Saving Grace

by Patricia Rosemoor

  The receptionist turned a corner. “Here you go. I figured this one would be free.”

  Declan looked into what must be a break room. A computer in the corner hummed in welcome.

  He smiled at the receptionist. “Thanks, Laurie. It may take a while. If Grace finishes before I do, would you let her know I’m back here?”

  “Sure thing. Take your time.”

  Indeed, he would. Sitting before the terminal, he jiggled the mouse to wake up the monitor. Delving into Control Panel and then Network Connections, he scanned the information. According to Kevin, each computer on the network would have a unique identifier that would allow someone to tell which specific computer the e-mail was sent from. The IP address on this computer didn’t match the one Kevin gave him, but he took down the information in case he needed it later.

  Not wanting to be caught, Declan walked to the door and poked his head out to make sure no one was headed his way. All clear.

  Kevin had told him a business system would have both a public and private network. The public network had access to the Internet, while the private network contained the company’s computers. When the router received requests from the computers on the private network, it forwarded them to the Internet via the public network.

  Back at the computer, Declan delved into Documents and Settings and traced his way to the profiles of the users and copied the mail folders to his flash drive. If the e-mail came from one of the Voodoo computers, he had no compunction about using the flash drive to nail the offending e-mail to the correct profile.

  When the transfer was complete, he left the computer and moved down the corridor. Spotting an empty office with a computer, he quickly accessed the IP—not a match—and copied it. He was able to get to two more computers with the wrong IP addresses before he heard voices. People were approaching. He got out of there and back to the reception area.

  Smiling at the receptionist, he said, “Thanks, Laurie. I appreciate the help.”

  “Did you get what you needed?”

  “I hope so.”

  Declan’s gut tightened as he thought about what Grace must be going through, while still maintaining her poise and work ethic. He appreciated that about her. He appreciated so many things. He would do anything to help her—as proven by his messing around with Voodoo’s computers—to see a smile of relief on that beautiful face.

  If anyone were to hurt Grace…

  Declan told himself to settle down and rid his head of all personal thoughts. He couldn’t allow himself to get sucked in any deeper, couldn’t let himself fall for Grace. He had to stick to the investigator-client relationship for her sake.

  He was still trying to get his head in order when she came out of the fitting area. One look at her jolted him through and through.

  He wanted to wrap a possessive arm around her waist…wanted to kiss her…

  When he got to his feet, it took all his willpower to keep his distance.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “I’m finished here.”

  He followed Grace out to the street and looked around for a taxi. Too much to expect to find one at rush hour. They walked to the nearest stop for the Riverfront streetcar that would take them along the Mississippi to Esplanade.

  “The Rising Sun is doing a feature on Raphael and his designs for next Sunday’s issue,” Grace told him after they boarded the rush-hour-crowded car. “You know, local boy does good and all that. Well, apparently, they think I’m part of Voodoo’s success.”

  “You are, of course. A major part. But still,” he went on, worried about the timing. Would a reporter see through her thin skin and use it to his advantage? He lowered his voice and dropped his head so he was practically whispering in her ear. “Agreeing to do an interview right now…do you think that’s wise considering the circumstances?”

  Grace sighed. “I don’t like it, either. I didn’t arrange it, Declan. I didn’t even know about anyone wanting to talk to me until I walked in today. Maybe with you there, it’ll be okay. I kind of walked out on Raphael this morning, so I can’t cancel. He assured me it would only take half an hour. The reporter will be at my place at six-thirty.”

  “Walked out on him? Walked where?”

  “Just out for some air. Okay, the French Market.”

  “You walked all that way alone?”

  “I do that a lot since it’s on the way home.”

  “You know what I mean. I asked you to let me know when you were leaving.”

  “I didn’t know until I did it, okay? And I’m fine, so let’s drop it.”

  Grace had an edge to her that didn’t bode well. She was too jumpy and Declan feared she was bound to make mistakes, to give the reporter some opening she didn’t want.

  Chapter Twelve

  Declan volunteered to stop at a local bar and get some takeaway so Grace could go straight to the apartment and freshen up before the reporter arrived. As she approached her building, she noted the woman waiting outside the doorway and recognized her immediately.

  Jill Westerfield—what was she doing here? Something about Corbett?

  A bit anxious, Grace asked, “Excuse me, but are you looking for me?”

  “I certainly am, Ms. Broussard.” The blonde held out her hand. “Jill Westerfield. I’m doing the piece on you for the New Orleans Rising Sun.”

  “I didn’t expect you until later.”

  Taking the woman’s hand, Grace did her best to get something off her, but as had happened to her all day, she got a blip—Jill at her computer, undoubtedly writing this story— and then nothing, making her feel as if she were right on the edge of a breakthrough and then blocked.

  As she led the way, Grace’s mind whirled. What relationship did the reporter have to Larry Laroche? Or to her brother for that matter? As she unlocked the apartment door, she vowed she would answer every question carefully, not give the reporter an opening she would regret later.

  Once inside, Grace asked, “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.” The Westerfield woman had already wandered into Grace’s living room and was giving the furnishings and artwork a critical once-over. “Eclectic taste.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, Ms. Westerfield.”

  Grace took the leopard-print chaise. The reporter sat on the sofa and pulled out a small recorder, which she set on the table between them.

  “I always record my interviews.”

  Now why did being recorded make her pulse rush? Grace wondered. She could handle an interview, for heaven’s sake. Maybe her hesitancy came from the recorder itself, which reminded her of the camera….

  “Shall we begin?”

  The interview began with all the questions Grace had expected.

  How had Raphael found her?

  What kind of a working relationship did they have?

  Did he design with her specifically in mind?

  And then the focus turned to Grace personally.

  “How does it feel to be recognized as Voodoo Woman when you’re out in public?”

  “I’m not, actually. Not unless I’m at a gathering where I’m modeling some of Raphael’s designs as part of my job as his spokesperson.”

  “No one recognizes you?”

  “Well, if they do, they’re very polite and leave me my privacy.” Which was more than the reporter was wont to do, she was certain.

  Just then, the front door opened and Declan walked in with a large bag of luscious-smelling food that he set on the breakfast bar.

  Realizing the reporter’s interest was piqued, Grace said, “This is Declan McKenna. Declan, this is Jill Westerfield with the Rising Sun.”

  “Mr. McKenna.”

  “Ms. Westerfield.” Declan shook her hand.

  Just then, Declan’s cell rang. “I’ll take this in the bedroom.” He flipped open the phone as he moved off.

  Wishing he hadn’t been interrupted—she could use his support right now—Grace regrouped.

  “I’d li
ke to ask you a series of questions that will help me know you better as a person.”

  Though her stomach tightened, Grace kept that smile plastered to her lips. “Ask away.”

  “Describe yourself.”

  “Curious about the world…a lot of varied interests…a loyal friend…”

  “I mean your looks.”

  Of course she did. The reporter wanted her to say something that would make her look arrogant. Or that would at least raise a few eyebrows.

  “Tall…dark-haired…”

  “My, you’re modest.”

  “As Mama raised me to be.”

  “Your mother.” The reporter leaned in closer to the recorder. “Assistant District Attorney Sandra Broussard, soon to be Judge Broussard if public opinion is to be believed. Let’s talk about her.”

  Though she was seething inside, Grace tilted her head and in her most sugar-coated accent said, “Let’s not, Ms. Westerfield. This interview is actually about the brilliant designer who gave me a chance to wear lovely clothing.”

  “But you’re a reflection of his success.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And A.D.A Broussard had a hand in shaping you.”

  “Let’s be clear on this. This interview is about Voodoo Woman.”

  Jill stared at her for a moment as if trying to think of a way to get her to reveal something sensational.

  Grace took the time to recover her temper. Reporters were always trying to get the goods on a politician, even a clean one. Wait until she told Corbett the object of his affections was another reporter. Or did he already know? Surely he couldn’t be that careless again. Imagining what Jill Westerfield might do with the photograph the blackmailer had sent, she shuddered inwardly.

  “What does your family think of you, Ms. Broussard?”

  “You would have to ask them.”

  Grace could see the reporter’s jaw clench as she took another good look around the living area. She was looking for something…anything to put Grace in an unfavorable light. Grace was certain of it.

  “If you were going to change one thing…what would it be?”

  “Nothing,” Grace said. “I wouldn’t change one little thing. I like who I am.”

  “You do seem at ease with yourself.”

  “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “I just wonder how other people view what you do. How do they feel about your ads. The photographs are…well, suggestive.”

  Grace had thought she’d been prepared for anything from the reporter…but not that.

  “Ms. Westerfield, the ads may be sensual because the clothes are, but no more so than advertisements designed for a great number of products.”

  “So you are selling sex?”

  A sound from the foyer made Grace glance back to see Declan standing there, watching from a distance. He was glowering at the reporter. How long had he been there, covering her back?

  “Ms. Westerfield,” Grace said, not willing to let the reporter continue along this path. “I’m surprised you’re doing this article for the Rising Sun at all.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Your relationship with Larry Laroche—”

  “Larry is just an acquaintance.”

  Remembering the way Laroche had put a possessive arm around the woman’s waist at the fund-raiser, Grace doubted that. And it had been the reporter who’d pulled him away from the argument with Helen Emerson.

  “You know Larry Laroche is running for city council member against my brother. I assume your editor won’t let that influence your article?”

  The reporter’s spine stiffened. “You’ve had a long day, Ms. Broussard. I won’t take up any more of your time.” She stood and snatched up her recorder. “Thank you for your candid responses.”

  “My pleasure.”

  THE MOMENT Jill Westerfield was out the door, Declan said, “You handled her well.”

  Grace seemed boneless now that the reporter was gone, and Declan wanted to put an arm around her for support. Wanted to, but didn’t. Keep this on a business level, he reminded himself. Keep Grace safe.

  “I felt like I was set up,” she said. “Do you think Laroche arranged this interview?”

  “Could be. I don’t know that we can prove it.”

  “Or what good it would do if we could.”

  He’d tried reading the reporter the moment he walked in the door, but she’d had her emotions locked up tight. The only thing he’d gotten from her coming back into the room after taking the phone call was contempt. Because she had contempt for what Grace did for a living? That didn’t bode well for an even-handed article.

  Not wanting to worry Grace, he said, “That call I took was from my cousin Kevin.”

  “And?”

  “Let me start at the beginning. While you were busy with your fittings this afternoon, I was doing a little investigating on my own at Voodoo.”

  Grace started. “Investigating how?”

  “I got the IP address off the computer in the break room. And several other computers in the offices, as well.”

  “IP address?”

  “It’s something that’ll tell us if we have the right computer. The one the blackmailer used. Kevin already confirmed the building address. Now he confirmed the computer as belonging to Voodoo.”

  “So you’re saying Raphael’s guilty. Great!”

  He could sense how much Grace hated this. Hated that she couldn’t trust the man she worked for.

  “Laurie told me he’s been having some financial difficulties.”

  “Maybe. None of the computers I checked matched, so it’s another computer in the building.”

  “How are we going to find out for sure?”

  “Let’s eat before the food gets cold,” Declan said.

  “I could use some brain food.”

  Grace fetched the plates and flatware, while Declan pulled containers from the bag. He’d bought fried shrimp and pan-fried oysters along with sweet potato fries and coleslaw. Luckily, she had a healthy metabolism. They both heaped their plates with food.

  Declan popped a shrimp in his mouth and said, “I wish I’d had more time to figure out Jill Westerfield. She held herself together tightly, yet I got some strange vibes off her. It felt like…contempt.”

  “She wasn’t shy about showing her feelings about what I do for a living.”

  “Maybe.”

  They fell silent for a moment as they ate standing at the counter.

  Then Grace asked, “What do we do next?”

  “We need to get back into the offices, get to any remaining computers. But in the meantime, I pulled user files from the network. We can look through them, see if we get anything of worth.”

  “What about passwords?”

  “Kevin might be able to help with that.”

  “I hate this.”

  She didn’t have to tell him—Declan could feel how sick this made her.

  “The question is—do you hate doing this more than blackmail?”

  “I guess not.”

  They quickly devoured the food before setting up her laptop on the living-room coffee table. There they could view whatever came up together. Declan inserted the flash drive.

  “I grabbed all the user files I could find,” he explained as the information came up on the monitor. “We just have to figure out who is who.”

  “Voodoodesigns is obviously Raphael.”

  “A good place to start.”

  Declan opened those files and scanned them at random. “All work related. Nothing personal. Of course I can’t get into his email. I’ll have to leave that to Kevin.”

  “Pinsandneedles must be Magda,” Grace said. “The seamstress.”

  Her files were a combination of business and personal, but nothing there raised any suspicion. Nor did numbercruncher or slavegirl.

  “One left. Baronsamedi,” Declan muttered. “What does that stand for?”

  “Baron Samedi is one of the loas—sort of a saint, but in
the Voodoo religion.”

  The contents were anything but saintly. They were also inappropriate for the office.

  “This isn’t professional-looking stuff, but the kind shot by amateurs.”

  “Or by hidden cameras.”

  Grace gasped when they came to a file of photos of a naked man. Alone in the shots, he was in the throes of ecstacy. Thinking the shots could have been taken by a hidden camera like the one in the dressing room, she tore her gaze from the computer.

  She took a deep breath and met Declan’s gaze.

  “Could any of the people you work with be associated with black market adult photos?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Is this the loyal employee speaking? Or the psychic?”

  “I haven’t been able to rouse my psychic ability. I’ve tried, but as soon as I even start to get the slightest something it disappears in a poof.”

  “So you have been trying.”

  “Guilty.”

  Grace could tell Declan didn’t like it and was grateful that he kept that opinion to himself.

  “What do you think the problem is?” he asked.

  “I know what the problem is—trust,” she said. “Rather, lack thereof.”

  “In the people you’ve been touching?”

  “In my ability…in myself.”

  Declan stared at her a moment before asking, “What in the world happened to you all those years ago to make you feel this way?”

  Grace swallowed hard. This wasn’t something she shared. Ever. Minny knew about it—the only person she’d ever told—and of course there were those involved. And enough witnesses to have made high school miserable for her.

  She didn’t know why, but she wanted Declan to understand. And the only way that was going to happen was if she was honest with him at last. He would understand if anyone would. Surely he’d had some issue with his own psychic ability.

  “I made a mistake with one of my visions,” she finally said. “A big one.” Turning, Grace looked straight at her favorite French Quarter acquisition. She hadn’t even been shopping when the gilt-edged, peacock-blue trunk had appeared before her saying “buy me.” She hadn’t been able to resist. “I saw what I wanted to see rather than what was.”