a purple nerple until he gave up information on Homer Underwood—because if Eammon knew him, I had no doubt Louis did too.
Dinner was fast approaching before I finally gave up on the day. I was tired, hot, hungry, smelled vaguely of B.O., and just wanted someone to shove me in the right direction.
Why did the shows on TV make being a private investigator look so damn easy? Admittedly, I’d had an easier time of hunting people down in Savannah. There, I was on my home turf and everything just . . .worked. Here, I was a fish out of water. I had no grounding here, and it was taking the stuffing out of me.
My feet and back aching from walking on concrete all damn day, I gave up and flagged down a cabbie to take me back to Penny’s safe house. Robert crumpled into a single bone as the taxi rolled up, and I tucked him into my bag. Alan didn’t so much as flinch, though I could clearly see him.
“Where to, miss?” The driver barely glanced at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes looked about as tired as I felt.
“Well, I guess back to my place. Unless you know a Homer Underwood who works at a morgue?” I laughed with that last bit and the cabbie laughed with me.
“Well shit, I play poker with Homer on Saturday nights. Cheats like a bugger, but he’s not too bad otherwise.” He grinned. “You want me to take you to him?”
I leaned forward, putting my hands on the back of his seat. “I’m sorry, but you really do know Homer Underwood?”
He grunted. “Didn’t I just say so? His place is across town. More fare for me if you want to go.”
I could hardly believe my luck. “Yes. Take me to Homer.”
The drive took fifteen minutes, which gave me time to think about what little I’d learned. I knew where my family had been killed, and how, even though I couldn’t figure out how Alan played into it. Louis was up to something, and . . . well, I’d learned precious little else. I hoped Kinkly was okay. I prayed that Charlotte wasn’t scared, that she was being treated all right.
I found myself circling back to Alan. His death didn’t make sense. If he’d been killed by the tonton macoutes, did that mean he had been at the mansion looking for the angel feathers too? But that made no sense.
I wondered if and how this Homer Underwood could help me.
The cabbie pulled over cutting through my musings. I paid him. “Will you wait for me? Fifteen minutes?”
“Then all the way back to that other address you first gave me?” he asked with a grin, flashing a couple of gaps up the side of his smile. “You bet. Going to cost you though.”
I gave him two thumbs up. At that point, I was too tired and out of ducks to care. This Homer Underwood had better turn out to be one of the good guys.
It was only then that I took a good look at the house. Or maybe houses was a better description. In classic NOLA style, the building in front of me was a row of multi-tiered houses with balconies overlooking the road. How the hell was I supposed to know which one was Homer’s?
I looked back at the cabbie. “Which one?”
“Number thirteen near the end there.” He pointed at the section that was painted deep green with garish orange trim. I grimaced.
What a terrible color combination. I wished Kinkly were there—she’d have known if those colors meant anything, or if I was getting into trouble.
I walked down to the door of number thirteen and stood in front of it for a moment, listening to the sound of raised voices inside.
I heard a man’s voice first. “I told you I ain’t got anything to do with any other women! Marge, it’s not like that!”
“Bullshit, Homer! There is no way that you are going to the cemetery for work! That’s a bullshit lie!” Marge—I assumed—said.
Did they even realize their names belonged to cartoons? I could only hope that Homer was brighter than his counterpart.
“Please, Marge, can I have my underwear back?”
And with that, I just knew I was at the right place. Because there was no way that Eammon would have sent me to some powerhouse.
Nope, he’d sent me to a man who couldn’t get his own underwear back from a woman.
18
I shook my head at Eammon’s idea of help, and rapped