Deadly Justice (34 page)

“Dead?”  Connor knelt beside the old lady, careful not to touch anything.  Reaching forward, he pressed his fingertips against the side of her neck, checking for any indication of life.  He felt nothing.  No pulse.  No rise and fall of her chest.  “Looks that way.”

“Oh dear,” she whispered.  “There's so much blood.”

“Yeah.”

Standing, he took a couple of steps back, reached into his pocket for his cell phone and dialed nine-one-one.

“I need the police at the Wayward Wanderer Inn on I-10.  There's been a death . . . That's right . . . No, there are two of us in the room . . . Yes, ma'am, we'll wait right outside the door for the officers to get here.  Thank you.”

Within minutes the familiar wail of sirens drew closer, accompanied by flashing lights.  Killing the siren, one uniformed and one plainclothes officer alighted from the patrol car and walked toward him.  Since all the rooms were located on the ground floor, spectators filled the parking lot and milled about in the now crowded hallways.

Connor spotted several folks from the tour group standing a few doors away, anxiety and concern clear in their expressions.  Mrs. Spencer was one of their own.  He knew Alyssa would deal with the aftermath of this tragedy, offering compassion and sympathy to each Whispering Pines resident.  Who'd share a little sympathy with her, he wondered?

“Lyssa, why don't you talk with your group while I explain to the officers what's happened.”  The only thing that would keep her from dwelling on finding a dead body, especially someone she knew, was to keep her busy.  He knew Alyssa well enough that giving her something to focus on, a task to perform, made the most sense.  Pale, in obvious shock, she went into immediate helper mode.  He wished he could hold her, comfort her through the trauma of what she'd witnessed, but he had to deal with the cops.

The people from Whispering Pines Senior Living Center needed to be handled gently.

Damn.  First a bus crash and now one of them is dead.  How much more can these old folks take?

The clearing of a throat brought things rushing back to the here and now.

“Officers, I'm Connor Scott.  I called in the death.”

Without a word, the uniformed police officer, a tall, rail-thin Hispanic man walked through the door into Abigail Spencer's room.  The other stayed next to Connor.  Pulling out a notebook and pen, he got right down to business.  That's good, Connor thought.

“Mr. Scott, I'm Detective Taglier.  How did you know the deceased?”  The southern drawl followed by an 'I'm your good buddy' grin immediately grated on Connor's nerves.  Hell, he didn't even know this guy and already the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention and he wanted to growl a warning to back the hell off.

“Mrs. Spencer was a passenger on our tour bus.  We had an accident yesterday afternoon.  Slid on an icy patch on the interstate.  Veered off the road.”

“Yeah, I heard about it down at the station.  Was she injured in the accident?”

“Nothing serious that I'm aware of.”  Connor stood with arms akimbo, looking at the policeman.  Something didn't sit right about him even though he was just doing his job.

“She had a bump on her forehead, I think.  It bled a bit but she was checked out at the emergency clinic by a physician and cleared.  Everybody was, except for the driver.”  At the officer's raised brow, Connor continued.  “Broken leg, fractured pelvis and a concussion.”

“Ouch.”  Jotting down notes, the detective glanced through the open doorway behind Connor.

“The young lady with you, where does she fit into all this?  Was she with you when you found Ms. Spencer?”

Connor bristled at his tone but answered.  “Her name's Alyssa Scott.  She's the Activities Director for the tour group.  Works at the senior living center where they're from.”  The officer nodded again.  He gave an exasperated sigh before continuing.  “A few of the other passengers were worried when Abigail, Mrs. Spencer, didn't come to the restaurant for breakfast.  They sent Alyssa to check on her.  I came with her.” 

“Was the door locked when you arrived?”  The officer's question was directed at Connor, but his eyes kept straying to Alyssa, and it pissed Connor off.

“No.  I knocked several times.  When there was no answer, I turned the knob and it opened.”

“Uh, huh.”

The second officer came out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.  After a quick whispered conversation with his partner he strode over to the patrol car, his wide steps quickly eating up the distance.

“So, Mr. Scott, you opened the door and . . .”

Connor turned back to the cop.  “I told Alyssa to wait outside and I went in to check on Mrs. Spencer.  Immediately upon entering the room I saw feet sticking out from beside the bed.  When I got closer, that's how I found her.”

“And Ms. Scott stayed outside the whole time?”

He would like to say yes but knew forensic evidence would show she'd been in the room.  “No, she came into the room and saw the body as well.”

“Did you notice anything else, Mr. Scott?”

“Yeah, I noticed blood on the edge of the night stand by the body.”

The officer jotted down a few more notes in his bent, crumpled notebook before continuing.

“Anything else?  See anybody hanging around the parking lot?”

“No.  I called nine-one-one and waited here for you.”

“Okay.  Thanks.  I'll need to speak with Ms. Scott, take her statement.  Same last name.  Any relation to you?”

“Ex-wife.”

“Huh.  Amicable I take it.”

Connor quirked a brow, refusing to rise to the subtle baiting question.

Connor knew most of the questions were standard procedure, he'd been around enough cops in his job with the fire department to know it, but he didn't want this guy talking to his wife.

Ex-wife, dammit.

End of Excerpt

 

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(New Orleans Connection Series Book #2)

Excerpt:

All Jinx noticed when she peeled her eyes open was darkness.  A wall of nearly impenetrable blackness, though her eyes slowly adjusted and images formed.  Well, that plus the fact her head was killing her.  Flat on her back a heavy weight pinned her to the ground.  A warm, solid, breathing weight.  Muffled sounds began penetrating the fog of smoke, and the smell of…was that sulfur…as her brain kicked into gear and she remembered the explosion, and the gorgeous dark-haired cop throwing himself on top her, protecting her from the blast.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”  The words whispered beside her ear rumbled in a hoarse voice laced with concern.  Gentle fingertips brushed the tousled hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.  A bright light shown downward, and she instinctively raised her hand blocking out the glaring intrusion.  Flashlight, she realized, squinting against the beam.

“I'm okay.  What happened?”

“Bomb.  Probably a homemade pipe bomb from the look of things.  Lots of bang, though not as much damage as C4.  The pizza delivery guy carried it into the station.”  The cop's weight slowly eased off her, and Jinx immediately missed the security of his body pressed tightly against her.  Odd, she usually couldn't wait to get out from beneath a man's heavy bulk.  This felt different.  Comforting, protected. 
Safe.

“Here, let me help you up.”

“Thanks.”  She placed her hands into his outstretched ones. He gently tugged, steadying her when she wobbled on her cut heel.

Damn, why'd I take off my brand new shoes?  Oh, yeah, right.  Crazy Russians in my house.

A controlled kind of chaos surrounded them as a tall black man with salt-and-pepper hair, she thought she remembered him being called Hilliard, directed people, plainclothes and uniformed.  Another uniformed cop lay on the ground as several people tried to stem the blood pouring from his mangled right hand.  The beams from multiple flashlights streaked down the walkway between desks, and the warm humid night air poured through the gaping hole in the side of the building where the windows had blown outward.  Outside, the shouts of officers trying to control the unruly crowd of ghoulish spectators, and the murmurs of the growing crowd hoping for a glimpse of the controlled chaos, could be heard. 

“Ambulances are on the way, cap.”

“How many injured?”  The captain's deep baritone oozed confidence and calm, a rumble that echoed over the babble of voices.  Jinx rubbed her hands along her upper arms, felt the trembling wash through her in the aftermath of the earlier adrenaline spike. 
Hold it together.  Gotta get out, check on Carlo
. 

“Are you hurt?  Bleeding anywhere, sweetheart?”  The detective, the one who'd been protecting her, what was his name again—Remy—was asking her questions
.  Concentrate, Jinx.  Tell him everything's great so you can get to Carlo.

“I'm fine, just had the wind knocked out of me.  Look, things are crazy right now.  You need to help your friends.  I'll head out and you can…”

“Lamoreaux, she doesn't leave,” Hilliard's voice interrupted. His sharp brown gaze seemed to see straight into her, plumb her every secret.

“You don't need me to stay.  Obviously I made a huge mistake.  I'll head home and straighten everything out and…”

“Sorry, sugar, but you're not going anywhere,” Remy's voice interrupted.  His hand latched onto her elbow, cementing her in place.  She tugged, trying to wrench herself free, without any luck since his grip was solid, forceful and oddly comforting.

Remy glanced once toward his captain, nodded and turned back to her.  “You heard the captain, you're here for a bit longer.  Let's get out of the way and let the emergency crews do their stuff.”  Turning to the captain, he added, “Cap, I'm taking her down to interview two.  Keep me posted.”

Hilliard gave a brief wave of dismissal.  Remy's hand slid against the small of her back as he guided Jennifer through the rubble and debris as they carefully made their way past the blast zone, and into the open area of the entrance to the station.  The front doors were splayed wide, the warmth of the night air permeating the foyer.  Temperatures had soared during the afternoon, and the atmosphere felt muggy, making it hard to breathe.  Dust particles danced in the flashlight beams, yet Remy trudged forward continuing to the other side of the building.  Guiding her down another hall, the darkness was illuminated by cops rushing forward, more flashlights and even a couple of lit flares penetrated the bleak gloom.   Pausing in front of the second door they came across, Remy glanced at her.  She knew he checked for signs of injury, his eyes raking her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. His scorching look pooled heat deep in her belly and a spark of attraction arced.

Merde,
now was not the time to be thinking about how attractive the cop was. How his eyes had crinkled at the corners when he'd smiled earlier, or the slight upward tilt of his mouth when he'd called her sweetheart.  Think about your brother.  Dubshenko denied shooting him, but Jinx knew what she'd seen.  The argument she'd heard.  The loud pop of the gun firing.

“Have a seat, Jennifer.   Make yourself comfortable,” Remy chuckled then added, “at least as comfortable as you can get under the circumstances.”  He laid the flashlight on its side so the light shone across the table top and onto the brick wall.

“I believe you.  About Dubshenko shooting your brother.  The good news—Carlo is still alive.  The bad news—Dubshenko has him.”  He stood and walked over to a file cabinet in the corner of the small interrogation room, yanked open the second drawer and fumbled around inside.

Jinx waited with her arms wrapped around her body, not saying a word. She was afraid to say anything at this point. He was right.  Dubshenko had Carlo, and if she gave the cops any information he wouldn't hesitate to kill him and dump his body in the swamps, never to be found.

“Ah, ha!  Here we go.”  An old fashioned cassette tape recorder landed on the table. The light from the flashlight gleamed against its black and chrome plastic surface. The sheen was dull and worn from age and heavy use.  Next, a couple of cassette tapes were plunked down on the table.

“Normally, we'd videotape our interview for both documentation and for your protection.  Since the electricity is off, we're gonna do this the old-fashioned way.”  Grabbing up one of the cassettes Remy fed it into the recorder, and pressed play.  The scratchy sound of the tape feeding was audible in the quiet of the room.

“Great.  Hopefully this baby has halfway decent batteries, and doesn't conk out on us partway through.”  He smiled, and Jinx felt that little zing she'd noticed earlier.

Grabbing his chair he flipped it around, straddling it so he faced her.  He pressed the play and record buttons simultaneously with an emphatic stab of his fingers.

“This is Detective Remy Lamoureaux of the New Orleans Police Department interviewing Ms. Jennifer Smith at 9:15 p.m., July fifteenth.  This is a witness statement being recorded strictly on audio as there has been a bomb explosion at the station and power is currently off, so no video recording is possible.  Ms. Smith, in your own words, I need you to repeat what we discussed earlier this evening regarding the shooting of your brother, Carlo.”