by Mary Ellis
Nicki silently vowed to not stay long enough to find out. She also vowed to help this woman stop making bad choices any way she possibly could.
“Before you make yourself comfy in here, I’ll show you your room.” Beaming with pride, Christine led the way down the minuscule hall and swung open the door to a bedroom.
At least she had run the sweeper on the small patch of exposed carpeting. Boxes of toys were stacked to the ceiling, blocking the room’s only natural illumination. A stuffed rabbit’s ragged ear hung from a box. Bunk beds flanked one wall, and on the opposite wall were two small bureaus. With the only source of ventilation obstructed, the smell of dirty socks assailed Nicki’s senses. “This will be fine,” she lied.
“When I get my kids back, you’ll have to make other arrangements. But that probably won’t be for a while.”
Nicki saw both grief and guilt filling her friend’s face. “How is your case going? Any update?”
“Nah. The lawyer says I’ll be lucky to get a hearing scheduled before January. Lots of cases on the docket ahead of mine.”
The attorney probably isn’t losing sleep over it either, considering how many domestic cases a legal aid lawyer handles, Nicki thought. Christine’s kids were her life. One slipup had taken away the only good thing she had.
The kitchen phone rang, breaking the painful moment and giving Nicki time to assess her new quarters. The last thing she wanted was to fall into a routine of daytime TV while recounting the ways life knocked you down. She had too much experience with that back in Natchez. It was one of the reasons she’d left. Many of her girlfriends preferred to spend their time complaining about their lives instead of doing something to change their sorry existence. Nicki didn’t need to look beyond her own house to witness a hard-luck story better than any on The Jerry Springer Show. Rose Price’s debilitating illness was a culmination of a lifetime of sorrow and disappointment.
Nicki shook away thoughts of her mother. I’ve only been gone twenty-four hours. Inhaling a breath of stale air, she walked outside to get her rolling duffel, tote bag, and makeup case. Her small amount of luggage seemed more than the room could absorb. If Christine was working the second shift, she would be gone when Nicki returned from a hard day of sleuthing. They would probably seldom cross paths, especially if Christine had visitation with her kids on Sundays.
“I can’t believe how much we have to catch up on, Nic. For starters, did they ever find out who killed your dad?” Christine’s question cut through Nicki’s fog as she crammed her few garments into the tiny closet.
“No, and I don’t really want to talk about it. Why don’t you tell me about your kids instead? Do you have any recent pictures? I haven’t seen them since they were in diapers.”
Christine’s eyes lit with joy as she hurried for the photo album. Nicki exchanged her suit and heels for a long-sleeved polo shirt, jeans and sneakers, and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly as they ate pizza, reminisced about high school, and swapped girl talk. Christine didn’t ask many questions about Nicki’s college years or why she’d come to New Orleans when so many residents had found new places to live after Katrina. She seemed far more interested in gossip about their former Forrest High School classmates. Eventually, though, Christine fell dead asleep on the couch, but Nicki was so wired she couldn’t sleep if her life depended on it. The neighbors’ TV blared through the aluminum walls, and soon her new roommate’s snores added to the cacophony. Nicki slipped from the trailer, locking the door behind her with her brand-new key. She could sleep tomorrow while Christine worked at the plant. Right now she had someplace to go.
NINE
Nicki headed to the address on her client’s business card, 786 Rue Royale in the French Quarter. My, oh, my. Can’t they just call it Royal Street like everywhere else in America? A quick Google search had told her all she needed to know about Hunter’s background—he had old family money, high society connections, and a beautiful girlfriend whose face would not have been out of place on the cover of Vogue.
It was after eleven when she parked and stared at the bank of windows above a pricey-looking shop. Every light glowed brightly in Galen’s apartment. Apparently, the electric bill wasn’t a problem. Maybe a guilty conscience wouldn’t let the guy sleep.
Her compact car, although fuel efficient and practical for getting into tight parking spots, didn’t provide lounging comfort. After fifteen minutes of shifting around and jamming her elbows, Nicki got out of her car, walked across the street, and pressed the button next to Galen’s wrought iron gate. When the intercom crackled to life, she identified herself and then listened to utter silence. No who? No get lost? Maybe the man couldn’t remember her name after their auspicious introduction earlier that afternoon. Finally a buzzer released the latch, and Nicki pushed open the gate. Beneath a shady canopy, a brick pathway led to the steps to Galen’s rarefied world. Although the passageway between buildings was narrow, clay pots of blooming shrubs and flickering gaslights softened the appearance of an average alley. She climbed the steps slowly, questioning the wisdom of her decision to contact him at his home.
“Come in, Miss Price. I wasn’t expecting you.” The great man himself opened the fancy carved door, looking haggard and in need of a shave.
“No butler, Mr. Galen?” Nicki asked with a smile as she stepped across the threshold.
“It’s his night off. Coffee?”
“Sure. Cream and three sugars. And please call me Nicki. Since I’m beholden to you for two hundred bucks, we should be less formal.”
“Cream and three sugars it is, Nicki.” He moved past her through the high-ceilinged foyer without a backward glance.
Without invitation, she followed him into his kitchen—a large, airy room with an expanse of windows overlooking the garden. Everything in the room was white—tile, countertops, appliances, and the art glass chandelier. Clean, simple lines with no clutter. There wasn’t even a ubiquitous toaster ready for morning. Nicki watched him fill a mug, drop three cubes from a sugar bowl in the drawer, and splash milk into the cup. He handed it to her and then walked from the room.
Nicki followed, feeling a little foolish. In the living room she took a nervous sip of her coffee. While he perched on the end of the sofa, she stood like a tourist in a museum. The room took her breath away—dark, moody, and filled with antiques. Persian area rugs covered polished hardwood floors with heavy, overstuffed furniture—the room was the antithesis of the stark white kitchen. “Nice room,” she murmured. “Can I have the name of your decorator? The place where I’m staying could use a makeover.”
Hunter peered around as though seeing his home for the first time. “Thanks, but I can’t take credit for the decor. My brother owns the apartment. The whole building, actually. He has way more taste than I do. Perhaps he can recommend someone for you.”
“Are these antiques real?” She ran a finger along the intricate scrolling of a beautiful mahogany armoire.
“I suppose so. I never asked. After he married and moved to a house, I moved in here.” He stifled a yawn behind his own coffee cup.
She examined the piece a bit more. “It’s real, all right. My Papaw…um, grandfather…was an auctioneer. He taught me how to tell fish from fowl, as he would say. Lots of good reproductions are being passed off in the antique world these days.”
From the arm of the sofa, Hunter studied her curiously, like a scientist peering at something unknown through his microscope. “Must be an interesting line of work for your grandfather. Hunting for the next buried treasure in someone’s attic.”
Nicki shrugged. “No money in it anymore for legitimate dealers. Everybody wants to get rich buying and reselling stuff on eBay.”
Small talk about her grandfather’s vocation was apparently growing tiresome to the important man because Hunter cleared his throat and asked, “Have you heard about Nate? I sent my attorney to the courthouse to bail him out. It’s a bogus setup if ever I heard one. But the licensing review board will take
a serious look into the charges.”
“That’s why I’m here, besides the fact I couldn’t sleep. I’m taking over your case.”
His expression looked even less pleased than finding her at his door late at night. “No offense, Nicki, but I need a real investigator. Not some kid with an ax to grind or something to prove to her family back home.”
She’d been enjoying how he said her name—soft, not harsh, and clipped like how most people pronounced it. Her appreciation of his accent ended abruptly. “I’m no kid. I’m twenty-five.”
“I need a professional. They’re looking at me for murder, and someone set Nate up on an obstruction charge. Are you even licensed?”
“Yes. And I’m just waiting for the background check for my carrying permit, which will be finished any day now.” Her voice rose with irritation. She was being dismissed like a second grader.
Hunter ran a hand through his hair in one fluid motion. “I’m sorry, but I’m thinking about calling another PI agency—a firm recommended by your cousin.”
“That lowdown, underhanded snake from a tick-infested swamp!” Nicki set down her coffee cup with a clatter.
Hunter blinked in confusion and rose to his feet. “Who?”
“Nate. He stabbed me in the back.” She closed the gap and stood face-to-face with the man the cops thought shot his partner in the head. Even at this hour, his aftershave smelled hypnotic. “He had no business calling somebody else after hiring me.”
“I’m sure stabbing you in the back wasn’t his intention. He doesn’t want you getting in over your head. This isn’t finding lost cats, Nicki. My partner is dead and I didn’t kill him. That means some bad guy did.”
His condescension stiffened her spine. “Are you going back on your word, Mr. Galen? You talked Nate into hiring me. My involvement wasn’t contingent on him staying on the case. This afternoon at lunch you saw potential in me you liked. Tell me what’s changed since then.”
Hunter crossed his arms over his chest. “What if I need protection from whoever killed James? Where’s your gun, little missy?” He mimicked John Wayne in a C-grade Saturday afternoon movie.
He was mocking her! “Buy yourself a vicious German shepherd to stand guard. In the meantime I’ll hold up the brainy end of the investigation. I know plenty about forensic accounting. I can follow a paper trail like a bird dog after a mallard.”
“I didn’t know that. You didn’t mention anything during the initial interview about spaniels or ducks.” While she held her breath, Hunter stared at her for a long moment. Then he sauntered back to the kitchen to refill his mug and top off hers with her at his heels. “I already have a team of accountants on my payroll, all supposedly experts at money trails.”
“And one of them could be your partner’s killer.”
He released a weary sigh as he led the way to the dining room. Stacks of reports, ledgers, and files covered the entire surface. “All right, let’s get started. I’ve been going over our company’s financial records. These are the same records that NOPD has a copy of, thanks to their search warrant.” Noticing her confusion, he paused. “Well, Miss Price?”
“Well, what?”
“Where’s your little spiral notebook? The green one you were filling with notes in the Blue Lotus?”
“It’s in my purse.” She ran her tongue over dry lips.
“Get it out in case you’d like to note something.”
“You mean I’m still on the case?” Nicki couldn’t seem to stop floundering.
“Isn’t that what you just campaigned for? Didn’t you plan to get your way?”
“I sure hadn’t expected it.”
Hunter laughed, the rich sound resonating off the high ceiling. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”
She inhaled deeply as she pulled her pen and notebook from her purse. “I do, but that doesn’t always turn out well for me.”
“You are a rare individual.” He pulled out a chair at the table and sat down across from her. “Most of the women I know say what they think I want to hear.”
“I’m not most women. I need to hit your bathroom first and stop drinking coffee. When I get back, show me last month’s financial statements and we’ll work backward from there.” She hurried in the direction he pointed, more nervous than at any previous point in her life. Hunter Galen unsettled her. For one thing, she was attracted to him. His perfect tan reached into the hair at his temples, while the tiny lines around his eyes made him look distinguished. Even without sleep and everything that happened, he was a handsome man. But more appealing than his appearance was the fact that he believed in her, and he believed she would do what she said. She wasn’t even that sure of herself. All her life, people—especially males—had doubted her, as if she were a pathological liar who had to prove herself over and over. Hunter seemed ready to trust her until proven wrong.
After she returned to the dining room and settled comfortably on a chair, Nicki stole a glance at him. She liked being believed in. She was determined to solve this case and send him back to his fancy girlfriend. Then the two of them could live happily ever after.
TEN
Light flooded the room through clerestory windows near the ceiling, bringing Nicki fully awake. Despite multiple cups of coffee last night, she had dozed off with her head on the dining room table, while her left hand still clutched her pocket calculator. A crocheted afghan was wrapped around her shoulders.
Hunter lay sprawled on the floor beside the table, flat on his back and surrounded by boxes of tax records and financial reports for the past several years. Worry lines and fatigue had vanished from his features. His chest rose and fell with each breath as he snored softly. For several minutes she watched him sleep. He looked more muscular and athletic than one would expect in a stockbroker. His pectorals flexed against his shirt with each intake of air, while his biceps stretched the material of his sleeves. No doubt he has a personal trainer on the payroll. She nudged his hip with one bare toe, not remembering what happened to her sneaker.
“What? What’s wrong?” He bolted upright and glanced around.
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s morning. We both fell asleep. I hadn’t planned to stay over. I have a place in Chalmette, you know.”
“Yes, I remember. A FEMA trailer. But instead you got to sleep face down on hard mahogany. Sorry, Nicki. I should have offered you the guest room. I hope you’ll find me a better employer than host.” He slowly rose to his feet and stretched.
“For the record, it’s not a FEMA trailer. That was hauled away long ago. Hey, do you still have the food you brought home from the Blue Lotus? I’m starving.”
He smiled. “I’ve got something better in mind than leftovers after our successful night. Let’s go out to breakfast. You can wash up in the bath off of my bedroom.” Hunter pointed toward a hallway before disappearing onto the balcony with his cell phone.
Even first thing in the morning, before a shower or teeth brushing, the guy looks great. But it had been a good night. They had uncovered several reasons why someone would kill Hunter’s business partner. Nowak had overextended Galen-Nowak Investments big-time. Hunter would have to come up with a healthy infusion of capital just to keep the lights on and pay broker commissions on trades already processed. None of the figures supplied by Nowak matched the books. He had some bizarre accounting practices he hadn’t learned at Carnegie Business School. And he’d been churning client portfolios to generate fat commissions for himself. Not many of Galen-Nowak clients benefited from his management during the past couple of years. They would have been better stashing their money under the mattress.
Nicki spotted a brand-new toothbrush lying on Hunter’s bathroom counter along with a comb. Thoughtful guy. She debated her options and then turned on the shower taps. The hot water coursing down her back and shoulders felt like heaven, even if she had to put on her clothes from yesterday. She lathered her hair with his shampoo, scrubbed with an incongruous soap-on-a-rope, and rinsed off. Hu
nter’s towels were the thickest, softest cotton she’d ever touched. It felt strange using his bathroom. The man was her new client—a man suspected of killing his partner. And James Nowak had certainly provided plenty of incentive, considering how he’d drained the company coffers, but proximity to a potential murderer wasn’t making her nervous. Nicki wished Hunter was old, fat, and toothless. Then her stomach wouldn’t be bobbing like a tugboat in a storm. Physical looks shouldn’t affect professional relationships, but, unfortunately, they usually did.
She had a sudden urge to open every drawer and closet to see what brands he preferred. Colgate or Crest? Charmin or White Cloud? What a goose she was turning into. If she wasn’t careful she’d make a big fool out of herself. The man had a girlfriend. He wasn’t her type. And she certainly wasn’t his. Enough said.
Nicki peeked out the door to check his bedroom before stepping out in only a towel. Empty, quiet, and eminently masculine. Wood blinds shut out early sunlight, while polished tile floors felt cool under her bare feet. One wall held an expanse of bookcases. A cluttered desk with computer monitor sat between two French doors leading to another balcony. His bed was massive and dark wood, with four posts thick enough to support the roof of a building. A tapestry quilt had been pulled up to the navy silk pillowcases. Tasteful. It must be nice to be rich.
But the best surprise was a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt stacked on his blanket chest. She felt certain they hadn’t been there when she went into the shower. She quickly dressed in the borrowed clothes and went looking for her benefactor.
Hunter was barefoot and whistling out of tune as he filled two mugs in the kitchen. Comb tracks were still visible in his freshly washed hair. In his chino shorts and a polo shirt he looked as though he planned to play a few rounds of golf later. “I sure hope one of those is for me,” Nicki said as she settled into a chair.
