Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03]

by Wild Jinx

  “I’ll take charge of the reenactors and the battle,” Izzie said. “In the field behind the Veterans Club.”

  “And the four of us will be promoting the new Hells Pirates group forming as an offshoot of Hells Angels,” Sven added. “We already have a Web site, and Izzie is gonna be the secretary.”

  It boggled Charmaine’s mind, and no doubt the rest of the women, who thankfully had nothing to say.

  “Do ya think we’ll be able ta get that little longship fer Tee-John ta capture Celine?” Tante Lulu asked Val.

  Val had connections in New York City. She nodded. “Believe it or not, my friend is looking forward to it. Of course, he insists on staying aboard as captain, but that shouldn’t cramp Tee-John’s style any, since most of his work will take place below decks.”

  The four bikers grinned at each other, probably thinking they were all looney birds, which they were. But then, they were a bit looney themselves. Hells Pirates, indeed!

  “I’ll handle the entertainment,” Charmaine said. “Dress rehearsal next Friday.”

  “Is yer friend a real captain, like could he marry folks?” Tante Lulu asked Val.

  “Maybe. I’ll ask,” Val said.

  Oh, Lord! Here we go again with another surprise wedding. Actually, Luc had revealed to Remy who’d told Rachel who’d told Val who’d told Charmaine who’d told Tante Lulu that Tee-John had come to him several days ago about love advice. They were all feeling better about their plot now, knowing that Tee-John was beginning to suspect his true feelings. When a grown man asked “What is love?” he was already in love, in Charmaine’s opinion.

  So, it was full speed ahead on the Tee-John Project.

  “You people are kind of crazy,” Bull commented with a deep growly laugh, the first time he’d put more than two words together since they’d arrived.

  “So? Any objections?” Tante Lulu put her hands on her tiny hips and confronted the big guy.

  “Hell, no. We like crazy,” Sven said. “And, by the way, make sure you invite some single wenches.”

  Just when he thought everything would work out . . .

  The disaster happened on Monday when John went in to work.

  “Some items are missing from the evidence room,” the chief told him, right off, without any preamble.

  John was sitting at his desk, trying to catch up on the pile of paperwork that had accumulated in his absence. Glancing up at his boss, he detected a strange look of worry on his face.

  “What? You don’t think I took anything, do you?”

  The chief shook his head. “It was the digital camera you used at the Playpen.”

  John frowned, still unsure of the significance of the chief coming to him with this problem.

  “We think it was Congressman Martinez’s people, trying to make sure the photos of his wife were destroyed. We’ll get to the bottom of who did it, and who in the department allowed it to happen. That doesn’t matter now. The damage is already done.”

  “Damage?”

  “Whoever took the camera saw the photos in there of you and that reporter gal . . . Arseneaux, I think her name is. They got a little revenge for your part in the bust by, uh . . . ”

  John stood, now as alarmed as the chief seemed to be. “Spit it out.”

  “They were given to the National Enquirer. The tabloid plans on running a spread tomorrow, the angle being that you two are an item, and therefore the prosecution of some of Louisiana’s finest . . . meaning Martinez’s wife, along with Ted Warner and that whiny ass evangelist, was all a ploy concocted by you two.”

  “For what purpose?”

  The chief shrugged. “An exclusive story for Lois Lane, and a coup in your career.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Since when are the tabloids smart?”

  “Well, I have no intention of talkin’ with some yellow journalist to sell more of those rags.”

  “I wouldn’t let you anyhow. Besides, we’re safe. All the department has to do is issue a release claiming the photo was doctored and there is no relationship between you two. Yeah, it’s embarrassing for the two of you, but not to worry. I’ll handle it personally.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Now what? No, please don’t tell me you really are nailing her.”

  John explained the situation to his boss, including the bit about his secret child.

  The chief sank down into the interviewee chair next to his desk and put his face in his hands, rubbing up and down. When he looked at him again, he said, “This is a disaster.”

  “Tell me about it. God only knows how Celine will react.”

  He soon found out.

  When the ax falls, duck . . .

  Celine felt blindsided when she entered the newspaper office building.

  A National Enquirer reporter and a cameraman were waiting for her. They pounced as soon as she exited her car in the parking lot.

  “Are you Celine Arseneaux? Can you comment on your relationship with the Sex Cop? Did you two conspire to create the story on the Playpen bust? Could there be a new trial based on your . . . um, relationship?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The reporter waved the photo of John kissing her, the one he used as a screensaver on his computer. Celine felt crushed. The only way that photo could have gotten in the hands of the tabloid was via the traitor . . . the traitor she had been starting to love.

  Oh, John might not have given the photo to the newspaper. In fact, she doubted that he had. But he was responsible for taking the photo, and she sure as hell had been under the impression that he’d deleted it from the camera, that the only copy was in his hands.

  She shoved past the reporter and cameraman, declining to comment, except when asked, “Are you having an affair with John LeDeux?”

  “No!” she answered unequivocally.

  Once in the building, she found her problems were only beginning.

  No sooner had she sat down at her desk than Bruce motioned her toward his office. “Arseneaux! In here. Now!” he barked.

  His face was so red with anger, she feared he might bust a blood vessel.

  He shoved a copy of the infamous photograph into her face. “Did you know about this?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you chose not to tell me?”

  “I thought it was a dead issue. I didn’t know there were copies around other than—”

  “Other than the one LeDeux has?”

  She could feel her face color. “Yes.”

  “Are you having an affair with LeDeux?”

  “No. Well, sort of. Okay, sit down before you have a stroke.”

  He looked as if he’d like to leap over his desk and strangle her.

  “I’ll explain. John and I have some history. In fact, I hope this won’t be repeated, but he’s the father of my son Etienne.”

  Bruce let her relate the entire story before interrupting again. When she was finally silent, he said, “You wrote that hot cop story when you carried this kind of baggage?”

  “You made me write it.”

  “Please, Celine, give me some credit. I wouldn’t have done so if I’d known.”

  “No, you’d have just pulled me off a good story.”

  “Was LeDeux the source for your mob articles?”

  “Not directly.”

  Her non-answer did not please him. He stared at her in stony silence before an idea seemed to occur to him. “The pirate treasure hunt story that you’re about to give me . . . please, don’t tell me that LeDeux is involved in this, too.”

  “He is, but that doesn’t make it any less than a great exclusive. I’ll show it to you now, if you want.” She was about to stand and go back to her office for the hard copy.

  He waved her back down. “I want that story, and the traiteur one, too. Damn! Why didn’t I see the connection with that Rivard woman? But consider this a notice of dismissal. You have two weeks to find another job.”

  She inhale
d sharply. “You can’t do this.”

  “You’ve given me grounds out the wazoo.”

  “You’ve been looking for those grounds ever since I took this job.”

  “Maybe, but you sure as hell gave them to me, all tied up in a big pink bow. Ethical standards, baby. Ethical standards.”

  As she stormed out of his office, she told him in very graphic terms what he could do with his ethical standards.

  Fired! She reeled as the word shot through her stunned brain.

  Fired! All because of John LeDeux.

  Fired! She couldn’t afford to be without work. She would have to start a job search immediately.

  And like hell she was going to give Bruce the treasure hunt or the traiteur stories. They would be going with her to her new employer, whoever that might be.

  She stomped back to Bruce’s office and leaned in. “Forget about giving me a notice. I quit.”

  Then, despite Bruce’s sputtering and threats that she wouldn’t be able to get unemployment compensation—As if she had ever thought that far!—she cleared out her desk, making two trips down to her car. On her final pass through, she ignored Bruce’s glare and her co-workers’ glances of sympathy. Finally, in her car, heading back home, just an hour after she’d arrived, Celine sighed deeply.

  She’d lost more than a good job today. She’d lost what could have been the love of her life.

  Chapter 23

  Then the you-know-what hit the fan . . .

  John had tried repeatedly to contact Celine before she heard about the National Enquirer article from someone else. No response, even to his voice mails that it was urgent that she call him back.

  He was assuming she’d found out and was pissed. With good reason. But it wasn’t his fault, and he needed to explain that to her.

  So, he’d headed over to Houma, bringing with him a bike he’d bought for Etienne. It was the cutest thing. A two-wheeler with training wheels, painted black with red flames. He’d seen a bike in the backyard on previous visits, but it was smaller and a bit battered.

  There was no sign of Celine or her car, but there was a reporter hanging around, hoping to trap either her or him into divulging something tantalizing, though facts weren’t all that important to the tabloids. If they didn’t get the info from the horse’s mouth, they got it from their own horse’s ass selves.

  He threatened to beat the crap out of the reporter, a short twenty-something guy with a broken nose and an attitude. Not a great thing for a cop to do. Nothing like a lawsuit to cap off his day. No surprise on the broken nose, though. It had to be a job hazard, working for a tabloid.

  After waiting like forever in his car, parked at the curb, he decided to show the bike to Etienne, who was as ecstatic as a five-year-old could be. John told James where they were going, then walked beside Etienne as he rode the bike to Lilypond Park. James hadn’t been as hostile as usual. Maybe he was warming up to him. But then he probably hadn’t heard about the tabloid yet.

  Etienne’s mouth was going nonstop, as usual, even as he was riding his new bike.

  “Do you boink?”

  “Huh?”

  “Boink. Dontcha know what boinkin’ is? It’s when a guy—”

  “Whoa, tiger. I know what boinkin’ is. The question is, do you? No, don’t answer that. Why do you want to know if I . . . um, boink?”

  “Pete sez when a boy likes a girl and she likes him back, they boink.”

  “How old is this Pete?”

  “Oh, he’s lots older than me. He knows stuff.”

  “How old?”

  “Seven.”

  Good Lord! The kid is actually wondering if I’m boinking his mother.

  Then, there was the animal issue.

  “I want a dog.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Do dogs boink?”

  “Yes.”

  “And cats?”

  “Yes.”

  “And—”

  “All animals boink, Etienne.” I cannot believe I said that.

  “Yeech!”

  Then they moved on to more important issues.

  “I like to spit.”

  “That’s just great.”

  “Do you like to spit?”

  “I probably did when I was your age. Now, I just spit when I have a bad taste in my mouth.” Like a hangover.

  “Pete knows how to hawk a looey. That’s a big spit.”

  I’m gonna have to meet this Pete.

  Like lightning, or Tante Lulu, he changed subjects without warning.

  “Pigs smell. Why do pigs smell?”

  “Do you have a dad and a mom? I only gots a mom.”

  “Why do girls have pussies? Is there a kitty in there?”

  Thank God, Celine was pulling into the driveway when they got back. Etienne’s questions were giving him a rash.

  Her eyes flashed fire at him, promising a fight. But then she noticed the bike. The fire in her eyes turned into a bonfire.

  “Where did you get that bicycle?” she asked Etienne in an icy voice.

  The kid didn’t notice her tone and enthused happily, “John bought it fer me. Ain’t it cool, Mom?”

  She didn’t answer, but instead told him, “Go in the house and tell your grandfather to give you some cookies and milk.”

  “But, Mom, I wanna stay here and—”

  “Etienne. Go.”

  With a pout, the kid steered the bike up the sidewalk and around the side of the house.

  Before she had a chance to launch into him, John took her by the elbow and said, “We are not having this conversation outside. There’s a tabloid reporter hanging around.”

  She was shocked at that prospect and let him propel her up the steps and into the living room. He could hear Etienne chattering away in the kitchen to James.

  “Celine, I had nothin’ to do with this tabloid garbage.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “The camera was stolen from the evidence vault. I didn’t know about it ’til this mornin’.”

  “And why was the photo still in the camera?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You led me to believe that you had the only photo and that you were going to destroy it. And at no time did you tell me that there were so many different shots of the . . . kiss.”

  She said kiss as if it were a distasteful word.

  “I never promised any of that. I said I wouldn’t use the photo against you in any public way if you . . . well, I never intended to use it anyway.”

  “You just wanted to barter for a weekend of wild monkey sex.”

  He made the mistake of smiling.

  She hissed.

  “Celine, be honest. I never forced you to do anything. And you never made love with me because you felt threatened.”

  “No, I did it because I was stupid. But not anymore.”

  “C’mon, Celine, we have somethin’ good goin’ on between us. You can’t let this ruin things.”

  “We had something good, John. No more.”

  “You’re not being fair. I’m a cop. I can’t ethically destroy evidence. I did manage to keep it out of the eyes of the other officers. Give me credit for that.”

  “Apparently you didn’t keep it out of everyone’s eyesight, because someone obviously sold it to an outside buyer.”

  “You’re right about that.” He sighed deeply. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Nowhere. You can see Etienne as much as you want, within reason. I choose not to be here when you arrive or bring him back.”

  “I might love you. I think.”

  “Might? Be still my heart.” She laughed then, and it was not a nice laugh. “Bull!”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you if you had your tongue notarized.”

  “You’re bein’ unreasonable.”

  “Oh, yeah? I got fired today.”

  “Oh, no!” He reached to her in sympathy, but she ducked away from him. “Is there anything
I can do?”

  “You’ve done enough.”

  “You can’t lay the blame on me for this.”

  “Can’t I? One more thing. You had no right to buy Etienne that bicycle without my permission.”

  “His old one was too small for him, and I happened to see the new one in the window of a shop near Luc’s office.” He shrugged.

  “I repeat. Don’t buy him stuff.”

  “Hey, he’s my son, too.”

  Their voices had gotten increasingly loud; so, it was only belatedly that they realized that Etienne was standing in the doorway, looking with puzzlement from his mother to John.

  “Are you my daddy?”

  Celine moaned.

  This emotional abyss was not something either of them was equipped to handle today. But it couldn’t be avoided.

  He walked over and hunkered down to Etienne’s level. “Yes, I am, Etienne. And I’m very proud to be your father.”

  “Why weren’t ya here before?”

  “I didn’t know about you ’til recently. How do you feel about havin’ me for a dad?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Can I give you a hug?”

  The little boy pondered the request as if it was a weighty subject. “All right.”

  John opened his arms and held his son tightly. Eyes closed, he savored the little boy smell of him . . . skin, milk, and chocolate from the cookies.

  “Why is Mom cryin’?”

  He turned and stood in one fluid motion, Etienne still in his arms. “Because she’s so happy,” he lied, tears in his eyes as well.

  “Are you gonna live with us?”

  His eyes held Celine’s, which were still filled with hurt from his presumed betrayal. “I don’t know.”

  “Can I have a dog?”

  He had to laugh then.

  But Celine wasn’t laughing.

  He soon left, with a promise to Etienne to return for a visit the next day. As for Celine, he saw nothing but a brick wall in their future.

  Maybe they were never meant to be.

  Oyster shooters: the all-purpose clueless Cajun remedy . . .

  He was drowning his sorrows in oyster shooters at Swampy’s Tavern with his three brothers.