Bayou Corruption (5 page)

“Who?”

She laughed, the sound surprisingly light and airy. “I'm sorry. I was referring to the two FBI agents at the station.”

He paused, puzzled. Then it dawned on him.
Sesame Street.
He let out a loud laugh. “Good comparison.” Jackson held her elbow as they moved to the crosswalk. “No, they didn't tell me anything. Matter of fact, they treated me as the main suspect. I'm concerned they won't even bother looking for the real attackers.”

“Why do you think they won't investigate thoroughly?” Her question appeared innocent enough, but Jackson caught the hesitant tone.

“Mainly because I'm an outsider here. I'm an easy suspect. Bubba did say my name.”

“Oh.” She kept walking toward the sandwich place.

“Small town people are normally leery of outsiders.”

“But the agents aren't from here, either.”

“True.” Yet he'd gotten the impression the agents wanted to close the case quickly, even if that meant blaming the wrong guy.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“N'Awlins.”

He opened the door and let her precede him into the shop. The enticing aroma of grilled onions and peppers filled the small space. His stomach rumbled as they wove around tables for two to the counter. They ordered dressed po'boys and colas. The cashier took his money, gave him change and a ticket number, and told them to have a seat. They found a vacant table shoved up against the window.

“New Orleans? I'm from there,” she continued the conversation once they sat down.

“Really? I don't hear the accent,
chère.
Besides, I thought you were born and raised in Lagniappe.”

“Not hardly.”

“But, I th—”

She shook her head. “My parents were killed in a car accident when I was fourteen. My sisters and I were brought here to live with our grandparents.” She blinked away tears. “But I moved as soon as I graduated.”

The distaste came across clear in her voice. He tried to imagine her scenario—on the cusp of womanhood and losing your parents, then being yanked from a big city into a little bumpkin town. Yeah, he could understand her displeasure with Lagniappe. “Where'd you go to college?”

“LSU.”

“Go Tigers, eh?”

“All the way, baby.” She grinned, her eyes twinkling.

The girl behind the counter called their number, and he retrieved their tray. Alyssa reached for one of the sodas, while he separated the wrapped sandwiches and handed one to her. She removed the paper, lifted the bread and doused the meat liberally with pepper.

“Ah, but you eat like a true native.”

She laughed as she set down the shaker.

“Would you like me to pray?”

Her smile vanished. “Uh, okay.”

That answered his question from last night—her use of the word
praying
had merely been a phrase. He hated the disappointment filling his chest, but ducked his head and offered up grace.

Alyssa ate with relish. He tried to keep up an ongoing conversation, but his heart beat cold.

Why, God, did You make me feel there was something special about this one, only to let me find out she's not really following You?

A Scripture flickered across his mind. He couldn't recall the line in its entirety at the moment, nor the chapter and verse, but he recognized it from Kings. And he sure knew why he'd recalled this particular Scripture at this moment.

For You alone know the hearts of men.

God had a reason for placing this particular woman on his path time and again. Jackson's job would be to figure out what the Lord wanted him to do about her.

“S
o, what did you want to tell me?” Alyssa took a final pull of her soft drink and stared at Jackson amid the crowded sandwich shop. She marveled at herself—when had she begun to think of him on a first-name basis? What had happened to her initial feeling of dislike?

He wiped his mouth with the napkin before squishing the paper into a tight wad and dropping it onto the tray. “You're a reporter, yes?”

“Right.” On the road to becoming the best, if she could ever get out of this hick town.

“Have you ever worked on a story involving a federal government investigation?”

“One or two.” Only white collar crimes, and only as a backup reporter, but he didn't need to know the details.

He glanced around the small shop, his gaze lighting on the patrons closest to their table, and lowered his voice. “Then you know they aren't always after the truth, but just getting a conviction.”

Words failed her, which was pretty sad considering how she made her living. Her mind recalled several stories she'd helped research about the corruption of officers and how their supervisors demanded a high percent of convictions in their cases. The
Shreveport Times
had run a front page article, exposing the frauds, not even six months ago. “Yeah, I've seen that.”

“It's very likely the FBI will focus on me and my presence here, and let the real attackers get away, despite Deputy Anderson's report to the contrary. Already over twelve hours have passed since you found Bubba. You know as well as I do that the first twenty-four hours are the most critical.”

He looked so earnest, so sincere. Why would he try to convince her, of all people, and not the police? She didn't carry any weight in this town. Yet everything he'd said made perfect sense, and her gut instinct told her to trust him.

“Mr. Devereaux, I don't know you. Why are you telling me all this?””

“Because you're a reporter, and I think once you hear what I have to tell you, your gut instinct will be to dig for the truth.”

She considered that for a moment before nodding. “Go ahead.”

“I'm going to take a chance and tell you what I know. Bubba'd been investigating a case, something just starting up, and he'd gotten stonewalled. He called me to come see what I could uncover. That's the reason I'm here in town.”

A wave of excitement surged within her. “What kind of case?”

His gaze locked onto her eyes, as if reading her intentions.

She sighed. “Look, you asked me to help, you trusted me enough to tell me what you already have. Just spill it.”

“Bubba found a couple of money drops in the bayou.”

“What, exactly, does that mean?”

“A bag of money, sealed in a plastic bag, is tied to a small buoy. Someone drops the money into the water, normally from a plane flying under radar. The pick-up person comes by later and grabs the bag.”

“Isn't that normally done in drug trafficking?”

“Yes.” He pulled the lid from his cup and crunched on ice.

“Hard to believe drug deals would be happening in Lagniappe.”

“The town does have a lot of voodoo, which oft times involves drugs.”

She sucked in air through her teeth and tried to evoke the memories she'd suppressed for so many years. Her grandmother had never condoned use of any drugs in any of her ceremonies or rites, as far as she knew. “Drugs aren't always involved in voodoo stuff.”

“No, not always. Something else you have to remember—the intercoastal ports are only ten or so miles away. Easy access to move the drugs, which would make the money drops in the bayou logical.”

Alyssa tapped a finger against her chin, rolling ideas around in her mind. “We pretty much can figure the shipments are going out of the intercoastal port.” This could be a great story. Something big enough that Simon wouldn't consider the subject local and of no interest to the rest of the state—something that would mean her time here wasn't a total waste. Alyssa tried to mask her excitement by forcing her voice to remain even. “What did the sheriff discover in his investigation?”

“Bubba tried running some leads, but each way he went, he hit a dead end.”

Alyssa thought of all the articles she'd studied and assisted in researching. Oh, yeah, this could be huge. “To have the power to stop a police investigation normally means someone of importance is involved.”

“Right. That's exactly what Bubba thought, which is why he called me and asked me to help. I've been doing a little undercover investigation.”

She didn't like the gleam in his eye, screaming trouble. “What?”

“I'm doing some temporary grunt work down at the intercoastal port.”

If he exposed where the drugs were going, he'd put himself right in the line of fire. Wait a minute. Why did she care? She shouldn't, but the thought of him in danger…

“I don't think that's such a good idea. I mean, it could be months before you find out something useful.”

“Not if I'm determined to snoop, as I am.” The cockiness in his tone left no argument.

“What if you're exposed?”

“
Chère,
Bubba set me up with someone already working on the dock who hadn't a clue about any drug smuggling but was all too happy to help out. The night foreman, Burl, has already tried me out.” He smiled that easygoing, disarming smile of his. “Don't worry, I'm good at digging out the truth.”

She stared hard at him as another thought slammed her—she hadn't a clue what Jackson did for a living and why the sheriff would be inclined to call him for help on a case. “Are you in law enforcement?”

He chuckled. “Not hardly. I'm a reporter.”

New Orleans. Reporter.

Why hadn't she trusted her gut instinct about not liking him? Why hadn't she made the time to Google him as she'd intended? Her breath froze in her lungs. “What paper?”

Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it.

“The
Times-Picayune.
”

She felt as if swamp water flooded her heart.

“Alyssa?”

She studied him. The eyes that had so mesmerized her were what had made her sense she'd seen him before. Could he be? No, surely not.

“How long have you worked for the
Times-Picayune?
”

“About five years, but was promoted to investigative reporter a year or so ago.”

The memories rushed over her as if it were yesterday. Her first time applying at the paper where her mother had worked had been when she was straight out of college, five years ago. They'd gone with a man then. A year ago, she'd read where they had an opening for an investigative reporter and had applied. The editor had told her they ended up promoting from within their own staff. She'd seen the man who'd stolen her position when she'd gone back to follow up on another position.

Jackson Devereaux.

How could she have ever forgotten his name? And those eyes? The same ones that pierced her now.

“Alyssa?”

The ghost of her mother mocked her, causing every nerve in her body to zing. “I don't know what you expect from me, Mr. Devereaux.” She shoved to her feet on shaky legs, scraping the chair against the chipped tile floor. “I can't help you.” She took a step backward. “I won't.”

Her feet couldn't move fast enough as she ran out of the sandwich shop and across the street to the hospital. He called her name, but she refused to look back. Tears already blurred her vision, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of crying in front of him. Again. He might not have recognized her as the girl who'd broken down in tears at the death of her dream last year, but her heartache would all come out if she had to speak to him again.

She didn't stop her mad dash until she'd reached Grandmere's door. Alyssa paused in the hall, fighting to get her anguish and breathing under control. Why hadn't she recognized him immediately? She'd vowed that day to prove herself a better reporter than the lackey they'd promoted. Hadn't she committed his face to memory?

The door to Grandmere's room whooshed open, and CoCo skidded to a stop. “Al? What are you doing standing out here?” She laid a hand on Alyssa's arm. “Why, you're pale as a magnolia in full bloom. What's wrong?”

She couldn't confide in her sister about the mortification she'd endured. CoCo had never understood how much Alyssa had wanted that job—how she'd craved success so badly she could taste it rinsing out the tang of the bayou in her mouth. The job symbolic of her mother's legacy at the paper. When she'd been turned down, she suffered her worst humiliation. Even more so than the kids in school who'd taunted and tormented her because of her grandmother's position in the voodoo community.

“N-Nothing. I just got a little winded, I guess.”

“The elevator still bother you?” CoCo's face filled with sympathy.

The last thing Alyssa wanted. CoCo couldn't realize Alyssa didn't have claustrophobia. No, Alyssa's fear derived from the small elevator car's similarity to a compact automobile. Being in the confined space made her hear the crunching metal, smell the smoke and fire.

“I'm fine.” She fumbled for the lip balm to soothe her personal reminder of the crash. “How's Grandmere?”

“Eating lunch. I was about to run to the cafeteria and grab a bite. Want to come with me?”

Food was the last thing she wanted, but she didn't need CoCo getting suspicious. That would only lead to more questions—ones Alyssa refused to entertain. “I'm not really hungry, but I could use a cold drink.”

Her sister broke out into a smile that lit up her tanned face, laced her hand through Alyssa's arm and led her down the hall. “We have so much to catch up on. How'd it go at the police station this morning?”

“They called in the FBI. They don't want me to leave until the case is wrapped up.” Alyssa said the words without emotion, but her heart hammered. She certainly wasn't going to tell her sister about the strange sensations of being watched she'd been experiencing.

“You'll get to stay longer?”

“I suppose. I hope it's not an imposition.”

“Don't be silly. This is your home, too.” CoCo opened the door to the cafeteria.

No, the bayou wasn't—it never had been. She gritted her teeth. CoCo didn't seem to notice her angst, and charged ahead to the food line.

Alyssa had no choice but to follow.

 

Women were nothing if not confounding.

Jackson stared at his notes for the umpteenth time. What had he missed? He and Bubba had written out details of everything pertaining to the found money and the ensuing investigation. There had to be something here.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and chewed on the pencil as he lifted his gaze. Outside, the wind kicked up a notch, tossing leaves in the air. Bubba's house seemed too quiet with him in the hospital. The silence distracted him. Speaking of distractions…Jackson couldn't get Alyssa LeBlanc out of his mind.

Replaying the scenario in the sandwich shop didn't give him any answers. She'd appeared interested, excited. Then something had changed. Her eyes had hardened, and she'd run out on him. He couldn't remember a time when a lady had actually fled from his attentions. Not that he'd revealed his interest to Alyssa. At least, he didn't think his attraction had been obvious.

What had he said to cause her to do such an about-face? He'd confessed to being a reporter, but that shouldn't have made a difference. They were in the same profession—she should understand his honesty in digging out the truth.

Jackson dropped the pencil to the coffee table. He stood and ran a hand over his hair. Had he ever written an unflattering story about her, or someone she cared about? Most of his articles weren't shining endorsements of the subject matter. He had a reputation for exposing people and scams, which had been the main reason Bubba'd called him to Lagniappe.

Buzzzzz!

His pocket vibrated. Jackson jerked out the BlackBerry. Ah, he had a message from his friend in the FBI.

 

SOUNDS LIKE YOU HAVE SOMETHING INTERESTING GOING ON IN PODUNK, U.S.A. OUR FIELD OFFICE SENT TWO AGENTS THERE TO INVESTIGATE ASSAULT ON A POLICE OFFICER. DO THESE RELATE? CARE TO SHARE?

NO BLUE PONTIACS HAVE BEEN REPORTED STOLEN IN VERMILION PARISH IN THE LAST MONTH.

ALYSSA LEBLANC. LOTS OF BACKGROUND. SEND FAX NUMBER AND I'LL SEND DETAILS.

WHAT ARE YOU MIXED UP IN THERE?

 

Jackson reread the message. So the car wasn't stolen. At least, not in this parish. Did the attackers use one of their own vehicles? Of course, they could've stolen the car from another parish. He'd have to check on that.