Blood Ties in Chef Voleur

by Mallory Kane

  Instead, he released the doorknob and said, “Why don’t you change clothes and I’ll pull out some of the more interesting documents from the box.”

  “Paul, I told you I’m too busy.”

  He gave no indication that he’d heard her and instead headed toward her kitchen.

  Cara faced the choice of spending the morning in a wet robe and towel or changing. She wished for a third choice—Paul leaving, but apparently that wasn’t going to happen, at least not any time soon.

  She wasn’t comfortable leaving Paul in the kitchen alone. But she went into the bedroom and changed in record time. Grabbing a comb, she hurried back into the kitchen.

  Paul was still at the table. He had a selection of items—her items, from her hiding place behind the baseboard, spread out around him and was fingering them with his right hand. Each time he moved his hand, light glanced off the ring he wore.

  Cara stared—not at the items, but at the ring. When she did, a flash of memory slammed her. She remembered the man’s hand pushing the barrel of the gun into her flesh, remembered its weight on the side of her neck and now, thinking about it, she remembered the tiny scratching sensations that she hadn’t noticed at the time because of her fear. She touched the scratch on her knuckle and the new one on her wrist.

  “Paul—” she gasped. “You? That was you?” she whispered, stepping backward, away from him. “You attacked me. You put a gun to my neck. That ring scratched me. Oh, my God—and how—how did you find my hiding place?” she cried. Now, she was afraid. He’d come into her house. He’d attacked her. He’d found her hiding place and gone through her purse. What else had he done? What else was he capable of doing?

  “I’m taking some of the things that should have been mine,” he said calmly. “Or at least some substitute for what my Aunt Lili always promised me.”

  “You need to leave,” she said. “Now. Or I’m calling Ryker.”

  He shook his head. “Do you know how long it took me to find your secret hiding place? Well, it took a long time.”

  “You have been in here. You drank our water.”

  He shook his head. “Cara Lynn, why did you hook up with Broussard? Did he really seduce you? Were you that easily duped?”

  “You know? You know who he is?”

  “Of course. I’ve known from the beginning. Well, almost the beginning. I mean really—Bush? Broussard? That’s amateur. I could have come up with something a lot better. Hell—you could have.”

  Cara Lynn stared at her cousin, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted. His ironic voice had turned as hard and brittle as his eyes. A nauseating dread hit the pit of her stomach. “What do you want? I don’t care. Take anything you want. I’m not that into the great big flashy stuff. You want the emeralds? Be my guest.”

  “What I want is Aunt Lili’s last journal and your grandmother’s letter. Claire’s letter, which I found tucked into your purse, thank you very much, is not enough by itself. I need the one that was handwritten by Aunt Lili.”

  “Why?” she asked, trying to understand. Then she remembered what Jack had told her. “You were there at the fishing cabin when Con was killed.” She looked at him. “Did you kill my grandfather? And how did you manage to get Lili to cover up the fact that you were there? The police didn’t even know you were there. Nobody did, except Jack’s grandfather.” She stopped.

  He shrugged. “I told you I needed that letter.” Paul reached down into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a fairly large, shiny handgun. “And you lied to me. You said it was in the briefcase.” He held the gun up, pointed at her.

  “Where is Aunt Lili’s letter, Cara Lynn?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Obviously, we won’t be able to file the petition until Monday,” Jasper Barkley said, leaning back in his executive chair. “But we’ve got a sympathetic judge. It doesn’t hurt that his son was accused of assault and was exonerated by DNA evidence. He believes in it and your grandfather’s story touched him.”

  “It doesn’t hurt that his father lost a local representative seat to Con Delancey back in the day, either,” Greg Haymore said.

  Jack was amazed at his luck. Actually, he was amazed at Haymore’s connections. When he’d told him he had Con Delancey’s wife’s letter, in which she confessed to killing the infamous politician, Haymore immediately contacted Jasper Barkley, whom he called the best-connected attorney in the state. He’d reported back to Jack within an hour that Barkley had started researching which judges would most likely be sympathetic to Jack’s efforts to clear his grandfather’s name.

  Barkley had found Judge Morris VanDerBridge, Jr., the son of Representative Morrison VanDerBridge, Sr., who had been a bitter rival of Con Delancey during their entire careers.

  He and Haymore stood and said goodbye to Jasper Barkley, and talked as they walked back to their cars.

  “I can’t believe you did it,” Jack said. “This judge VanDerBridge is perfect.”

  Haymore lit a cigarette. “It’s not like there’s a shortage of people around here who weren’t fans of Con Delancey.”

  “Yeah, but there’s no shortage of people who loved him, either.”

  Haymore pointed toward Jack with his cigarette. “But most of the ones who didn’t like him are in politics or law, and that’s what you needed.” He stopped at a street crossing. “Hey, why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

  Jack shook his head. “No. I need to get home. I’m not sure how Cara Lynn is going to react to the news, but I need to get home and let her know. I don’t like leaving her alone, either. She’s been nervous ever since that guy broke in.”

  “Yeah, you should have let me come in and go over the place. I might have been able to find something. I can take fingerprints and I have a way of getting them run, if I don’t use it too often. But that’s fine. I tell you what. We’ll get that drink later—after we clear your granddad’s name.”

  “Count on it,” Jack said and shook Haymore’s hand. “I guess Barkley will call you?”

  Haymore nodded. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from him. We’ll need to arrange for you and him to meet with Judge VanDerBridge. He can sign the petition to reopen the case and then you’ll be on your way.” The light turned and Haymore headed across the street.

  “Thanks again,” Jack called as he reached his car and got in. When he got on to the Pontchartrain Causeway to head back to Chef Voleur, he pressed the call button on his car’s steering wheel, activating the Bluetooth.

  “Dial name,” he said.

  When the computer asked him what name, he said, “Cara Lynn.”

  The computer dialed and her cell phone rang until it went to voice mail. A glance at the dashboard told him it was almost noon. She wouldn’t still be in bed. So where was she? He supposed she could be in the shower or out with a friend. Since her car was in the shop, she’d said she was looking forward to a quiet day at home.

  She’d also mentioned washing clothes and that damned washing machine was loud. She might not be able to hear her phone.

  He sighed and hung up. It would be better to tell her to her face about his success in finding a judge who would retry the case allowing DNA evidence. It occurred to him that deep down, he believed—or wanted to believe—that she’d be as excited about the retrial as he was.

  How did he keep forgetting that to her, he was the enemy? He was the man who was going to change everything the Delancey family had ever believed about their beloved grandmother.

  When he was halfway across the causeway, he called her cell phone again, and again it went to voice mail. He didn’t like that. Not one bit. She almost always answered her cell. And there was a man out there somewhere who had gotten into their apartment and attacked her. Who had held a gun at her throat and threatened her life.

  “Come on, Cara, go fin
d your phone. Check your messages.”

  Looking at the line of traffic, he figured it was going to be at least another half hour before he was off the causeway and headed for Chef Voleur.

  He debated calling one of her brothers or cousins to check on her. If she was at home and fine, she would be furious and whoever he called would be suspicious about why Jack was so concerned that he hadn’t been able to reach Cara Lynn for a couple of hours.

  Ahead of him, brake lights flashed one after the other like dominos falling along the straight length of the Pontchartrain Causeway. With a muttered growl. Jack pressed the call button again.

  When the computer asked what name, he said, “Detective Ryker Delancey.”

  * * *

  CARA LYNN LISTENED as the last echo of her ringing phone faded. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Please know there’s something wrong.

  “Is that your special ring for Jack?” Paul asked. “It’s very sweet.”

  “What are you planning? Are we just going to sit here until Jack comes home?”

  “We’re going to sit here until you tell me where that letter is.”

  “I’ve told you, I don’t know,” Cara Lynn said. “I can’t just produce it out of thin air.”

  Paul brandished the gun. “Don’t get smart with me, girl. I’m twenty years older than you are. You need to pay me the respect I deserve.”

  “You’re sitting there with a gun held on a member of your family, Paul. How much respect does that deserve?”

  “If you don’t watch out, I’m going to backhand you across your smart mouth with this ring. We’ll see how many scratches that’ll make.”

  She hardly recognized Paul now. He’d always seemed so mild. A little effeminate, a little fey, but never ever violent. She’d liked him when she was younger, because he was the most interesting person to sit next to at a family get-together. He had a hilarious comment about almost everything and everyone. Most of them were not very complimentary, but all of them were true, either in whole or in part. Once she’d asked him what kind of comments he made about her when she wasn’t around.

  He’d looked at her somberly and said, Honey, who would I talk to about you? You’re their little princess. I’d have to pick up homeless men off the street to find someone who didn’t know you and wouldn’t take offense if I said one derogatory word about you.

  At the time she’d liked being called a princess. Now though, thinking back, she realized what a bitter monologue he’d delivered in answer to her innocent twelve-year-old’s question.

  “Do you hate me, Paul?”

  “Where’s that coming from?” he asked, chuckling a little.

  “I was just thinking about the day I asked you what you said about me when you were talking to other people. Your answer was kind of mean.”

  “Was it? Well, sweetie, I don’t know if I’d say hate. That’s such a strong word. I resent you. I’m jealous of you. I envy you, but then I envy all the Delancey grandkids. I don’t know how you managed to charm Lilibelle into giving you everything. But then, I’ve always been the bastard son. Lili took me in when I was on my way to Juvie. She saved me.” He paused and rubbed at the corner of one eye. “I loved her,” he said sternly. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Cara Lynn opened her mouth, but before she could draw breath to speak, Paul shouted at her. “Do you?”

  “Of—of course,” she stammered. “She took you in. In effect, she was your mother.”

  “No!” He slammed a palm down on the table. “I loved her.”

  Cara swallowed. “Oh,” she murmured, then, “What now? What do you want? You’ve got Claire’s letter. You’ve got the emerald necklace, my cash. What now?”

  “I have to have Lili’s letter! How dense are you? That’s all I’ve been talking about. That and her journal.”

  “I don’t know where it is. I thought it was in the briefcase.”

  “I know that’s a lie. You knew it wasn’t in the case. You thought you were being so clever. You’re lucky I didn’t come back and kill you.”

  She had to agree with him on that. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she said to Paul. Even to herself the statement sounded more like a question. But as she said it, she began to understand. Everything was beginning to coalesce into one whole. They were no longer a pile of separate, jagged pieces that didn’t make any sense.

  “How the hell do you know what I would or wouldn’t do?”

  She smiled sadly. “You couldn’t kill me. I do know, because you couldn’t kill my grandfather, either, could you?”

  Paul’s face went white as a sheet and tiny drops of sweat popped out on his forehead and his upper lip. “Y-you have no idea wh-what you’re talking about,” he stuttered as he wiped his face. “No idea.”

  “Yes, I do. You told Lili you’d kill Con for her, didn’t you? But then you couldn’t.” She saw on his pale, pinched face that she was right. “You don’t want Lili’s letter and her last journal to protect yourself. You want it to protect her.”

  Paul switched the handgun from his right to his left hand and flexed his cramped fingers. “You need to shut up,” he said. “Or you’ll find out just what I can do.”

  “Lili took the gun and shot Con when you couldn’t. She shot him to protect you and you’ve done all this to protect her.”

  * * *

  JACK PARKED AT Cara Lynn’s apartment and got out of his car. A white BMW pulled in next to him and Detective Ryker Delancey got out, talking on his cell phone.

  “Right,” Ryker said. “The next street. Position the vehicles behind the apartment building. I don’t want him to be able to see the police cars. No sirens. No lights. Got that? Good. Out.” He flipped his phone closed and walked up to Jack. “You were right,” he said, pointing to a shiny dark green Mercedes that was at least twenty years old. “That’s Paul’s car.”

  “I knew it. Can we hurry up? I don’t like all this delay.”

  “I called the uniformed patrol officers as soon as I recognized Paul’s car. They’ll be here within a couple of minutes. They’re parking behind the apartment. That’ll give us just enough time to get you hooked up.”

  “Hooked up? To what?”

  “I’m sending you in there, as if you’re just getting home. Paul has become more and more desperate,” Ryker said. “And we know Cara Lynn is in there.”

  “You know for sure?”

  Ryker looked down at his feet. “We’ve got a camera in there.”

  Jack wasn’t sure he heard right. “What? A camera? In where? In there?” His scalp tightened and his face grew hot. “What the hell? You’ve been spying on us? That’s disgusting. Where?”

  “Where’s the camera? It’s beside the front door, mounted on the curtain rod. It points toward the kitchen.”

  “No camera in—in the bedroom?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  Ryker sent Jack an odd look. “No,” he said, then after a moment he continued. “So she’s in there and Paul is holding a gun on her. So I’ve got to treat this as a hostage situation. We’ll be in place out here—”

  “So you’re sending only me in?”

  Ryker nodded. “I know this is not standard procedure by any means, but Cara Lynn will trust you and Paul won’t feel threatened by you like he will with any of us. I know you can do this. Just go in as though you have no idea there’s anything wrong. Once you’re inside, my best guess is you’ll become a hostage, too.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Jack said.

  Ryker put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Listen to me,” he said. “I understand how you feel. But my only other choice is to send in SWAT.” He squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “And I really don’t want to do that. I believe you can do this. Can I count on you?”

  Jack clenched his teeth. “Of course,” he said.
r />   Ryker gave his shoulder one more squeeze, then let go. His cell phone chirped and he answered it. “Yeah? Right. Bring the van around here to the parking lot. Everybody else in place?”

  An innocuous van pulled into the parking lot behind Ryker’s BMW. Its side panel door opened. “Come on, Jack, let’s go.”

  Jack frowned. “What’s this?”

  “For one thing, it’s where the lab tech is going to get you hooked up to our monitors. I’ll show you what else when we get inside.”

  Jack got into the van behind Ryker. The inside of the vehicle looked like a setup at NASA or something. There was a laptop, several tablets, a small screen mounted on the side of the van, and microphones, small but obviously powerful speakers, black boxes, other instruments Jack couldn’t identify, and a huge tangle of wires everywhere.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  “It’s a surveillance van,” Ryker started.

  “That much I got. Am I going to have a camera as well as a microphone?”

  Ryker shook his head as his eyes searched Jack’s face. “Is there anything we ought to know before we go in, Jack?”

  For some reason, the question, asked in Ryker’s quiet, controlled voice, made Jack feel as though an anvil the size of the van had lifted off his chest. He blew out a breath and nodded.

  “My name is not actually Jack Bush,” he said, looking at his hands and not at Ryker. “I was christened Jacques. Jacques Broussard. I’m—”

  “Armand Broussard’s grandson,” Ryker finished. “I know.”

  “You know?” Jack said, surprised. So Cara had gone to her family. He felt disappointed, although he knew that wasn’t fair to her. He’d put her in an impossible situation. He should have realized that he could be placing her in danger with his ridiculous game.

  “Jack,” Ryker said.

  Jack realized it was the second time the detective had called his name in the past few seconds. He looked up at him.

  “Cara Lynn didn’t tell me,” Ryker said. “And we haven’t mentioned anything to her. But I’ve got to tell you, Lucas and I have been looking into your background ever since we first knew anything about you.”