“What’s the matter, Brooks? I would have thought you’d be happy that we’ll finally have the guy who held you hostage.”
She climbed into the backseat of his plain sedan, another detective sitting in the front seat next to Chevalier.
“I’m just wondering how reliable this information is. I haven’t come across anything that would lead me to indicate that Lafitte was back in the city.”
Alan met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you’ve been checking in the wrong places.”
Akela focused her attention outside the car, finding it ironic that she could say the same of him but for opposing reasons.
All too soon the sedans sped into place a block up from the hotel in question. Officers, both uniformed and plainclothes, spilled out, the closing of car doors almost rhythmic. In contrast, Akela’s heart beat an uneven cadence in her chest as she fingered her cell phone in her pocket.
Three officers rounded to the back of the hotel while Akela followed Chevalier and three others into the lobby, two staying put outside.
Chevalier stayed her with a hand. “Wait here.”
Akela stared at him. “I want to be present for the arrest.”
“Why? In case I need visual verification? I think I can handle that.” He took his firearm out of its holster. “Stay here.”
The four men bypassed the elevator and took the stairs up to the left.
Akela paced a short way across the airy lobby, the setup and decor not unlike that of Hotel Josephine in that it was in dire need of renovation. A guy in his early twenties manned the front desk, but as soon as the officers disappeared up the stairs, he quickly stepped into a back room, presumably out of the line of fire.
She paced again, then plopped down on a chair, blowing out a frustrated puff of air. What was the point of bringing her along if he wasn’t going to include her in the arrest?
Then again, it probably had never been his intention to bring her along at all. That was why he’d been in a hellfire rush to get out of the station: he’d hoped to be gone by the time she showed up.
Akela crossed her arms and her legs, swinging her foot quickly back and forth as she waited. She checked her watch. If Claude was, indeed, in one of the rooms, then there was very little she could do to help protect him now. She only hoped he didn’t put up a fight. Chevalier and his men looked as though they’d be only too happy to shoot him.
CLAUDE PICKED UP the room phone on the first ring.
“They’re coming up,” said the front desk guy he’d slipped a fifty the night he’d checked in.
He didn’t need to ask who was on their way up. He quickly hung up the phone, grabbed his things then climbed from the window of the third-story room. The balcony connected to the other rooms, so it didn’t take a great deal of effort to navigate his way three rooms over. He looked down to find three uniformed officers spilling out into the back alley, their guns drawn. He quickly opened the window and let himself inside the empty room, hoping not to be spotted. Once inside, he crossed to the door, pressing his ear to the wood.
“Open up! Police!” someone shouted, then he heard the sound of wood cracking.
A moment later, Claude opened the door a hair, watching as the officers burst into the room where he’d stayed the past couple of nights. That was his cue to come out of the room he stood in and rush the elevator directly across the way.
Unlike many of the hotels in the area, this one had basement access, one of the many reasons he’d chosen it. He stepped in the elevator and pressed the button for that level then stood back out of sight. The elevator ground to a stop at the second floor. Claude closed his eyes and muttered a curse under his breath as a pair of tourists in polyester got in.
“I didn’t know it would be so infernally hot here,” the woman was saying, looking through her large straw bag for something, then slipping on a pair of sunglasses.
Claude said a quiet prayer as the man pushed the lobby button.
Damn.
He tried to make himself one with the side of the elevator as it drew to a stop and the doors slid open on the lobby level.
The couple stepped out. Just as the doors were sliding shut, he looked out—and met Akela’s gaze where she sat in the lobby looking none too happy.
The doors closed.
AKELA SAT FROZEN to the spot, questioning what she’d just seen.
Had Claude really just been on that elevator?
She looked around for any nearby officers, began to get up, nearly ran into the couple that had gotten out of the elevator, then sat back down again.
“Did you see him?”
She blinked up at where Chevalier had just burst back into the lobby from the stairs, noticeably out of breath as he looked wildly around, gun drawn.
Akela debated telling him she’d just seen Claude on the elevator, obviously heading down, but then decided not to if only because she’d then have to explain what she was still doing sitting there.
“No.”
“Damn it all to hell.”
The rumpled detective strode toward the doors, talking madly into his radio.
“Team two, do you have anything?”
A blip of static then, “No, sir. Nothing out back.”
Akela fought the urge to smile as she got up and followed Chevalier back outside, discreetly searching for signs of Claude.
Then she remembered the front deskman and the fact that the detective hadn’t approached him. Could he have been the snitch? If so, she had the feeling that the guy had been working both sides of the equation and had given Claude the warning he’d needed to make his escape.
Of course, all she had to do was say the word and the officers now gathering in front of the hotel would refocus their efforts on the lower level of the hotel.
But she remained staunchly silent, figuring it was what Chevalier deserved for trying to cut her out of the arrest.
“MIMI CULPEPPER?”
Akela had been putting off this meeting for as long as she could, not looking forward to talking to a woman both Josie and the strip club owner suspected might have negative things to say about Claude. But as her list of options for proving his innocence shortened, she was forced to look into this lead, hoping against hope that everyone was wrong and that Mimi would give her something she could use.
“What the hell do you want?”
“My name’s Akela Brooks. I’m with the FBI.”
There was a long silence from the speaker situated outside the front doors to the three-story apartment building near Jackson Square. For a moment, she thought the woman might ignore her. Then she heard the buzz indicating she was being let in. She pushed open the front door and stepped inside the stuffy hall. She took the steps to the third-floor landing and found herself face-to-face with a woman younger than she was.
“Mimi Culpepper?”
“You were expecting somebody else?” she asked, her arms crossed over her chest, an impressive chest in a tight white T-shirt with something written in red glitter that Akela couldn’t make out. The shirt combined with snug jeans revealed a body that had been built for stripping. The blonde was stunningly pretty, even if her sneering expression was not.
“I was wondering when they were going to send somebody over here,” she said hotly.
Akela frowned as she fished her notepad from her jacket pocket. “They?”
“The police, of course. I called them the day that poor girl was killed.”
Akela supposed she should be glad she hadn’t said “the poor girl Claude killed,” but she got the distinct impression that that’s what Mimi was going to say anyway.
“And no one’s been over to take your statement?”
“Nope.”
Probably Chevalier would have been there with bells on had he known he was dealing with a prime witness for the prosecution.
“So what is it you have to say that will help in the investigation, Miss Culpepper?”
She blinked at her. “That he did it, of cou
rse. Claude Lafitte killed that girl as surely as I’m standing here.”
Akela stared at her, a shiver running over her skin despite her suspicion that the woman was lying. “And your reason for thinking that is…”
“I don’t just think it, lady, I know it.” She pointed to her own neck. “He tried to strangle me.”
Akela looked at the neck in question. “And when might this have occurred?”
“Right after sex.”
The woman looked a little too smug.
Akela said, “That’s not what I meant.” She slapped her notebook closed. “At any rate, the victim wasn’t strangled.”
She debated the wisdom of sharing that tidbit. For all she knew, Mimi Culpepper would put another call into Chevalier and change her story, claim that Claude had tried to slit her throat.
She shivered again, remembering the image of Claire Laraway lying on that hotel bed naked and unmoving.
“Is that it?” the woman asked.
Akela stared at her. “For now.”
She turned and walked down the stairs, wondering how Claude had ever thought to get involved with such a scornful woman.
“How can I contact you?”
“You can’t,” Akela called back up the stairs. “We’ll call you.”
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER Akela found herself back at Hotel Josephine. There was something hovering just outside her train of thought that kept drawing her back to the hotel, something she hoped the return visit would help bring out.
Josie didn’t appear surprised to see her. Then again, she suspected that Josie was surprised by very little. It was more than just the fact that she owned and ran the hotel; there was an air about her that spoke of a difficult life, a struggle that left her dark eyes wary and her demeanor standoffish.
“Agent Brooks,” she said when Akela entered. “What can I do for you today?”
Akela looked around the large lobby. While there wasn’t much activity, things appeared to be going slightly better than they had been two days ago. “Just stopping in for a minute to see if you’ve remembered anything else.”
Josie shook her head as she swiped at something on the counter. “Nothing.”
Akela watched a couple come down the stairs. “Looks like business has picked back up.”
“Tourists who don’t know about what went down.”
Akela nodded, figuring as much.
“That and one of the ghost tours has started coming by here.”
“Oh?” Akela was aware of the nightly walking tours popular with the tourists. New Orleans was known as the ghost capital of the U.S. and some of the local folk took great advantage of the title.
“Yeah. At about nine every night a group stands outside the doors and the guide tells them all about the murder in gruesome detail.” Was it her, or had Josie just shuddered? “The Quarter Killer. A story designed to strike the fear of God in young women, you know, seeing as he’s still running around loose.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about being scared.”
Josie stared at her. “I just don’t like me or my place being connected to the story.”
Akela had the feeling that the murder wasn’t the first time the hotel’s name had made it into the news, but pretty much every place in New Orleans had a history, so she wasn’t about to push the issue.
“I was wondering if anyone thought to ask you about the victim.”
Josie waited as Akela took her notepad out of her pocket.
“Do you remember seeing her around before that night?”
Josie looked evasive.
Interesting…
“So you did, then.”
Josie shrugged. “Part of what makes me successful is that I don’t go around wagging my tongue.”
“Even if it means catching the Quarter Killer?”
Josie narrowed her eyes. “Judging by the news, the police are convinced that Claude Lafitte is your man.”
“Let’s just say some additional evidence has come to light. Now about Claire Laraway…”
Josie sighed as if she would really prefer not to be having this conversation. Akela was struck by how close they’d come to not having it. “She was in here once or twice before that night.”
“Which one was it? Once or twice?”
“Four times. She always came alone and rented a room.”
“But she didn’t stay alone.”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I never saw her with anyone.”
“But you strike me as the type that knows what’s going on at all times in her place of business.”
“So I am.”
“The man she met…”
Josie held up her hands. “Look, I never really got a close look, you know? He always came in when I was busy with other customers and snuck up the stairs.” She was absently rubbing her arm. “The same when he left.”
Akela tried to decipher whether or not she was telling the truth. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
She sighed. If the guy Claire had met here was the same ‘C’ from her diary—and Akela was sure he was—she wasn’t surprised that he would go to extra lengths not to be noticed.
“You know, you really should consider getting some security cameras put up in here,” Akela said. “A city like this isn’t safe for a girl, even a capable one like you.”
“Tell me about it. But right now I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to cover my tax bill, much less afford security cameras.”
Point taken.
Akela pocketed her notepad, absently wondering what she was going to do with the information she had compiled, information that could easily be used to deflect suspicion from Claude, bitter Mimi Culpepper aside. But was it enough? Could Claude be cleared without the real killer being caught?
“Agent?”
“Please, call me Akela.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Hmm? Oh, no. I guess not.” She slid another of her business cards across the counter. “Should you remember anything about the man, or Miss Laraway, or anything at all…please call me. I’ll make sure the info can’t be traced back to you.”
Josie picked up the card and tucked it in her pocket as if merely having it out on the counter was proof of some sort of guilt. “I will.”
Akela knew she wouldn’t, but there was little she could do about that. Until, when and if she had any additional questions, their conversation would end there.
17
LATELY, NIGHTS WERE Akela’s least favorite time. Everyone but her was asleep. She couldn’t follow up on clues. Essentially she felt like a prisoner of the darkness, her movements restricted, her options limited. And, of course, it didn’t help that even though Claude had physically released her days ago, emotionally she was still very much his hostage.
She lay across her big, empty bed, the light from the moon cutting a swatch of dim, blue light across her midsection. She really could use some sleep, but the peaceful escape eluded her like a thief in the night. Her mind clicked with everything that had happened that day—from Mimi Culpepper’s acidic bitterness, to Claude’s softly spoken erotic commands over the phone in the wee hours. Her brain refused to shut down.
She absently fingered the corner of the pillow next to her, feeling out of sorts. That restlessness might have scared her had she not been in the middle of an investigation, even though she suspected that same agitation had very little to do with Claire Laraway’s murder, and everything to do with the man accused of murdering her.
Against her better judgment, she’d given herself over to the need to call him earlier, to make sure he was all right. He hadn’t picked up. The experience had left her even more worried. She wouldn’t put it past Chevalier to keep another arrest attempt from her. And although she was pretty sure Claude wasn’t in the county lockup, there was more she was concerned about than the risk of his arrest.
She wasn’t sure when exactly her desire for brief, no-strings-attached sex with the ho
t Cajun had morphed into something more, but she was positive that was what lay at the core of her restlessness. She knew a hunger for him that went beyond sex and beyond what he could do to her with a few whispered suggestive words. When she wasn’t with him, she yearned to be with him. There didn’t seem to be a single moment that went by that she wasn’t thinking about him and, oddly enough, most of the thoughts had absolutely no connection to the case. She wanted to know what the first sentence he’d ever written was. What his first pair of shoes were. Whether or not he’d gone to his senior prom and whom he’d gone with. She wanted to see pictures of him missing his front teeth, and share memories of his upbringing. She knew his mother had died some years back and that the space on his birth certificate had read John Doe, but did he share an emotional closeness with the woman who had raised him or had they always been at loggerheads like her and her mother?
And, mostly, she was afraid that she’d never get the chance to have any of her questions answered, not only because he was facing murder charges, but because Jean-Claude Lafitte wasn’t a man made for marriage or long-term relationships. He was someone who lived fully in the here and now, who followed his urges and didn’t know the meaning of the word restraint.
Meanwhile she had spent almost the whole of her twenty-eight years reacting to events rather than making them happen.
Akela closed her eyes and swallowed hard. As difficult as it was to face, that’s who she was. Her cautiousness and natural care made her a damn good FBI agent.
It also made her a scared and lonely woman.
She felt a light touch on her arm. Goose bumps swept along her skin and she went still, fear coalescing in her stomach.
“Shh, chere, no reason to be afraid.”
Claude.
She lay quietly, wondering if the touch and his words were a figment of her imagination or if, indeed, he had somehow managed to gain access to the well-protected house and approach her bed without her hearing him.
The top sheet lifted from her body and a moment later she felt weight on the mattress next to her, then Claude’s warm, naked body curved against hers.
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