Bayou Corruption (12 page)

He noticed her walking with a bit of hesitation. Not a limp exactly, more like when he'd bought a new pair of shoes and wore them without breaking them in slowly. She wore fancy pointy-toed heels.

“Are your shoes hurting your feet?” he blurted out.

She faltered, but recovered quickly. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

Answering a question with a question—bull's-eye.

“You're walking funny.”

Alyssa stiffened under his touch and jerked her arm free from his grasp. “I am not. I'm just trying to be more dignified than your strut.”

Strut?

“Men don't strut,
chère,
they saunter. Watch your verb usage.”

“Oh, please. Must you be so annoying?”

“Must you be so amusing?”

Her lips formed a tight line.

He focused on that little circle. “Is that a birthmark?”

She snapped her gaze to his. “What?”

Heat fanned his face. Had he really asked that aloud? How incredibly rude, but the question couldn't be unasked now.

“That pink circle beneath your lip.”

Her face lost all expression and her hand immediately went to the mark. She widened her eyes. Her nostrils flared. “It's a scar, not that it's any of your business.”

Now he felt lower than the bottom of a quicksand pit.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Wasn't your fault.” Her steps punctuated her words. Sharp. Curt. Precise.

They'd almost reached the diner's front door when guilt assailed him. He took her hand and jerked her back toward him.

She glared openly. “What?”

“A scar from what?”

“It's none of your business.”

“But it's attractive, it draws my attention, and I want to know.” Had he really just said that?

A myriad of emotions crossed her face, seeming to battle for dominance. Finally, dejection appeared to win. “A car accident when I was a young teen. A piece of hot metal adhered itself to my lip.”

“I'm so sorry, Alyssa. Was anyone else hurt?”

Tears welled in her round eyes, twisting his gut.

“They were killed.”

A
nd I lived.

Alyssa jerked her arm free from Jackson's gentle grasp and stomped into the diner. She blinked furiously, as if that could whisk away the tears pooling in her eyes. No matter how many times she thought about the accident, guilt always won over logic. No matter that she'd been so young and unable to understand what happened. She'd lived, and they hadn't.

And had left her to the mercy of the small-minded townsfolk of Lagniappe.

The penetrating odor of grease and French fries nearly made her gag. Informality reigned the diner, no hostess to speak of, so Alyssa marched to a corner booth and slid in. She breathed through her mouth, nice and slow like the therapist had taught her. In and out. Smooth and steady.

Jackson sat silently across the table, his stare piercing the distance between them. She kept her head ducked, refusing to meet his eyes. How could she? She already knew there'd be either pity or condemnation reflected there—neither of which could she tolerate. Not from him.

“Do y'all know what you want?” a woman's voice asked, sounding tired and cranky.

The waitress took their order of cheeseburgers with fries and shuffled away. Alyssa met Jackson's inquiring look. At least he hid the compassion or censure. “I don't want to discuss it, okay?”

“I understand.”

No, he didn't. He couldn't. But it was enough that he'd leave the subject alone.

He wiped invisible crumbs from the table. “Well, I found out something new on the case.”

She arched a single brow, relieved he changed the topic so quickly.

“According to our friendly dispatcher, the day Bubba was attacked, some police evidence came up missing from their storage.”

The case grew more intriguing with every turn.

“Did Ms. Flirt happen to say what particular evidence is missing?”

“Money from one of the cases Bubba worked.”

“Have they recovered it?”

“Apparently not.” He traced the grooves in the table with his thumb. “According to Missy, the FBI agents aren't overly concerned.”

“Huh. Since it was money, you'd think they'd be a little more interested.”

“You'd think. Obviously, someone on the force is involved with this case. I couldn't think of a way to get any more from Missy.”

“Oh, I got the names of the deputies who were assigned to the case.”

His mouth hung open, and his eyes widened.

She couldn't help herself, she chuckled aloud at his expression. “Well, if you can dig for info, so can I.”

“How?”

“All because of my lead foot.”

His eyes darkened in confusion.

“I got stopped for speeding by none other than Deputy Anderson.”

He smiled, kicking himself mentally for not having caught on to what she'd said immediately. “And you flirted?”

“Of course not.” She giggled. “Well, just a little bit. I'm really shocked men fall for such obvious ploys, by the way.”

“I bet.” His lips formed a hard line.

“Anyway, he and Martin Gocheaux were assigned to the case.”

“Ring any bells?” he asked.

“Not off the top of my head, no. Remember, I haven't lived here in a long time and haven't visited in awhile.” She shrugged. “And when I did visit, they were normally quick trips and I didn't pay much attention to anything going on locally.” Truth be told, she hadn't paid much attention to anything.

“Well, the FBI aren't looking into the sheriff's open cases.”

“Figures.”

The waitress returned, plopped their plates and glasses on the table, and then spun away.

“So much for service with a smile,” Jackson muttered.

“You know,” Alyssa said as she lifted the pepper and dumped a smattering over her fries and burger, “one of those deputies has to be involved. But which one?”

“We need the duty roster from Friday night. That would tell us who'd been on duty. Whichever one wasn't working is most likely the culprit.”

She swallowed the fry she'd just chewed. “True, because there wouldn't have been time for the assailant to drive off and then run back to the station.” Alyssa wiped her mouth. “I don't think it's Deputy Anderson.”

“Because he likes you?”

She frowned. Where had that come from? “No, because I don't recognize his voice. And he'd been the deputy who arrived first on the scene. He wore his uniform, still clean. If he'd been one of the men who attacked Bubba, he wouldn't have appeared all neat and tidy. Not without changing and cleaning up first. There was a lot of blood on the sheriff.” Suddenly, the ketchup didn't look so appealing.

“Good point, but we still need to confirm that with a look-see at the duty roster.” He pulled out a BlackBerry and punched buttons.

“What are you doing?”

“Asking my friend with the FBI in New Orleans to run a check on this Gocheaux.” He glanced at her, warming her to her toes. “What'd you say his first name was?”

“Martin.”

“Right.” He punched more keys. “And it won't hurt to find information on Gary Anderson, too.”

Gary. She'd need to remember that in the future. Just in case.

Jackson slipped the gadget back into his pocket. “Are you done? I've got work tonight.”

She glanced at the ketchup on her plate. “Yeah.” She pushed back from the table and headed to the door.

He had to take full strides to keep up with her. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm going home to check on my grandmother, try and visit with my sisters a bit, and ignore this case for a while.”

“Oh. Okay. I'm going to run by the hospital and check on Bubba before I head to the dock.” He ran a hand over his hair.

Frustration evaporated only to be replaced by something else—something she didn't want to identify. Her fingers itched to touch his waves, just to see if they were as soft as they looked. “Is there any change in his condition?”

“Nothing yet. But I'm praying for that miracle of healing.”

Alyssa gripped the keys harder. She needed to get away from Jackson Devereaux. He made her think things she had no business considering.

“Do you want me to call you later and let you know what I find out,
chère?
” His voice came out more like a physical caress than mere words. Combined with the term of endearment, well, her heart fluttered.

“Yeah. Let me know.” She opened her car door and dropped behind the steering wheel. Giving Jackson a quick smile, she started the engine.

Oh, yeah, she had to get away from him. He encompassed everything she wasn't looking for in a man—he'd taken a job that should have been hers, he had the arrogance of success, he carried himself with confidence.

Yet he had the softest expression in his eyes when he looked at her. Looked through her. Saw into her very soul.

Maybe the time had come to let the issue go. Wasn't his fault he won the job she'd wanted. All this time she'd spent coveting and resenting—wasted energy.

Well past time to let go of her animosity. But if she did, what would stop her from falling in love with Jackson Devereaux?

 

The sun descended behind the tips of the cypress trees surrounding the road to the intercoastal port. A hint of rain hung in the air.

Jackson whipped into the parking lot for the port employees and then made clean strides toward the men loitering around the dock.

Jackson kept track of each man's movements in his peripheral vision. The crew had accepted Burl's announcement of Jackson's temporary employment. No one seemed put out by his presence. Yet he could sense some leeriness lurking in a couple of the men's eyes. They watched him.

He'd gotten the rhythm of work flow quickly the last two shifts he'd worked. Trucks came in with loads to be shipped. Burl checked the paperwork, had the men open the crates and verified that the contents matched the listing in the bill of lading, then signed off on it. The men resealed the crates and loaded them on the boats designated. Pretty straightforward and routine. But Jackson kept track of every man's actions.

Another 18-wheeler backed up in a slot, its engine rumbling and smokestack polluting the air with exhaust. The foglike atmosphere blocked out the truck's logo on the side of the rig.

“Come help me with this one, Dawson,” Burl ordered.

The young man dogging Burl's heels tossed off his work gloves and shuffled after the night manager. Burl turned and added, “You, too, Jax.”

Jackson nodded to the man he'd been resealing crates with—Corey?—and followed the two men to the truck. The man Burl had addressed as Dawson stared at Jackson queerly. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Great, just what he needed—to be recognized. Although he'd kept a pretty low profile since arriving in Lagniappe, this character might have seen him with Bubba.
That
wouldn't be good. “I don't think so. I'm from N'Awlins.”

“Huh. You just look a little familiar.”

Jackson turned away from Dawson.

The balding driver handed the paperwork to Burl. “Let's get this one done quickly. I've got a deadline to meet.”

Dawson reached for the trailer's handle. At the driver's words, he stopped. He dropped his hands to his side and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Why wouldn't he open the doors and get busy?

Burl gave a curt jerk of his head. “Never mind, Jax. Dawson and I can handle this one ourselves.”

What? The driver said he had a deadline. Two men working would be much faster than one. And just in the short period of his observations, he'd never call Dawson the quickest worker on the dock. Too slight and lacking in the muscles department to be much of an asset.

“Go on back to helping Corey.” Burl's tone left no room for argument.

Jackson snuck a quick glance over the manager's shoulder before turning and heading back to the ship end of the port. He'd seen just enough of the bill of lading to confirm his suspicions that everything wasn't on the up-and-up.

Burl's signature was scrawled across the bottom of the bill. Yet he hadn't opened or inspected a single crate.

Back beside Corey, Jackson decided to take a risk. “Guess he just wanted me to walk across the dock for him,” he muttered to his coworker.

Corey, with his smooth ebony skin, glanced over to the truck's slot. “Don't worry 'bout that, man. It's from the rice plant.”

“So?”

“So, that's one of them shipments only Burl and Dawson inspect.”

“Why's that?”

“I guess the owner only trusts them to do it right.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Wouldn't do for us flunkies to mess up their precious rice cargo.”

Very, very fascinating.

He needed a better look at that bill of lading. As he helped Corey load flats of crates to a ship, he kept glancing at Burl. The manager helped Dawson slip the truck's crates toward the ship docked next to the one where Jackson worked. First time he'd seen Burl do any physical work all night.

“Whew!” Corey said as he wiped his brow when they'd stored the last crate. “We can take a short break until the next truck comes.” The tall black man's muscles rippled under his insulated undershirt.

“Should we help Burl and Dawson?” Jackson gestured toward the adjacent ship.

“No. I told you, they handle some shipments alone.”

Jackson kept sneaking glances at Burl.

The men finished storing the crates. Dawson ambled back to the dock, while Burl locked and secured the ship, which he hadn't done for any of the other ships' cargos. Burl strode up to the clipboards where all the nightly bills were kept, slipped the paper to the bottom of the stack—not common procedure—then turned and headed to the truck.

Frank, standing near the paperwork, nodded discreetly to Jackson.

Now or never.

“I'm gonna run and use the facilities. I think I drank too much coffee,” Jackson chuckled.

“Run on in, man. Burl'll be back in a few and will get us bustin' again.”

Jackson forced his steps to be slow and steady when he really wanted to run and yank the clipboard off its rusty nail. He'd reached the end of the plank before Burl hollered at him.

“Where're ya goin', Jax?”

“Men's room. One too many coffees.” He gave a forced laugh, hoping it sounded more casual to his boss than to his own ears.

“Hop to it. I need you to help load Steven's ship.”

“Yes, sir.” At the door to the office, he took a quick glance over his shoulder.