Bayou Bad Boys (28 page)

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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bayou Bad Boys
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Don't miss JoAnn Ross's
compelling new thriller,
IMPULSE,
available in August 2006 from Pocket Books.
Sheets of lightning trembled against a vermilion sky curtained with rain.
Caitlin Cavanaugh stood at the apartment window in the French Quarter, looking down onto a writhing tangle of tropical plants. A crumbling stone statue stood in the center of the overgrown courtyard; Cait found the trio of satyrs chasing the comely nymph through the green, algae-choked water a perfect metaphor for this sin-drenched city.
“She wouldn't have committed suicide.”
“You said it's been fifteen years since you've seen your sister.” Nick Broussard was leaning against the door frame, hands in the front pockets of his dark suit trousers. “People change.”
“Now there's a pithy observation.” The smoky neon sign from the strip club next door flashed pink and green shimmers onto the rain-slick cobblestones below. Underlying the burned wax scent of votive candles in red glass, another vaguely unpleasant odor hung in air thick enough to drink. “Maybe you ought to embroider it onto a pillow.”
“Dubois was sure enough right about you having a smart mouth on you, chère.”
Cait hated the humor she heard in his voice. To her mind there was nothing humorous about murder. “It goes along with my smart head,” she said as thunder rumbled in from the Gulf. “Unlike detective Dubois, who undoubtedly found
his
shield in a box of Cracker Jacks. There's no way, given the condition of this room when he and his jerk-off partner arrived at the scene, any cop with half a brain could've called this a suicide.”
Crime scene photos revealed Tara had stacked all the bedroom furniture against the door before jumping—or being thrown—out the window.
“She was trying to keep someone out of here.”
“Wouldn't be the first working girl to suffer from drug-induced paranoia.”
Cait wished she could have been surprised to learn that her twin had grown up to be a prostitute.
If only . . .
No! She could give into the dark emotions battering her and wallow in guilt later. Right now the objective was to put her sister's killer behind bars. With or without the help of the local cops who were dragging their damn feet.
“I want her book.” If she could only get her hands on Tara's client list, she could begin narrowing down the suspects.
“We're lookin' for that,” he said with exaggerated patience that grated on Cait's last nerve. “But, being a murder cop yourself, chère—”
“It's detective,” she corrected.
“Being a murder cop yourself, Detective chère,” he said, his drawled Cajun patois as rich as whiskey drenched bread pudding, “you oughta know police investigations take time to do right.”
Cait snorted. “What you mean is the cops are giving any city hotshots who may have paid my sister for sex, time to cover their collective asses.”
He sighed heavily. Pushed himself away from the door frame and crossed the room to smooth his big hands over her shoulders.
“Hey, darlin'. This is New Orleans. Folks have a certain way of doing things here.”
“The Big Easy.”
“That's what we call it, all right,” he agreed.
“The movie.” She shrugged off his touch. “Dennis Quaid says it to Ellen Barkin.”
He brightened at that, his smile a bold flash of white that Cait suspected had charmed more than its share of bayou belles into slipping out of their lace panties for him. “You like that movie, chère?”
“ I
hate
any movie that glamorizes crooked cops.”
He shook his dark head. “You're a hard woman, Detective Cavanaugh.”
“I'm a murder cop.” Rational. Logical. Tough-minded. Where others saw shades of gray, Cait's world consisted of black and white. Cops and killers. Good versus evil.
As a gust of wind rattled the leafy green leaves of the banana tree in the courtyard, Cait sensed a movement just beyond the lacy iron fence.
A man, clad all in black, and wearing a brimmed hat that shielded his face, was standing on the sidewalk, beneath an oak tree dripping with silvery green moss. The tree's thick, twisted roots had cracked the cobblestone sidewalk; the limbs Tara had crashed through on her fatal fall to the ground clawed at the window, leafy branches scratching against the glass.
“The landlord said other women had been killed in this building.”
“That was before my time.” Broussard was standing close enough behind her that she could feel the heat emanating from his body, along with musky male sweat and the tang of lemon, which would've seemed incongruous on a man who reeked of testosterone, if Cait hadn't known the cop trick of using lemon shampoo to wash the smell of death out of your hair. “The way the story goes, a young slave was found in the formal parlor, her dark throat slit from one pretty ear to the other.”
His hands were on her again, long dark fingers massaging the boulder-like knots at the base of her neck. “Later the police discovered eight other bodies buried in the garden. They'd all been raped. Brutalized. All had a
gad
cut into their breasts.”
He paused, waiting for her to ask.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of the wind, moaning like lost souls outside the window.
“So, what the hell is a
gad
?” she finally asked on a frustrated breath.
“It's a protective tattoo designed to protect the wearer from evil spirits. The guy who built this place was a
bokor
. A priest who specializes in the dark arts, what voodoo practitioners call the left-hand way. They're not all that common, though we've got a handful of 'em living here in the city.”
“Sounds like the tattoos weren't all that much protection.” Having grown up with a mother who staged fake séances, Cait didn't believe in magic, either white
or
black. Or any other woo-woo things that went bump in the night.
He shrugged. “Hard to stop a man with killin' on his mind.”
She could not argue with him about that.
“Your sister had one.”
“One what?” The rusty gate squeaked.
“A
gad
.”
She glanced up at him. “The report didn't mention that.”
“The autopsy's scheduled for tomorrow morning. It'll probably show up in the coroner's report.”
“Dubois still should've put it in.”
“Like you said, Dubois isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
The man was now in the courtyard, staring up at the window. A lightning blot forked across the sky, illuminating the malevolence in eyes which blazed like turquoise fire in a midnight dark face. Cait, who'd always prided herself on her control, tensed.
“What's wrong, chère?” Broussard's fingers tightened on her neck.
“That guy in the courtyard.” White spots, like paper-winged moths, danced in front of her eyes. She blinked to clear them away. “He's—”
Gone
. Cait stared down at the thorny tangle of scarlet bougainvillea and night-blooming jasmine.
He'd vanished. As quickly and silently as smoke.
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She scurried back into the closet, begging—absolutely begging—for him not to enter the closet. It was midnight, after all. On a Saturday.
But time meant nothing to Kyle.
She heard him enter the bathroom and hit the lights. Molly dove for the very back rack in the closet and squatted down.
Her heart pounded. Her tongue felt huge and she couldn't swallow. She kept her eyes glued on the door, but she didn't want to look.
This is why she could never play hide-and-seek as a kid. She couldn't handle the idea of being found. Couldn't tolerate the wait.
She knew she was going to get caught. She couldn't shake off the feeling. Or bravely meet the inevitable.
No, instead she was huddling in the corner, images of her work record flashing in her head.
TERMINATED BECAUSE SHE WAS HIDING IN HER BOSS'S CLOSET
.
Yeah, let's see how long it'll take her to get another job with that kind of reference.
She drew in a shaky breath, ready to have that door swing open. For Kyle to find her. The interrogation that would follow. She'd have to come up with a good reason why she was here. Something brilliant. Irrefutable. Logical.
So far, she had nothing.
And why wasn't he opening the door? She couldn't take much more of this.
Molly craned her neck and cocked her head to the side. All she heard was the shower.
The shower! Molly sat up straight as a plan began to form. The bathroom would get all hot and steamy. The glass would fog and she could sneak out. Perfect!
But that would mean getting out of her hiding place. Maybe she should wait until he left.
So that he could what? Go to his desk and spend the rest of the night working on the computer? Leaving her stuck here?
This was her only chance to escape. She needed to take advantage of it. Now.
Molly reluctantly crept to the door. She winced and cringed as she slowly opened it a crack. She was so nervous that Kyle might see the movement. Or that he would spot her. Look right at her. Eye to eye.
Instead she got an eyeful.
Kyle grabbed the collar of his white Rugby shirt and pulled it over his head. The bright lights bounced against the dips and swells of his toned arms.
Molly ignored the tingle deep in her belly as she stared. She already knew that guy was fit, but oh . . . my . . .
goodness.
...
Kyle's lean body rippled with strength. He was solid muscle. Defined and restrained.
She memorized everything from the whorls of dark hair dusting his tanned chest to the jutting hip bone. Her heart skittered to a stop as his hands went to the snap at his waistband.
Oh . . . The tingling grew hotter. Brighter. She shouldn't look. No. She really shouldn't. Not even a peek.
He drew the zipper down.
She should turn her head away.
Her neck muscles weren't cooperating as the zipper parted.
Okay, at least close your eyes!
She forced herself to obey and her eyelids started to lower.
Until the jeans dropped to his ankles.
Molly's eyes widened.
Oh . . . wow.
He was long, thick, and heavy. There was nothing elegant or refined about his penis. It looked rough. Wild. And this was before he was aroused?
She could imagine how it would feel to have him inside her. Before he even thrust. Molly pressed her legs together as the tingling blazed into an all-out ache.
Kyle turned around and she stared at his tight buttocks.
Oh, yeah.
She could go for one of those, too. She could imagine exactly how it would feel to hold onto him as he claimed her.
He stepped out of her field of vision. A shot of panic cleared her head. Where did he go? She caught a movement in the mirror and saw Kyle step into that sinfully decadent shower. She watched the reflection as he stepped under the water.
Great. Just what she needed. A hot, naked and
wet
Kyle Ashton.
The shower stall didn't hide a thing from her. Water pulsed against his body. It sluiced down his chest and ran down Kyle's powerful thighs. She wanted to lick every droplet from his sculpted muscles.
Molly pulled at the neck of her sweatshirt. How hot was that shower? It was getting really warm in here.
The scent of Kyle's soap invaded her senses. Sophisticated. Expensive. It usually made her knees knock on everyday occasions, but this was concentrated stuff. It knocked her off her feet.
The steam wafted from the shower stall and began to cloud the glass. Molly had to squint as the fog slowly streaked across the shower glass. She was half-tempted to wipe the condensation from her view when she remembered this was what she was waiting for.
Sure she was.
She glanced at the door. It was closed, but not all the way. That was her escape. She'd better get moving before he was finished. Molly glanced back at the mirror.
His head was tilted back and water streamed down the harsh angles of his face. She fought the fierce urge to join him and press her mouth against the strong column of his neck. Of running her hands along his body as his hands remained in his drenched hair.
That was never going to happen. She could fantasize about that later. Right now, she had to get away from Kyle.
She slowly opened the closet door, thankful it didn't creak. Hoping Kyle was like the rest of the world and closed his eyes when rinsing out the shampoo, Molly got on her hands and knees. She gathered up the last of her courage and began crawling along the bathroom floor.
Her heart was banging against her chest. Nerves bounced around inside her. She couldn't breathe. When she had to pass by the shower, she got down on her elbows and shimmied her way to the door.
Almost there . . .
She wasn't going to look at Kyle, no matter how tempting. Her focus was solely on the door, and once she got it open, she was making a run for it.
Molly reached out and grabbed the edge of the door and slowly, oh-so-slowly opened it enough that she could squeeze through. She could feel the cool air wafting in from the other room.
Home free! Molly exhaled shakily.
“Hey, Molly,” Kyle called out from the shower. “Could you grab me a towel while you're at it?”

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