Bond of Darkness (24 page)

He was silent, disapproval roaring through the room.

"Ethan, please. You'll be my CI, telling me where and when to go to catch these bastards," she coaxed, emphasizing his role. "When I show up, you and your men can be there, too—thick as fleas on a coonhound. Has anything else worked for you?"

"No." A muscle throbbed in his jaw.

"Then we'll go with my plan until something better comes along." She moved closer, stopping only a few feet away. His body heat teased her, rich and inviting as the sun, miraculous in a man who lived in the darkness.

"Very well. But I'll pull you out of any situation that goes bad."

She snickered. "We've both worked undercover before, Ethan. You've got the right to call off an op against these bastards and so do I." She stuck out her hand. "Deal?"

He swallowed hard but he shook. "Deal."

HALFWAY BETWEEN NEW ORLEANS AND BATON ROUGE. THE SAME NIGHT

Twan Eldridge rattled through the pine forest, torn between watching the road ahead and his odometer. It was easier to be amazed Big Sis's sunflower-yellow Beetle could keep moving along this swampy morass, than think about the meeting ahead. Let alone remember why he'd been crazy enough to buttonhole Passard at the last police chiefs' conference.

Two red reflectors flashed at exactly the promised point and he turned hard right, sliding on the mud and almost smashing the Beetle against a pine tree.

No cop would pull over a black man driving this piece of shit, no matter how desperate they were to make their ticket quota. No, they'd just laugh and wave the poor darkie on, figuring he had apron strings stretching all the way back to his mama's knee. Which was why Big Sis had made all her sons learn how to drive in it and why he'd borrowed it for this trip, instead of his official Crown Vic. No way he was having his license checked by some ticket-happy rural cop and letting anybody in NOPD know he was out here.

But it would have felt damn fucking good to meet his peers like a deputy chief, with a big car and a driver. Not like some teenage boy sneaking around in the woods hoping not to be caught by his old man.

He snarled a curse unused since his years in Vice and hit the gas a little harder. It was still a better way to observe Jamaal's seventh birthday than laying flowers on his grave.

One last turn at a Y-fork. This part of the bayou was blacker than an Algiers Point back alley so he couldn't tell how many had come before him. Or had left unable to wait for him, no matter how much work they knew Chief Broussard liked to dump on his deputy chiefs.

Twan shrugged and turned left. He was in too deep now to back out, no matter what it cost.

The track abruptly widened into a muddy trough, leading to a small cedar house, with a half dozen cars and pickups parked in front.

He closed his eyes for a moment and whispered a prayer of thanks, before stopping in front of the house and extracting himself from the so-called car.

"Yo, dude, whassup?"

A short, square man bounded down the steps to seize, hug, and buss the newcomer on both cheeks like a long-lost cousin. "'Allo, Antwaan! Tante Cecille sent jumbo jes' for you!"

Passard must have been spending more time outdoors lately. His skin was swarthier than usual, a dark gold next to Twan's matt brown.

"What, me miss your auntie's cooking?" Twan retorted and offered an enormous shopping bag. "Brought some coffee and chocolate."

Passard's grin deepened. Coffee meant Twan had the files, while chocolate indicated he hadn't been followed.

But to be reduced to using code words with another cop, especially an honest one, was like being fucked over, even if it meant they could relax a little.

"Why are we standing out here? Let's go inside and eat." Passard clapped an arm around Twan's shoulders and led him up the steps. The front door shut behind them, unleashing a storm of friendly voices.

Passard's hunting cabin was filled to overflowing with men and women. Every seat was taken in the single room, and a couple of men sat on the stairs leading to the attic. At least everyone could see everybody else, even if the furniture looked decades old, and it was unlikely those bare wooden walls could be successfully bugged.

"That chair's yours, Eldridge," Passard announced and held up two beers.

Twan accepted the seat and one of the cold bottles, twisting it open after a quick nod of thanks.

For the first time in days—weeks? months?—he allowed himself to relax and enjoy friendly company. Robuchon from Baton Rouge, pallid and plump, deadly as a water moccasin. Jenkins from Plaquemines, with the steady cunning of the very poor and the very realistic. Montagné from La Fourche, with the huge collection of knock-knock jokes and shooting awards, and more.

The greetings, the hugs, the slaps on the back, the warm concern that he eat a good meal, the lack of any questions, whether spoken or not…

Cops he could trust with his life, who'd sometimes helped each other block one of Bacchus's Temple's smaller tentacles, but who'd never come together in a group this large before. If anything went wrong, they'd be lucky to escape with their lives. Their careers would be dead meat for sure.

But everyone here, both men and women, were openly armed, whether their physiques screamed desk pusher or SWAT. Twan was pretty damn sure Robuchon, for example, hadn't heard a shot fired in anger for at least twenty years. On the other hand, that dude was the best and dirtiest political infighter in Louisiana.

"Are we sure your home is clean?" Robuchon asked Passard, echoing Twan's half-formed question.

"Oh yeah. Feds swept it floor to ceiling yesterday, as part of a training exercise. My boys have watched it ever since."

"You sure it's still safe, this deep in the woods?" Twan asked, remembering his long trek.

Passard's eyes twinkled briefly. "We're only about a mile from the highway on the other side. We brought you in the long way to make sure you weren't followed."

"I wasn't." That was for damn sure. He hadn't forgotten that many of his old skills.

"No—but we'd have stopped them even if you were, since this is an oil company hunting lodge. They agreed to run a joint exercise with my boys to see if anybody can penetrate their perimeter."

Twan studied his host, his brain rapidly recalculating the odds. The oil company was changing sides? That could really start changing the balance of power.

"They don't know exactly who's here and they don't want to," Passard assured him.

Which made this piece of real estate the most private place in Louisiana.

Passard tossed him a two-finger salute. "Any other questions?"

"No way, dude." Twan bit the bullet and pulled the files out of his briefcase. Maybe taking action would quell his incipient ulcer. God knows the divorce hadn't made him sleep any better.

He dumped them onto the coffee table, letting the slim folders slide from one end to the other. His companions leaned forward, their earlier banter entirely gone.

"There've been a lot more murders in New Orleans lately. It started on July sixth and has gone on at the same pace ever since, if you include all of the neighboring parishes."

Startled looks flashed around the room.

He pushed the last few folders out of the bag and onto the others. The mound trembled, too large for the surface, and several folders started to dive off the edges. Hands, both black and white, shot out to rescue them.

"How many?" somebody whispered.

"At least ten a day, maybe more."

He could pity them their shock at the numbers. He'd been able to figure that out more slowly. But he continued the briefing.

"All killed by having their throats ripped out."

"Dear God," somebody muttered. "I'd heard that before but—"

"And every one linked to Bacchus's Temple, the big casino," Twan finished and sat back, brushing his hand through his rough, short-cut 'fro.

"Madame Celeste's? The bitch who owns the state? Jesus, maybe now we can get some changes."

"That's why people have started to mutter in my parish."

"Yeah, tourists are starting to comment online. Concierges are warning single women against going out alone," Twan agreed. "Getting bad for business."

"But nobody can speak openly." Passard stated the obvious.

"Against Madame Celeste? Not unless you want to die." In a really stupid way, that is, as opposed to accomplishing something. "I can't even investigate individual killings. Officially, they're all accidents."

"Accidents—with torn throats?" A man's voice turned soprano.

"Yeah." He finished his beer.

"What about something statewide? The governor has loathed Madame Celeste, ever since she hosted the party that got her son killed."

"What can she do that Madame Celeste wouldn't find out about?"

"Ask Washington for help," said Robuchon.

Twan stared at him. Where the hell had that idea come from?

Silence sliced the room.

"They're only one phone call away," Robuchon pointed out. "Any governor just has to ask for agents from Washington, not local, same as if they're investigating an ordinary corruption case."

Twan swung around to look at Passard. Could it be that simple? Other heads swiveled and voices surged like buzz saws.

Then they started to smile.

SAN ANTONIO RIVER WALK. EVENING OF JULY 14

"Are you absolutely sure I can't wear an ordinary T-shirt?" Steve demanded. "Got my Harley tee right there. Tonight's only a dry run, after all."

She waggled her thumb at the heap of black and white cotton beside the yard-wide display of fresh flowers.

"And have anyone believe you're staying at a top boutique hotel on the River Walk? Sorry." Ethan paced slowly around her, eyeing her critically. He was wearing all white, including a guayabera, the traditional Cuban embroidered shirt. Thanks to that, his now black hair, and some much more subtle changes courtesy of a makeup artist, he looked like a wealthy, Latin tourist, not an arrogant Scandinavian bastard.

She fumed, trying to think of another approach to becoming comfortable.

"And before you ask, yes, we do have to stay here, since it has the best layout for tonight's exercise. Could you please lift up your hair?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him and obeyed. Paranoid, that's what he was. She'd buy him a drink when this was over. "All I have to do is order a drink in a restaurant, Ethan. And you've got how many men for this op?"

"Altogether? About a half dozen."

She supposed she didn't blame him for not telling her all about how he conducted his business, after she'd told him her opinion of it. But, damn.

"Thanks, Steve, the wire looks great."

She shook her hair out, letting it fall over her shoulders. His eyes flashed but he said nothing. Once he'd have followed up that look with a mind-numbing kiss. Crap.

She rushed into speech like a rookie.

"It'll go fine, Ethan. This silk tunic has enough flowers to hide my mike. It's also so loose nobody Ml ever see my Colt."

He opened his mouth but shut it without saying anything. Maybe he thought the tunic was so roomy there'd be enough extra fabric nobody could see through it. God knows the designer jeans underneath weren't designed for comfort, even in what was supposed to be a relaxed fit.