Free Lousiana Hotshot by Julie Smith Page B

tumor.
    “Hello, Eileen. Anything up?”
    “Talba’s at the funeral, like you said. Aziza Scott called. She’s coming over on her lunch hour.”
    Charming. As if
he
didn’t need a lunch hour.
    He went in his office and called his doctor. What the hell. His eye bags were turning into steamer trunks.
    At twelve-eighteen precisely, Aziza Scott arrived on the warpath. “Eddie Valentino, what the hell do you mean leaving messages at my office and all over my answering machine?”
    Eddie leaned back in his chair and gave her his Italian-Southerner act. “The best way to reach somebody is usually to leave ‘em a message. Seems like I heard that somewhere.”
    “It is nobody’s business at my office that I’ve hired a private detective.”
    “Ms. Scott, I didn’t tell ‘em I’m a private detective. I needed to tell you there was a chance your daughter might be in danger.”
    “She was fine. She was with her grandmother.”
    She seemed to be calming down a bit, and Eddie patted the air to set the mood. “Well, that’s fine. Yeah, you right, that’s just fine.” Behind her, he saw Talba walk past on the way to her office. “Ms. Wallis. Ya got a minute?”
    “Sure, Eddie.” She stepped in, and he noticed she was wearing a dark suit, looking fairly civilized despite her wild hair. “Hello, Ms. Scott.”
    Eddie said, “Sit down. Sit down. How was the funeral?”
    “Sad. I saw Cassandra there.”
    Scott looked bewildered.
“You
went to the funeral? Why?”
    Eddie spoke quickly before Talba could. “As a gesture of respect.” He hoped she’d catch the subtle put-down. Damn this woman. Try to tell her her child was in danger, and she reamed you out. “Look, Ms. Scott, I don’t know if you actually got the gist of the messages or not, but it’s this: there could be a connection between your daughter’s rape and this girl’s death.”
    “That’s ridiculous!”
    “Why do you say that?”
    She stood. “You people live in a world of paranoia, you know that? I’d
hate
to live like you.”
    Eddie patted air again. “Well, I’m sure you’re right. We felt we had a duty to apprise you of the possibility, that’s all.”
    She was tall to begin with, and she wore high heels; she looked down at Eddie as if he were a nest of vermin. “I need you to attend to the matter for which I hired you.”
    She left like a runway model, grand and dramatic.
    Talba said, “What was that about?”
    Eddie sighed. “The thing the shrinks call denial. She came over here because she’s scared shitless (excuse my French), but she’s not about to interrupt her big important life to do anything more than throw money at the problem.” He spread his open hands. “What the hell. We tried, huh?”
    Ms. Wallis had the look of a KO’ed fighter coming to, kind of dazed and disoriented. “She’s batshit. Uh… excuse my French.”
    Eddie didn’t want to excuse it at all— it was one thing for him, another for a young lady employee, even a black one. But under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but let it go. He rubbed his head. The fool headache was coming back. “You get anything at the funeral?”
    “Well, the killer wasn’t there unless he’s really a master of disguise. I picked a few names off the guest registry.” She shrugged. “I could call them about her, see if she’s got any black friends they know of— there sure weren’t many at her funeral. But the obvious thing’s to ask Pamela.”
    “What ya sayin’?”
    She looked at him as if he were speaking Chinese. “Ask Pamela. If anybody’d know who Toes is, she would.”
    “Not that— the other thing you said. Everybody in the whole case is black— whatcha mean she doesn’t have black friends?”
    “Oh. I forgot you didn’t know. The Bergerons are white. Pamela’s one of a handful of whites in that choir the girls sing in.”
    “She must have some voice,” Eddie muttered. He was a little embarrassed, though exactly why he couldn’t have