Hall, Jessica (12 page)

She removed the used snifter from Louie's desk before she went to
the entertainment center and turned on the television. The chief of Homicide
was already on, delivering a statement to the reporters. She disliked George
Pellerin, who had come from New York City and had little respect for the way
things were done in Creole society. She only invited him to her functions out
of deference to her son. The sooner she convinced J. D. to leave the police
force and take up a safer profession, the better. Until then she could put up
with almost anyone.

"Isabel Marie Duchesne has been moved to a medical facility
for treatment of a head injury," the captain was saying. "At this
time I have no update on her condition."

"What was she doing at the warehouse, Captain?" one of
the reporters called out. "Was she involved with Marc LeClare?"

Pellerin's face reddened. "Ms. Duchesne is a witness in an
ongoing investigation. That's all I can tell you now."

The balloon-shaped glass fell from her hand unnoticed, shattering
on the hardwood floor.
Isabel Marie Duchesne.
After all the prayers she
had made, hoping never to hear that name again.

Elizabet looked up at the shadow box on the wall, which Louie had
built to display what he considered their most precious heirloom—a small square
cassette box in which his family's original matriarch had brought her trousseau
with her from Paris. Elizabet's own family could trace its roots back to Jean
Baptiste Le Moyrte,
sieur de Bienville, King Louis XV's builder and founder of New
Orleans. For this reason, she had always considered her husband's pride in his
"casket girl" ancestress to be slightly embarrassing. The girl had
really been no better than a prostitute, selling herself in marriage in
exchange for a pitiful dowry and free passage to America. The same way Isabel
Duchesne had tried to use Jean-Delano to better her situation.

I won't let her hurt my son again.

Unable to sit down or relax, J. D. went to the windows of the ER
lobby to watch the evening traffic roll by. If Sable had to be admitted, he'd
have to post an armed officer outside her room. Hell, he'd stay and guard her
himself—maybe when she regained consciousness, she'd be more in a mood to talk
to him.

"Was that your wife you brought in?" a gentle voice
asked.

J. D. turned to see a middle-aged woman standing next to him. She
had on a faded housedress and looked tired, but her smile was sympathetic. What
she'd asked him finally registered—she thought Sable was his wife.

Something twisted in his gut. "No, ma'am. She's... a
friend."

"Well, don't you worry. This here's a good hospital."
She nodded toward the treatment rooms. "My husband's in there now. He
gobbles down two of my
po'boys at lunchtime; then he says he's having chest pains."

Her tone was amused but he could see the worry in her eyes.
"Maybe it's nothing serious."

"Indigestion, most like. He'll blame it on the peppers and
onions, like always." She laughed at herself. "I keep telling that
man he's got to stop eating so much and so fast, but does he listen to
me?"

He smiled a little. "Hard for a man to do when his wife's a
good cook."

"I suppose." She eyed him. "Your girl looked like
she bumped her head real bad—you all get in an accident?"

"No, ma'am. She fell." He looked back through the
window. "I tried to catch her, but I didn't get there in time." All
he seemed to do was try to catch Sable while she slipped through his fingers.

A nurse called out a name, and the woman patted his arm.
"That's me. Don't you fret, son. You just take care of her now, and she'll
be fine." She walked over to the nurse, then laughed and accompanied her
back to the treatment rooms.

J. D.'s attention strayed to a figure in a lab coat and scrubs
talking to an old man outside. It was a woman, but her back was to him. A stray
shaft of light broke through the gathering storm clouds, making her red hair
blaze like dark fire.

That can't be—

He swore as he ran for the exit, but the driver of the sedan
blocked his path.

"Watch where the hell you're going!"

"Sorry." J. D. paused long enough to steady the old man
before trotting outside.

Sable was already behind the wheel of the sedan
and
backing out. She'd not only faked him out; she was ditching him.

Over his dead body.

J. D. could call the station and explain how the only witness to
Marc LeClare's death had just stolen a car, and wait for backup. Or he could
catch her.

He didn't even have to think about it.

A minute later J. D. caught up with Sable on the highway, but kept
back three car lengths so she wouldn't spot him. He knew where she was
headed—the Atchafalaya, just as she had the night of the dance.

Only this time, she'd made a serious mistake.

Sable probably thought he was still some lovesick boy who couldn't
see straight around her. She didn't realize he'd spent the last ten years
dealing with death and destruction. Tracking down killers had changed him, had
removed every ounce of pity from him, and had tempered him into what he was: an
efficient, coldblooded hunter.

Terri took the predicted chewing out from Pellerin alone and in
silence, only speaking up when required to answer. Like the press conference,
it had not gone well, mainly because no one could get in touch with J. D., and
the hospital still hadn't called back with any prognosis on Sable.

"I don't care if her brains are leaking out of her
ears," the captain said toward the end of his rant. "You get on over
to Mercy, have them slap on whatever Band-Aids she needs, and bring her back
here for questioning. She stays in protective custody until we get the autopsy
on LeClare, and no one—including her—talks to the press unless they clear it
through me. I
want a full progress report typed on my desk in two hours. Are
you straight on this, Sergeant?"

Terri would have to get J. D. to do the reports, if she could pry
his hands off their witness long enough for him to type them. He owed her for
this. "Yes, sir."

Pellerin's phone rang for the fifth time since Terri had entered
his office, and he gave it a disgusted look. "Go on, get outta here."

Terri escaped the station house and headed for her car, lighting a
cigarette on the way. She'd been meaning to try to quit again since the
beginning of the year, but nicotine withdrawal turned her into a total bitch,
and she figured she was doing the world a favor by waiting until she went on
vacation.

Only now she wouldn't get any downtime until they cleared the
LeClare case—which wouldn't be soon, unless Isabel started remembering
something. And then there was the very strong possibility that Terri might have
to break in a new partner.

Good-bye, vacation.
She took a deep drag and
then released the acrid smoke from her lungs on a sigh. She really did need to
quit, and soon.
I sure hope she's worth it, J.D.

"Terri."

She swung around, expecting to see her partner. "Where the
fu—" She cut herself off as soon as she met green eyes instead of blue.
Every emotional wall inside her went into full lockdown. "That was
quick." As a couple of uniforms stopped to chat outside the main station
entrance a few feet away, she took another drag from her cigarette, making the
tip flare. "You appropriate a plane for yourself, Marshal?"

Chief Fire Marshal Cortland Gamble looked the way he usually
did—pressed, polished, and pissed-off. He was a few inches taller than J. D.
and a little
broader in the chest, and his hair was brown instead of black.
Otherwise he could have been his brother's twin.

All except the expression on his face, and his mouth. The
expression said he ate smart-ass female detectives for breakfast. The mouth said
he'd start at the toes and work his way up.

Quit thinking about his mouth.

"Come here." He took her arm and hauled her around the
side of the building, out of hearing range. "What's going on? Where the
hell is my brother?"

"Easy on the jacket. It's dry-clean only." She eased
herself from his grip.
"J.
D.'s over at the hospital, getting our
witness patched up." She glanced at her watch. "I've been taking
messages for him all day, though. Why don't I have him call you when he gets
back?"

"Why aren't you with him?"

"Because we're not joined at the hip." She'd taken a lot
of official crap for J. D. on this case already, and she wasn't going to take
it from his big brother. "But if you've got a problem with how we handle
our cases, Chief, you can speak to Captain Pellerin." Unable to resist,
she took another drag and exhaled a little smoke in his face.

"I intend to." Cort plucked the cigarette from her hand,
dropped it, and ground it out under his shoe. "This woman, Isabel
Duchesne—what did she say?"

"She said she can't remember anything." She had an urge
to light another one, but he'd probably rip up the entire pack, and then she'd
have to punch him. "It's pretty obvious that she's trying to protect
herself, or LeClare. My guess is, she was his mistress."

"Fuck."

She arched a brow. "You kiss your mother with that
mouth?"

He looked around for a minute, as if the patience he needed were
hovering somewhere near. "I want an update on everything you've got."

"I want a Maserati, myself. Something in a nice cherry red,
with lots of gold detailing. It's the insurance that holds me back."
Feeling stupid, she pushed past him, heading for the parking lot and the
quickest means of escape.

He caught up to her. "This isn't funny, Terri."

"Hey, my boss is all over my ass like a bad tattoo, your
brother is about to trash his career, and I've got an injured witness to
interview and a case to solve. Believe me, it's not been a bag of chuckles
today." She pulled her keys from her trouser pocket and fumbled with them
until she got the driver's-side door of her car unlocked.

"I need to know what's happening."

"You can talk to the desk sergeant. I'm a little too damn
busy to hold your hand right now and tell you your little brother's going to be
all right."

When she opened the door, he put out a hand and slammed it shut.
"My brother is not getting involved in this shit with Isabel
Duchesne."

She lifted her brows. "Here's a news flash for you: I tried
to talk your brother into ditching this case. He wouldn't hear of it. J. D.
wants
to be up to his ears in this shit with Isabel Duchesne, and it looks like
that's where he's staying. But if you think you can pull him out, have at
it."

"I'll have the case transferred to my arson task force; it's
our jurisdiction anyway."

"You do that." The cell phone in her car rang, and
she
nudged him aside to open the door and answer it. "Vincent."

She listened as the dispatcher relayed the latest news from the
hospital, and closed her eyes briefly, wishing she could slam her head into
something.
Sorry, J. D., I did what I could.

"Got it. Relay this to Captain Pellerin—tell him I think we
ought to issue an APB for Duchesne. Right. Keep me posted." She ended the
call.

"Is it J. D.?"

Cecilia Tibbideau heard the front door of the trailer slam, and
glanced around the tiny, spotless kitchen before she set down the basket of
laundry. "Billy?" She rubbed her palms against the front of her
apron. "That you?"

"Goddamn bitch." His footsteps made hollow, heavy thuds
on the floor as he strode into the kitchen. His thin face was flushed and shiny
with sweat, and he was carrying a half a six-pack and a bottle wrapped in a
brown bag. "Get me a glass, Cee."

She went to the cabinet and took down her husband's favorite
drinking glass, a beer stein he'd stolen from a local bar. She made sure it was
clean before she set it down on the table in front of him. "You hungry,
honey?" Sometimes he didn't get so drunk if he had something to eat first.
"I kept your plate in the oven—"

"Shut up." He opened the bottle and poured a measure of
whiskey into the stein, then thumped the bottle down on the table.

Cecilia hadn't expected him home so late—he'd
said
he had a job to do that would take all morning, but he wanted dinner hot and on
the table at five. It was past seven now. There were fresh bruises on his face,
and his bottom Up was split.
Caine Gantry had done that.