There, the legs worked now, and she and Rupert were walking through the crowd, behind a fire truck, around another one to an unmarked cop car. She lowered her head and refused to look at the parking lot. Rupert chatted incessantly. Something about an ambulance. He opened the front door and gingerly placed her in the passenger's seat.
Another cop squatted in the door and started asking questions. He wore jeans and cowboy boots with pointed toes. Darby leaned forward and placed her head in her hands. "I think I need help," she said.
"Sure, lady. Help's on the way. Just a coupla questions. What's your name?"
"Darby Shaw. I think I'm in shock. I'm very dizzy, and I think I need to throw up."
"The ambulance is on the way. Is that your car over there?"
"No."
Another cop car, one with decals and words and lights, squealed to a stop in front of Rupert's. Rupert disappeared for a moment. The cowboy cop suddenly closed her door, and she was all alone in the car. She leaned forward and vomited between her legs. She started crying. She was cold. She slowly laid her head on the driver's seat, and curled into a knot. Silence. Then darkness.
Someone was knocking on the window above her. She opened her eyes, and the man wore a uniform and a hat with a badge on it. The door was locked.
"Open the door, lady!" he yelled.
She sat up and opened the door. "Are you drunk, lady?"
The head was pounding. "No," she said desperately.
He opened the door wider. "Is this your car?"
She rubbed her eyes. She had to think.
"Lady, is this your car?"
"No!" She glared at him. "No. It's Rupert's."
"Okay. Who the hell is Rupert?"
There was one fire truck left and most of the crowd was gone. This man in the door was obviously a cop. "Sergeant Rupert. One of you guys," she said.
This made him mad. "Get outta the car, lady."
Gladly. Darby crawled out on the passenger's side, and stood on the sidewalk. In the distance, a solitary fireman hosed down the burnt frame of the Porsche.
Another cop in a uniform joined him and they met her on the sidewalk.
The first cop asked, "What's your name?"
"Darby Shaw."
"Why were you passed out in the car?"
She looked at the car. "I don't know. I got hurt and Rupert put me in the car. Where's Rupert?"
The cops looked at each other. "Who the hell's Rupert?" the first cop asked.
This made her mad and the anger cleared away the cobwebs.
"Rupert said he was a cop."
The second cop asked, "How'd you get hurt?"
Darby glared at him. She pointed to the parking lot across the street. "I was supposed to be in that car over there. But I wasn't, so I'm here, listening to your stupid questions. Where's Rupert?"
They looked blankly at each other. The first cop said, "Stay here," and he walked across the street to another cop car where a man in a suit was talking to a small group. They whispered, then the first cop and the man in the suit walked back to the sidewalk where Darby waited. The man in the suit said, "I'm Lieutenant Olson, New Orleans PD. Did you know the man in the car?" He pointed to the parking lot.
The knees went weak, and she bit her lip. She nodded.
Chapter Nine
"What's his name?"
"Thomas Callahan."
Olson looked at the first cop. "That's what the computer said. Now, who's this Rupert?"
Darby screamed, "He said he was a cop!"
Olson looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry. There's no cop named Rupert."
She was sobbing loudly. Olson helped her to the hood of Rupert's car, and held her shoulders while the crying subsided and she fought to regain control.
"Check the plates," Olson told the second cop, who quickly scribbled down the tag number from Rupert's car and called it in.
Olson gently held both her shoulders with his hands and looked at her eyes. "Were you with Callahan?"
She nodded, still crying but much quieter. Olson glanced at the first cop.
"How did you get in this car?" Olson asked slowly and softly.
She wiped her eyes with her finger and stared at Olson. "This guy Rupert, who said he was a cop, came and got me from over there, and brought me over here. He put me in the car, and this other cop with cowboy boots starting asking questions. Another cop car pulled up, and they left. Then I guess I passed out. I don't know. I would like to see a doctor."
"Get my car," Olson said to the first cop.
The second cop was back with a puzzled look. "The computer has no record of this tag number. Must be fake tags."
Olson took her arm and led her to his car. He spoke quickly to the two cops. "I'm taking her to Charity. Wrap this up and meet me there. Impound the car. We'll check it later."
She sat in Olson's car listening to the radio squawk and staring at the parking lot. Four cars had burned. The Porsche was upside down in the center, nothing but a crumpled frame. A handful of firemen and other emergency types milled about. A cop was stringing yellow crime-scene tape around the lot.
She touched the knot on the back of her head. No blood. Tears dripped off her chin.
Olson slammed his door, and they eased through the parked cars and headed for St. Charles. He had the blue lights on, but no sirens.
"Do you feel like talking?" he asked.
They were on St. Charles. "I guess," she said. "He's dead, isn't he?"
"Yes, Darby. I'm sorry. I take it he was the only one in the car."
"Yes."
"How'd you get hurt?"
He gave her a handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes. "I fell or something. There were two explosions, and I think the second one knocked me down. I don't remember everything. Please, tell me who Rupert is."
"I have no idea. I don't know a cop named Rupert, and there was no cop here with cowboy boots."
She thought about this for a block and a half.
"What did Callahan do for a living?"
"A law professor at Tulane. I'm a student there."
"Who would want to kill him?"
She stared at the traffic lights and shook her head. "You're certain it was intentional?"
"No doubt about it. It was a very powerful explosive. We found a piece of a foot stuck in a chain-link fence eighty feet away. I'm sorry, okay? He was murdered."
"Maybe someone got the wrong car."
"That's always possible. We'll check out everything. I take it you were supposed to be in the car with him."
She tried to speak, but could not hold the tears. She buried her face in the handkerchief.
He parked between two ambulances near the emergency entrance at Charity, and left the blue lights on. He helped her quickly inside to a dirty room where fifty people sat in various degrees of pain and discomfort. She found a seat by the water fountain. Olson talked to the lady behind the window, and he raised his voice but Darby couldn't understand him. A small boy with a bloody towel around his foot cried in his mother's lap. A young black girl was about to give birth. There was not a doctor or nurse in sight. No one was in a hurry.
Olson crouched in front of her. "It'll be a few minutes. Sit tight. I'm gonna move the car, and I'll be back in a minute. Do you feel like talking?"
"Yeah, sure."
He was gone. She checked again for blood, and found none. The double doors opened wide, and two angry nurses came after the girl in labor. They sort of dragged her away, back through the doors and down the hall.