At least LaSalle Street and the Garden District were pretty to watch. The sugar and cotton barons of the mid-nineteenth century had originally called this home. Most of the hundred-and two-hundred-year-old mansions were beautifully preserved. The majority were kept white, but a few were painted in Mediterranean pastels. Placards informing the frequent "walking tours" about the esteemed residents were affixed to intricate wrought-iron fences.
But it was still surveillance, even sitting side by side with Jamilla Hughes.
Chapter 63
During the stakeout on LaSalle Street, she and I found that we could talk about almost anything. That's what we did through the long hours. The topics ranged from funny cop stories to investments, movies, Gothic architecture, politics, then on to more personal subjects, like her father, who had run out on her when she was six. I told Jamilla that my mother and father had both died young from a lethal combination of alcoholism and lung cancer — probably depression and hopelessness too.
"I worked for two years as a psychologist. Hung out a shingle," I told her. "At the time, not too many people in my neighborhood in D.C. could afford treatment. I couldn't afford to give it away. Most white people didn't want to see a black shrink. So I took a job as a cop. Just temporary. I didn't expect to like it, but once I started I got hooked. Bad."
"What hooked you about being a detective?" she wanted to know. She was a good listener, interested. "Do you remember an incident, any one thing in particular?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Two men had been shot down in Southeast, which is where I live in Washington, where I grew up. The deaths were written off as'drug related,' which meant not much time would be spent investigating them. At the time, that was SOP in D.C. Still is, actually."
Jamilla nodded. "I'm afraid that it is in parts of San Francisco too. We like to think of our city as enlightened, and it can be. But people out there are good at looking the other way. Makes me sick sometimes."
"Anyway, I knew these two men, and I was almost certain they weren't involved in selling drugs. They both had jobs at a small local music store. Maybe they smoked a little weed, but nothing worse than that."
"I know the types you're talking about."
"So I investigated the murder case on my own. A detective friend named John Sampson helped. I learned to follow my gut. Found out that one of the men had been dating a woman who a local dealer thought he owned. I kept digging, following my instincts, digging a little deeper. Turns out the dealer had murdered the two men. Once I solved that case, it was all over for me. I knew I was good at it, maybe because of all the psych training I'd had, and I liked making things right. Or maybe I just liked being right."
"Sounds like you have some balance in your life, though. The kids, your grandmother, friends," she said.
We let it go at that, didn't pursue the obvious — that Jamilla and I were both single and unattached. It had nothing to do with our jobs. If only it were that simple.
Chapter 64
One comforting reality of police work is that you rarely come up against a murder situation that you've never seen or heard about before. These killings were different: seemingly random, vicious, ongoing for more than eleven years, varying modi operandi. What made the case particularly difficult was the possibility that there were several killers.
I met with Kyle the following morning to talk about the case. He was in a foul mood, and I couldn't wait to get out of there. We shared our pet theories and whiny complaints, then I rejoined Jamilla Hughes on the stakeout in the Garden District.
I brought a box of Krispy Kremes, which got major chuckles from her, and also from the FBI agents watching the house. Everybody clamored for the tasty, air-shot doughnuts, though. The entire box was gone in a matter of minutes.
"Turns out, they're real homebodies," she said as she munched on a glazed.
"It's still daylight. They're probably in their coffins," I said.
She grinned and shook her head. Her dark eyes sparkled. "Not exactly. The shorter one, Charles, was working in the garden out back all morning. He's certainly not afraid of the sun."
"So maybe Daniel is the real vampire. The Sire. He's supposed to be the force behind the magicians' act."
"Charles has been on the phone a lot. He's setting up a party at the house. You'll love this — it's a fetish ball. Wear your favorite kinky things: leather, rubber, Goth, Victorian, whatever you're into. What are you into?" she asked.
I laughed, thought about it. "Mostly denim, corduroy, a little black leather. I have a leather car coat. It's a little beat up, but it's nasty looking."
She laughed. "I think you'd look dashing as a Gothic prince."
"How about you? Any fetishes we should know about?"
"Well… I'll admit to owning a couple of leather jackets, pants, one pair of long boots that I'm still paying for. I am from San Francisco, you know. A girl has to keep up with the times."
"Same for us boys."
It was another long day of surveillance. We continued to watch the house until dark. Around nine o'clock, a pair of FBI agents dropped by to relieve us. "Let's get a bite," I said to Jamilla.
"Bad choice of words, Alex." We both laughed a little too hard.
We didn't want to venture too far from the magicians' house, so we settled on the Camellia Grill on South Carroll-ton Avenue at the River Bend. The Camellia looked like a small plantation home on the outside. Inside, it was a neat diner, with a long counter and stools screwed to the floor. A waiter in a crisp white jacket and black tie served us. We ordered coffee and omelettes, which were light and fluffy, and about the size of rolled-up newspapers. Jamilla had a side order of red beans and rice. When in the Big Easy…
The food was good, the coffee even better. The company was nice too. She and I got along well, maybe even better than that. Even the lulls in our conversation weren't too uncomfortable, and they were infrequent. A friend of mine once defined love as finding someone you can talk to late into the night. Pretty good.
"Nothing on the beeper," she said while we loitered over our coffee after the meal. I had heard there were lines outside the Camellia during lunch and dinner, but we had caught a slow time.
"I wonder what the two of them do inside that big, eerie house, Alex? What do psycho murderers do in their spare time?"
I had studied enough of them. There was no set pattern. "Some are married, even happily if you ask the spouses. Gary Soneji had a little girl. Geoffrey Shafer had three children. That's probably the scariest thing I can imagine — when a husband, or the person next door, or a dad turns out to be a stone-cold killer. It happens. I've seen it."
She sipped her coffee refill. "The neighbors seem to like Daniel and Charles. They consider them eccentric but pleasant and, I love this, civic minded. Daniel owns the house. He inherited it from his father, who was also eccentric — a portrait painter. Rumor has it that the magicians are gay, but they're often seen in the company of young, attractive women."