Bayou Corruption (6 page)

He stared at the last part of the message. The journalist in his gut urged him to send the fax number and get the details. Maybe the information could shed some light on Alyssa's bizarre behavior. But the Holy Spirit convinced him that sending the fax number wasn't the Christian thing to do. Getting information in this manner would be prying into someone's personal life. Yet, wasn't that what he did for a living—dig into people's private lives until he exposed the truth?

Had God called him to be a reporter, or had revealing people's darkest secrets always been in his nature? All this time, had he responded to the sins of the flesh, rather than walking in obedience to what his Lord and Savior had asked of him? Jackson dropped to his knees in the middle of Bubba's living room and lowered his head.

“Father God, I ask for wisdom in what You've called me to do. I'm not sure if I'm just nosy by nature. Have I been putting on airs and acting self-righteous when I have no right to?” His voice cracked as emotion clogged his throat. “Lord, I pray that right now, right this second, You cleanse my heart of any iniquities and impure motives. Let my life honor You. In Jesus's precious name, Amen.”

He had no idea how long he sat on the worn carpet, but he refused to move from his prone position until peace enveloped him. When serenity finally came, he felt the answer he sought. He typed a reply to his friend's e-mail.

 

THANKS FOR THE INFO. MIGHT NEED YOU TO SPEAK UP FOR ME WITH THOSE TWO AGENTS.

DESTROY THE INFO ON ALYSSA LEBLANC. DETAILS NOT NEEDED.

 

He jammed the BlackBerry into his back pocket and headed to the door. Time to go to work. He should get his chance to get into the office tonight. Getting closer to the truth fed his excitement as he drove to the port.

Night enveloped the docks. Water spray layered the wooden and concrete ports in slick mist. The crew of thirteen men loaded flats into cargos. Their off-color jokes and rowdy laughter crowded the air. Frank Thibodeaux, the man Bubba had set him up with to help him get temporary work, motioned him toward the office. Apparently, he'd passed Burl's “tryout” and would be put on payroll.

He slumped in the chair as he filled out the forms. His social security number would expose him. Jackson passed the forms across the desk to Frank. If he calculated correctly, the filing of his social security for taxes would come back within two weeks, and the jig would be up. He'd have to get the information he needed before then.

Frank slipped all the forms into a plain folder. “We'll leave it here for Brenda to enter when she comes in the morning.” He stood and pulled on work gloves. “We'd better head on out before Burl wonders what's keeping us.”

Jackson moved toward the hall. “Gotta use the facilities first.”

Frank tossed him a concerned look, one that said he knew what Jackson was going to do, and opened the office door. “Hurry it up. I'll let Burl know we got you all squared away.”

Once the man had trekked down the gangplank, Jackson yanked open the middle drawer of the metal filing cabinet. While he'd filled out his paperwork, he'd read the drawers' notations. The middle drawer held all the bills of lading.

He flipped through the folders, silently thanking the woman he'd never seen who did the office work. She filed the bills in numerical order. He pulled the three numbers matching the bags of money, and slipped them into the copy machine. Jackson glanced out the window. No one approached the gangplank. He let out a short sigh of relief.

Grabbing the copies and shoving them into his jacket pocket, Jackson quickly refiled the bills and closed the drawer. Movement out the window caught his attention.

Burl.

Coming up the gangplank.

Jackson glanced down. The copies couldn't be hidden well enough in his jacket to stand up to his boss's scrutiny.

He shoved the copies under the edge of a drawer and ran to the bathroom, barely having time to shut the door before he heard the squeak of the office's entrance opening. He flushed the toilet, turned on the faucet and ran his hands under the cold water.

“You sick?” Burl asked when Jackson stepped into the hall.

“I'm fine.”

Burl grunted. “Then get to work. Lots of shipments coming in tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” He'd have to wait until later to retrieve the copied bills of lading.

C
ould life, for once, be so easy?

The morning sun teased around the edges of the kitchen curtains. Alyssa shook her head and dialed the number listed in the white pages. In Shreveport, politicians didn't have listed home numbers. Apparently in Lagniappe, they did. How convenient.

“Mouton residence.”

They had someone to answer calls on a Saturday, too. Very cool. “This is Alyssa LeBlanc. I'd like to speak to Mr. Mouton regarding my mother, Claire LeBlanc.”

“Please hold.”

Who had music on their home hold option? The Moutons, that's who. Alyssa ran a finger over the scar under her lip, hoping the use of her mother's name would at least get her a response. The kitchen counter dug into her hip.

“Ms. LeBlanc? This is Edmond Mouton. How can I help you?”

Her stomach knotted. Oh, yeah, she'd gotten a response all right. From the senator himself. Alyssa gripped the phone tighter. “Senator Mouton, my mother was a photojournalist, Claire Le—”

“Yes, yes. I remember Claire very well. Lovely woman. Tragedy what happened to her. A crying shame. What can I do for you?”

Every single line she'd mentally prepared flew out of her mind. “Er, well, I'm, uh…” Oh, she needed to snap out of this. She straightened her shoulders. “I'm a reporter with the
Shreveport Times,
and I wondered if you'd grant me an interview.” There, she'd said it.

“And you thought using your mother's name would encourage me to comply with your request?”

Busted. What could she say? “Well, yes.”

His laugh came as suddenly as his words. “Very good, young lady. Your mother had the same kind of spunk. I like that. How about Monday at ten, here at my house?”

Alyssa scrambled to write down the address on a scrap of paper. “Thank you, Senator Mouton.”

“Don't disappoint me by being late.”

She replaced the phone, adrenaline zipping through her veins. She had a scoop! That would prove her better than Jackson Devereaux and his single dimple. She danced a jig in the middle of the sunny kitchen, barefoot and all.

“What's got you in such a happy mood?”

Alyssa spun and faced her younger sister. “Tara!” In two steps, she pulled the young woman into her arms and gave a stiff hug.

Tara laughed, stepping out of the embrace. “What's up with you, Al?”

“I just got an exclusive interview.”

“Good for you.” Tara moved to the icebox and grabbed a soft drink.

Alyssa took notice of her sister's outfit—a pair of ratty jeans and a T-shirt that had seen one too many washings. She would have thought Tara was in for the night, except that she wore a pair of scuffed sneakers, a telltale sign she planned on going out, since Tara never wore shoes if she could avoid them. “Where are you going?

“Out.”

“Dressed like that?” The words jumped out of her mouth before she could insert any tact.

A disgusted smirk crossed Tara's pretty face. She set her can on the counter with a resounding thud. “Yeah, dressed like this.”

“Is that really proper attire for a bookkeeper?” Why couldn't she just shut up? Tara worked in a jazz club after closing, for pity's sake.

“For me it is. Got a problem with my clothes?”

Just. Don't. Say. Anything. “Uh, no.” Alyssa ran a hand over her own jeans, with creases still neatly down the front. “Maybe we can do something together and catch up.”

“Al, don't tell me you're going to get all mushy like CoCo. Don't go there.”

“I just want to visit with you for a little while.” Did her voice sound as whiny as she thought?

“Before you hoof it back up north, ya mean?” Tara flipped her long straight hair over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes. The rivalry between north and south Louisiana glared in her eyes. “You don't care about what's going on here in Lagniappe. You never did.”

She couldn't argue that point even if she wanted to—her tongue felt four sizes too big for her mouth. Alyssa swallowed and cleared her throat. “It's not that I don't care about y'all—” there she went again, resorting to the slang she detested “—I just don't care for this backwoods town.”

“You proved that by running away as soon as you could.” Tara's eyes, so similar to Alyssa's own, were nothing more than slits in her smooth, tanned face.

“That's not fair. I had to get out, do something, make something of myself.”

“Because you always thought you were too good for Lagniappe.”

“We're all too good for this hick town. Can't you see that?” Alyssa's voice went up an octave.

“No, this is my home, Al. It's a pity you never understood that.”

“It's not home. We were all born and raised in New Orleans, Tara. Even you, although you like to pretend you were born in this forsaken bayou. Playing around with Grandmere's voodoo and such.” Alyssa shook her head. “Momee would be ashamed of you and CoCo. She wanted more for us, all of us. She set out to make something of herself. Something big. Why do you think she never moved here after she and Papa married?”

“For someone who belongs to an organization that thrives on heritage, you sure want to bury yours.”

Ouch. That hurt. “The United Daughters of the Confederacy are committed to preserving the heritage of our ancestors who fought for the Confederacy, and—”

Tara held up her hand. “Stop. I've heard your spiel already. You'd think with what CoCo uncovered about Grandpere's heritage, you'd steer clear of all that.”

Of course, the revelation a couple of months ago about her grandfather's involvement in the Ku Klux Klan
had
been a cause of embarrassment to her, but she didn't want to share that with Tara now. “Just because Grandpere belonged to the Klan doesn't mean we should ignore the men who stood up for—”

“You go play in your white dresses, hats and gloves, and I'll deal with the spirits. Let's just leave it at that.”

Alyssa opened her mouth to argue, but Tara had already spun around and stormed from the kitchen. The screen door slamming indicated she'd left.

That went well. Alyssa had wanted to reach out to her younger sister, show her that she'd waste away in this horrid place. And the influence of Grandmere's voodoo ways were corrupting her little sister's mind, just as it had CoCo's. Fortunately, CoCo had come to her senses a few years ago and stopped dabbling in such nonsense. But not Tara. She'd taken up experimenting full force.

Alyssa sighed. She'd managed to anger Tara, further alienating herself. Why did this family thing have to be so hard? Was she some kind of reject, not even able to bond with her sisters, her own flesh and blood?

She threw Tara's soda can into the trash and passed a towel over the already clean counter. A glance at the clock told her CoCo would be back from her morning bayou run soon. Should she start something for breakfast? Alyssa hadn't ever been the cook in the family. CoCo, now that girl could cook. Tara wasn't so bad, either, but Alyssa was a misfit in the kitchen.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Alyssa started, then marched into the hallway where she could see the front door. Tara had only closed the screen, leaving her a view of the veranda and its occupant.

Jackson Devereaux stood in the frame, filling the space. Did he have to look so devastatingly handsome this early in the morning?

He smiled as he spied her. “Hi. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Rats. Too late to pretend she hadn't heard him. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't have anything to say to you.”

“Please, Alyssa. I don't know what I did to set you off.”

How about taking
my
job, for a start?
The one that would've honored her mother's memory.

“Will you at least talk to me?”

She let out a long sigh. He wouldn't go away until she spoke to him. Fine. She'd hear him out and then send him on his way. Alyssa pushed open the door. He barely managed to step back before the door hit him.

She stepped onto the porch and sat in one of the oversize rocking chairs on the veranda. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

He lowered his tall form into the rocker beside her. “Why'd you run out of the deli on me?”

Because on principle, I can't stand you.
“I just didn't want to talk anymore.” She fought the urge to fidget by clasping her hands together demurely in her lap. “It was useless to discuss anything further.”

“You know I didn't feed you a line. I could tell your reporter instincts kicked in. You know this is a prime story just waiting to be written.”

She dropped her gaze to the wooden planks of the veranda. Anything to avoid meeting his stare. “It doesn't matter what I think.”
I'm only a reporter at a small paper. Not like your big one.

“It does to me.” His voice floated like a whisper on the bayou breeze.

How could his voice cause such a reaction in her gut? He had to be playing her. She needed to remember he was the enemy, for all practical purposes.

Alyssa lifted her chin and studied his eyes. She couldn't detect any deception lurking there. Her mouth suddenly felt as dry as the Spanish moss hanging on the cypress trees. “Why?”

“I don't know.” He leaned back and smiled. That single dimple added character to his rugged face. “I just care.”

“I see.” Her pulse spiked. She hadn't a clue why, aside from the fact that Jackson was good-looking, in an outdoorsy sort of way that normally didn't appeal to her. But on him…well, she had to admit, his eyes got her every time. Worse than a puppy dog's.

Oh, man, she'd started thinking of him by his first name again. That could be trouble. She needed to snap out of it. This man had stolen her job—the one that would've made her mother proud.

“I know this could be a big story, for both of us. We aren't really in competition. We could both have articles running in our papers simultaneously. Couldn't we work together to find out who attacked Bubba? I'm positive the assault is linked to the money drop case.”

If she worked with him, she could drag out the story, sending Simon small teaser articles to get readership. Of course, she'd also do the piece on Senator Mouton. By the time the Feds wrapped up the case, she could have two or three lead stories. All with her byline. That'd teach little Ms. Marlee who got the ace reporter tagline.

And what about Simon's favorite line? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. If she played her cards right, maybe, just maybe, she could scoop Jackson and prove to his stuffy old editor he'd made the wrong choice years ago. Maybe he'd give her a second chance.

“At least it'd give you something to do in this Podunk town. Since you're stuck here and all,
chère.
” He smiled, the dimple making her heart do funny somersaults.

“Okay. Since I'm stuck here, as you so eloquently put it.”
And I want to steal your job.

His grin widened, her heartbeat quickened. She really needed to get a grip on herself. Handsome men were a dime a dozen. Well, maybe not, but she needed to focus. Not let her emotions cause her to make hasty decisions.

“Where do we start?” Alyssa pushed to her feet, steeling her adolescent, crush-like feelings.

She refused to become attracted to the man she'd use to climb her way to the top.

 

What went on inside that complicated head of hers? Alyssa LeBlanc had flipped sides on him again, as quickly and efficiently as she had at lunch. She puzzled his mind, and his sentiments. Maybe that's why he'd sought out a local to direct him to the LeBlanc plantation home and driven over before he could talk himself out of it.

The bewitching woman now peered at him from beneath dark lashes. He'd always been a sucker for killer eyes, and Alyssa's amazed him.

“Do you have any leads?”

He snapped himself out of his silent assessment of her intriguing traits. “I have some notes at Bubba's place. I've gone over them, but there's something I'm missing.”

“Need a fresh pair of eyes, huh?”

“Yeah. So, you wanna follow me back to Bubba's?”

“I don't think so. Alone in a house with a man I really don't know? Are you kidding?”

He should've known better. This wasn't New Orleans. People talked in little towns. “How about we go out to eat? Someplace quiet where you can look over what I've gotten so far.”

The hum of an airboat filled the air.

She flashed a slight smile. “I have a better idea. Do you know the location of the money drops the sheriff found?”

He gave a little shrug. “I have a marker number he wrote down. Committed it to memory. Whatever it means.”