The Smallest Day - first chapter

The Smallest Day

J. M. Redmann

Chapter One

“You call that a bodyguard? Safer, I’m not feeling.”

I should have been insulted, since she was referring to me, but save for my ego I agreed with her. I’m a private investigator, more suited to trawling through boring stacks of records than throwing myself in front of bullets. Although, as good as the promised fee was, bullets were still above the pay grade. Somebody needed to live to testify at the murder trial, and as the not intended victim, that was likely to be me.

Sarah Jacobson was in New Orleans because it was the place she hated more than any other in the country, swearing that the only time she’d ever come, back in college, was more than enough. Rabbi Sarah Jacobson. She was in hiding because someone had shot and killed her wife, Leah, presumably aiming for her.

“We just need someone for a few weeks,” my friend and NOPD officer Joanne Ranson had promised me. “Travel with her, check the surroundings, call us ASAP if you see anything off.” When not guarding her, I could continue with my regular cases, meaning I got a few weeks of nice cash flow in my direction rather than the usual sluggish inflow and gushing outflow. I could use it. The summer had been brutally hot—yes, it’s always hot here, but we were setting records, days over one hundred degrees, which used to be rare. For most of my life here, summers were low to mid-nineties with a chance of afternoon thunderstorms. Didn’t even need to look at the weather report. Not anymore. So hot no one wanted to do anything, and that included hiring private investigators. I needed to have a good fall and winter to catch up.

So, that was why I was at this hotel by the airport, being talked about as if I wasn’t there. I chose not to argue in my favor. I could collect my fee for the day, only have to work an hour including travel time, and then be free to go if she rejected me. Who was I to disagree?

Her point was that I was about the same age as she was, only a few years younger, still on the lower side of fifty, and she was two years beyond. She was about five eight, so my height of five ten wasn’t much taller. She looked in reasonable shape for her age; hard to tell about muscle since she was wearing a too heavy jacket for the weather, but her movements were sharp and quick, her hands were vehemently expressing the same thing her words were saying. Her face would be called handsome, not pretty—strong jaw, high forehead, a few lines of worry across it, wire rim glasses that masked eyes the brown of rich earth. Her hair was mostly gray, a few tendrils of the dark brown it had once been still showing in the tangle of curls, on the cusp of tipping into frizzy instead of wavy.

If she couldn’t protect herself, could someone like me to protect her?

Joanne was being nice, letting her ramble on about me not being the right bodyguard, how much she hated New Orleans, it was too hot here (take off the jacket, sweetie), and if she could find kosher food. She finally had to pause to take a breath.

“She is a highly trained professional,” Joanne interjected. “If you want someone who can win a physical fight, we can arrange that, but it might be better to have someone who prevents that in the first place.”

Me? You want me to do that? I kept quiet, still hoping she would opt for the big, burly man over me.

She suddenly sat down, close to a collapse, and started crying.

Sarah Jacobson was whisked here last night, arriving close to midnight, four days after standing next to her wife when she was shot. The shock and whirl of grief was coursing through her—anger, sorrow, numbness—the person she most cared about gone and her here stumbling through the pain.

Joanne went to the bathroom to retrieve a wad of tissue to hand to her.

There were four of us in the room: the two men who’d brought her, one tall and wiry, the other short and muscled, Joanne, and me. We all seemed lost for words.

Earn the money they’re paying you.

I knelt in front of her. “I’m sorry that you’re here, and I’m sorry for the tragedy that brought you here. The world is broken in so many places. I can’t offer much, but I’m trained—and good at—observing, seeing what’s out of place, acting quickly, knowing what I can do and can’t do, and being ever quicker to call for help. I’ll do my best to keep you safe.”

She slowly raised her head and looked at me, her eyes red rimmed, glistening with tears. “Keep me safe from what? Going on with a life I no longer see any purpose in?”

“Keeping you safe while you hurt, long enough to see if there is a way through the grief, long enough to see if there is something of life you want to hold on to.”

She slowly wiped her tears away, leaving only the red, angry eyes. “Fine, do your job, earn your money. Let time do what it will.”

I stood up. Fuck, you had to be nice, let a crying woman trick you into compassion. And now I was stuck being a bodyguard for someone who didn’t want a bodyguard, didn’t want to be here, and maybe didn’t even want to live. I looked at Joanne. She was engrossed with something on her phone and avoiding my glance.

Sarah was the rabbi at a liberal congregation in New York City. A wealthy member of her synagogue was covering the costs of her being in New Orleans. I’d gotten few details beyond that. I needed to get Joanne alone and pry everything I could from her.

“Um, we have a plane to catch,” the wiry guy said. “You gonna take over?”

“Yes, go ahead,” I said.

They didn’t go a very good job of hiding the relief on their faces. They got to go home and this was no longer their problem. After the usual placeholder chat— “you guys take care,” “any good restaurants in the airport"—they were gone. There are no good restaurants in airports, but even I had to admit that the new New Orleans airport did better than most, with local offerings instead of the same boring chains. Some of the sandwich shops carried Central Grocery muffalettas. You can’t go wrong with that.

Sarah excused herself to wash her face. I listened for the sounds of water running before turning to Joanne. “I want to move her someplace else as soon as possible. And then you and I need to have a long chat about everything you know.”

She put her phone away and nodded. “You don’t trust them?” she asked.

“Don’t know them. The fewer people who know where she is, the better.” I needed to learn a lot more before I could consider who to trust.

“Fair enough. Where?”

I sighed. “The French Quarter. Lot of tourists, lot of new faces around, hide in a crowd.”

“She will hate that,” Joanne said.

The water cut off and she came out of the bathroom, drying her face. “I presume you’re talking about me?” Her tone made it not a question.

“We’re talking about what to do next and, yes, that obviously concerns you,” I said. “I think it’s safer to move you away from here.”

“Away from this charming hotel and scenic freeway?”

“There are other airport hotels if you’re truly attached,” I answered.

She shot me a look, catching my sarcasm and not liking it.

“The French Quarter might be best,” I continued.

“Really?” She turned to Joanne as if hoping she would counter. “I want to go to a calm, quiet area, away from the party pestilence this city is so good at.”

“We need to consider where you’ll most likely not be noticed,” Joanne said.

“Well, damn,” she said, collapsing into the chair, no energy left even for this small fight. Then she looked up at me, “How long do I have to stay?”

“One step at a time,” I answered. “First, we move from here and get you settled there. Maybe a few days to a week. It’s probably best to not stay anywhere too long.”

She shook her head. “I hate living out of a suitcase. In my least favorite city. When do I get my life back?”

I couldn’t answer that. “Let’s get you packed and out of here,” I said.

“We’ll work on finding some place you feel comfortable,” Joanne added.

Sarah washed her face one more time, then quickly packed, easy since she had barely unpacked.

While she was doing that, Joanne and I pulled up a hotel app and booked a room under Joanne’s name. She had no connection to Sarah until that very minute. I’d have to take over, and we’d both get reimbursed at some point. At some point soon, I hoped.

From there, we headed back into the city, Joanne with Sarah in her car, since she had a police radio and all the cop bells and whistles. Plus, my beat-up old Mazda could use a cleaning, or at least a vacuuming from helping my cousin Torbin take the cats to the vet when his car broke down. For all I knew she was allergic.

Traffic on Canal Street in late afternoon is not the Ninth, but certainly a lower circle of hell, probably around the Seventh. I opted to park in a lot over in the Central Business District, divided from the French Quarter by Canal Street. I parked at one on Poydras, close to Mother’s restaurant. Po-boy on the way home for me.

Then a quick hike back to Canal, weaving through the workers going home for the day. Joanne texted me asking where I was just as I got to the hotel. The lobby was so large I had to text her back to find her. It was a big convention hotel, about as anonymous as could be. Joanne texted, directing me to Sarah, sitting by herself in an out-of-the-way area.

Before approaching her, I surveyed the surroundings. Nothing other than people milling around, groups in the lobby bar, people waiting to check in, for other people, or to leave for the airport. The restaurant wasn’t busy, but why would it be? There are world class restaurants only steps away.

I scanned the room one more time, then slowly walked over to Sarah, taking a seat close, but not so close as to connect us. She looked up at me, but I shook my head. Here, in the city she hated, it wasn’t likely anyone was looking for her. No one might be looking for her at all. A crime of hate and convenience: the shot fired, killing one person, and the shooter fled, now more intent on not being caught than trying to track down his intended victim. Unless she was his prey, not just hate. He could all too easily find others.

I’ve been targeted for being a lesbian. Maybe not just being a lesbian, but being tall, not hewing to the conventions of how women are supposed to dress and behave. The cardinal sin, breaking the gender rules, showing how easily they could be broken. I’d been hit once by a drunk young angry man I’d made fun of as I was crossing Bourbon Street. “Spill their drinks quickly, spill their seed quickly,” I’d mouthed to the women—barely beyond girls and likely not yet old enough to legally drink—surrounding him as he threw up in the street. He had taken offense, shouting, “Dyke!” then jumping at me, only landing a blow on my shoulder as I twisted away. He swung again, grazing my cheek. The next minute the cops were there, including one I knew. I was told to leave; he got off with a warning.

I remembered the hate and anger in his eyes. The ugly words he used, “dyke,” “cunt,” “faggot,” anything he thought might land a blow. Words hurt; they just don’t leave visible marks. The cops blew it off, even the gay cop I knew letting it slide. Not a big deal, not a real crime. Mouthy dyke, stepping out of her place, drunk white guy responds. No real harm. Except to all the queer people watching, seeing how easily they could be victims and no one would care. I was in my late twenties then. Decades ago. Now I look for the anger, not to appease it but to be aware and consider if it’s a battle worth fighting.

Two glancing blows, a faint bruise on my shoulder. No harm done.

Sarah had harm done, brutal, life-shattering harm.

No, it wasn’t likely anyone was looking for her here, but it was possible. That was part of the underlying horror—once you’re one of the hated groups, you never know when the hate will hit you again. Even if it never does, the constant, nagging worry is always there.

I glanced around the lobby, like I was waiting for someone. Again, everything normal, no sharp glances our way, no one loitering where they could watch us.

Joanne headed toward me. I nodded her to Sarah. She understood, passing me by and getting Sarah, then heading for the elevator.

“Fourteenth floor, should be a nice view,” she said to Sarah as she passed me.

I gave them about half the lobby, then followed. They got on an elevator when I was almost there. I waited for the next one and then took it to the fourteenth floor. They weren’t in the elevator lobby when I stepped out, but I heard Joanne’s voice down one of the hallways. I quickly caught up.

“Do we have to be this cloak and dagger?” Sarah said irritably.

“Short answer, yes. Let’s get in the room,” Joanne said.

We continued down the hallway in silence. Her room was near the end. Few people should be back in this area.

Joanne opened the door and let us both in first.

Sarah tossed her suitcase on the bed, then flopped down beside it. “So, to my question. What’s with the security theater?”

“Not playing games here,” I said. Her annoyance was starting to annoy me. “If someone is too interested in you, we need to know. By being well behind, I could observe anyone watching where you were going.”

“So, how hunted am I?” she demanded, crossing her arms, anger lacing her words.

I told myself she had the right to be angry. A right to blinding fury, even. I just needed to remind myself it wasn’t about me; I was just handy. “All looked normal,” I told her.

She sighed and looked away. “Safe enough for me to take a nap? I haven’t had much rest in the last few days.”

“Sure,” Joanne said. She handed Sarah a key card, then one to me as well.

The latter didn’t escape Sarah’s notice. “So, you get to barge in whenever?”

“Not unless I have to,” I said calmly. “But helpful for me to have access as well.”

“Are you going to stay and watch me sleep?”

The room had two queen beds, a desk and comfortable seating area, but no separate area other than the bathroom.

“No, not necessary,” Joanne said. “We can leave you for a while. Just don’t go out by yourself. Text Micky when you wake up. Only open the door if it’s one of us.”

I would have said the same thing but was glad it came from Joanne. Everything up until now had been hurried, no time for questions, so I wasn’t sure what we wanted to accomplish, other than keeping Sarah as safe as possible.

“I don’t have my phone. Too dangerous, they said.”

“I’ll get you a prepaid one,” I said. What else was I going to do while she napped? Besides sitting Joanne down and getting as much info as I could. I wrote down my cell number and told her to call me on the hotel phone.

“I’ll call you when I wake up,” she said, heading to the bathroom. “It may be tomorrow.” She shut the door. Our cue to leave.

Joanne and I exited the room, then I waited while she headed to the elevators. I gave her a few minutes, then followed. The floor was quiet, no one else around.

At the elevator, I got a text from her to meet outside on the street.

I again scanned the lobby on my way out, but it was hotel staff and a multitude of tourists in various states of sobriety.

Joanne was waiting off to the side of the entrance.

“So, what exactly have I gotten myself into?” I asked as I joined her.

She sighed. “I’m not sure myself. Late lunch, early supper? Let me eat something and we can talk.” I agreed. If she was eating, she’d have time to answer my questions.

We again crossed Canal Street, going to a shabby lunch place for the workers in the CBD. It was mostly empty now and would close in an hour. A throwback to the days of plate lunches and booths with red plastic seats.

“Really good gumbo here,” Joanne said. She ordered the roast beef po-boy.

I decided to try a cup of the gumbo.

Once the waiter gave us our water glasses, I gave her an expectant look.

“Sarah seems to have pissed off everyone,” Joanne started.

“I can see that.”

“The rabbi of a Reform congregation in Brooklyn.”

“And she hates New Orleans? Everyone from Brooklyn is moving here.”

Joanne gave me a look. I nodded, letting her know I’d be quiet.

“She’s a lesbian rabbi and outspoken on social justice issues. That alone gets her unwanted attention. She is also a strong advocate for Palestinian rights, critical of Israel and vocal and active about it. After the October 7 terrorist attack, she defended Israel, stating the terrorists are the ones responsible for unleashing the bloodshed. Pissed off the people on the left. Then back to criticizing Israel for falling into the trap of overreacting. Pissed more people off by both blaming Hamas and the Israel government, no neat good side/bad side. She can be on the assertive side.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Full sarcasm font.

The waiter brought our food. We paused to take a few bites. Joanne was right about the gumbo, a rich dark roux.

“Plus, being openly gay, advocating for trans rights, all the progressive causes,” Joanne said once she’d finished chewing.

“Okay, she has a right to free speech, even truly annoying and contradictory speech, but why kill her? Just don’t listen.”

“Too many guns, too many crazy people,” Joanne said, taking another bite. Another pause to chew. “The background I got is that no one claimed responsibility.”

“Do we even know for sure it was aimed at Sarah? Or was she assumed to be the target because she has a knack for pissing people off? Could her wife have been the real target? Family inheritance and they kill her to make it look like a hate crime?”

“Anything is possible, and the NYC cops are investigating it. I’m guessing they’re considering all angles, but so far nothing suggests that. The report indicates Sarah was the target. They were standing facing each other outside the temple. Sarah dropped her phone, bent down to pick it up just as the shot was fired. If she hadn’t moved, it would have been her.” Joanne continued, “Since we have no idea who might want to kill her, it’s a wide investigation—the crazy left or the crazy right.”

“Or some crazy in between. So the goal is to keep her alive for the investigation. What happens if they don’t solve it?”

“We figure that out when we get there. In the meantime, you get paid to keep track of her and try to keep her from doing anything too stupid. She does have friends and supporters. They’re covering the cost, so the only official part was getting her out of New York to an undisclosed location, i.e., here.”

“A location she hates, so might help throw anyone looking for her off track.”

“That’s the thought. You don’t need to be with her constantly, just check in on a daily basis, and if she goes anywhere, go with her. It’s best if she mostly stays in her hotel room.”

We went over the details of the most important things—how to pay for her keep and how I’d get paid. Joanne handed me a debit card to cover most things. It would be audited, and the account had about ten thousand dollars in it. Enough to pay for a few weeks of hotels and meals, not enough to tempt me to cash it out and disappear. I’d get paid by check, with the first one arriving tomorrow. If I needed to communicate with Sarah’s benefactors, I’d do it through Joanne. Convoluted, and probably hidden enough to confuse the crazy zealots of the world. If the people out to get her were more sophisticated, like a government, it might not be enough. We were going on the assumption that the good ol’ US of A and its federal powers were on our side.

Or didn’t care.

Once we got that settled and Joanne called for the bill, I asked, “Could it not be about her specifically, but a hate group targeting the Jewish community? She was outside the synagogue, they saw her and fired.”

“Also possible, but no way to know. Until we catch them.”

“What else do I need to know?”

“If I knew that, I’d tell you.” She put a twenty on the table. I left a ten for my gumbo. Together, it would be a nice tip. “From what I know, this should be babysitting her for a few weeks until the NYPD find the killer. Their guess is it was a lone or small group of fanatics. One located around NYC with enough resources to get a decent sniper gun and drive into the city. But they’re not likely to be able to track her as long as she stays hard to track.”

“What if they’re wrong?”

“No one is paying you enough to shield her with your life. If bullets start flying, you duck.”

We got up and left the restaurant.

“I’ll keep that in mind and hope it doesn’t become an option. If I have questions, can I call you?”

“You can call. I don’t have any more answers beyond what I’ve already told you. If I learn more, I’ll let you know. But touch base, let me know how things are going.”

My car was in one direction, Sarah’s hotel in another, and Joanne turned in another. We waved good-bye and I headed back to the French Quarter, not wanting to watch her walk down the street. I didn’t know who else might be watching.