavy drapes and thick grime on the windows prevented any glimpse of the interior.
Empty beer cans littered a small backyard with overgrown bushes and weedy grass. On the back stairs, dead palmetto bugs lay on their backs, legs tucked to
Similar Books
