by Mallory Kane
“Oh, I didn’t see anyone here.” The girl was tall and very thin, dressed in a tie-dyed shirt, which left her flat belly bare over hip-hugger jeans. She had on a beat-up pair of Nikes.
Reghan looked back at the young woman’s face, which was almost half-hidden by her hair. Her bangs were uneven, allowing no more than a peek at surprisingly shapely brows. Her dark brown eyes were unreadable until she smiled. Then Reghan was struck by how pretty she was. When the girl turned her attention to Dev, her pretty smile became positively adoring. Her hand came up to touch her hair. The gesture seemed conscious and graceful, at odds with her lackluster appearance.
“I’d have been here earlier if I’d known you were back, Dev. I’ll fix breakfast for you—and your guest.” She smiled at Reghan. “I’ll make fresh coffee, too.” She leaned past him to pick up his cup from the table, her small breasts brushing against his bare arm.
Well, well. Devereux’s got himself a devotee. Reghan’s brows rose as his gaze slid to hers.
He obviously read her thoughts because his scowl deepened. Reghan did her best not to chuckle. It was obvious the girl had a major crush on him.
“Hi,” she said to the teenager. “I’m Reghan Connor.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dev said, swiping a hand down his face. “This is Tracy. She’s been helping out around the center for—how long now?”
Tracy turned with the coffee scoop in her hand. “Maybe six weeks since—since my mom kicked me out. I’ve seen your show. I try to watch every day.”
“Really?” Reghan said, surprised. She bit her tongue to keep from asking why. The girl didn’t look like a news junkie.
“We’re honored to have you visit our center,” Tracy continued.
We? “Thank you, Tracy. I appreciate that.” She opened her mouth to ask Tracy about herself, but the girl turned back to the coffeemaker. Soon she set two steaming mugs on the table.
“Dev,” she said, sad-eyed. “I heard that Jimmy was killed.”
Dev wrapped his hand around the mug, ignoring the handle. “Where’d you hear that?”
Her brows drew down. “Elliott, maybe? Yeah, Elliott. He said he was there.”
“There where?”
Tracy flung her head, sending her ragged bangs floating into the air, only to settle back down exactly where they had been. “I don’t know. I guess he meant where they found Jimmy—you know—his body.”
“What about Nicky? Have you seen him today?” Dev asked.
Tracy shook her head. “Penn told me you want him to stay at the center. I’ll tell him the next time I see him.”
“Good. I want him here for the next week or so.”
Tracy’s dark eyes grew wide. “You think he’s in danger, too?”
“Not really,” Dev hedged. “Just tell him, okay?” He downed his coffee in two gulps and pushed back his chair. “Let me change clothes, Connor, and we can get to the station.”
Reghan looked down at herself. “Can we go by my house? I need something fresh to wear.”
“Nope,” Dev said, drawing out the word with exaggerated patience. “When we left last night, the crime scene tape was still up. Lieutenant Flanagan should release it today, but until we hear differently, your house is a crime scene.”
Tracy looked over her shoulder. “A crime scene?” she repeated. “What happened? Are you okay?” she asked Reghan.
“I’m fine. Someone just—”
Dev interrupted her. “Just a break-in at her house. Ms. Connor wasn’t home.”
Tracy started to say something to him, but changed her mind and turned to Reghan. “You can wear something of mine.”
Reghan laughed. “Maybe ten years ago,” she said. “But thanks.”
Tracy glanced down at Reghan’s wrinkled clothes and waggled her head. “Whatever,” she said.
“I’ll be right back.” Dev left her alone in the kitchen with Tracy, who, now that Dev was gone, seemed unaware Reghan was even in the room. She hummed tonelessly as she set a stack of plates into the dishwater, which billowed with steam.
Reghan wandered out into the large front room, where people were beginning to stir. She stood quietly and watched. The teens who had been sleeping a little while ago were up—at least most of them were. There was a chilled, subdued air about the place, probably because they’d heard about the latest murders. A couple of girls with dyed black hair hovered around the computer, whispering. Two boys who looked to be in their late teens or early twenties came in the front door and headed straight for the kitchen, pathetically starry-eyed with adoration for Tracy. A young man with spiked black hair was curled up on a couch asleep, the spikes poking into the cushions. On a bench against the far wall sat a boy with a shaved head.
Reghan looked closer at him. He seemed familiar. She strolled casually toward the front door, trying to get a good look at his face.
When Dev appeared dressed in khakis and a white shirt, with a tie slung around his neck and holding his jacket draped nonchalantly over one shoulder, Reghan’s jaw nearly dropped. No wonder Tracy had a crush on him. No wonder Annie had said “what a man.” Reghan had seen him all cleaned up before, but back then she’d been concentrating on catching him in lies and deception, not on how he looked. Now that she was beginning to see him from a different perspective, he was stunning in an unconscious, unassuming way. She bit down on the inside of her cheek and reminded herself that he may be gorgeous, but she was not interested in him.
As he crossed the room, the eyes of all the kids followed him. He spoke to each one by name. As he passed the kid with the shaved head, the boy looked up at him.
Reghan suppressed a gasp. Of course. The nick out of his right ear and all the piercings cinched it. She did recognize him. He’d been at both crime scenes.
“Hey, Elliott,” Dev said. “When are you supposed to talk to the police again?”
Elliott cowered as if he thought Dev were going to kick him. He lifted a shoulder and sunk lower on the bench. “Sometime today,” he mumbled. “But I didn’ see nothin’.”
Dev shrugged. “Detective Cowen told me he’d be here early to talk to you. Don’t leave before then, okay?”
The boy hunched down as Dev beckoned to Reghan and ushered her out the door. “I mean it, Elliott,” he sent back over his shoulder as the door closed behind them.
“That’s Elliott?” she asked. “The kid Tracy was talking about? I saw him,” she said as the door closed.
“Where?” Dev started the car and pulled out into traffic.
“He was there last night at Chef Menteur Highway. At both scenes, actually.”
Dev nodded. “I know. Detective Cowen from the Sixth District questioned him along with several others who showed up at both places. Like I told Elliott, Cowen’s coming to the center today to talk to all the kids. He wants to check their whereabouts during the last few days.”
“Do you think Elliott could have killed them? Could that be why he was there both times?”
“Not a chance. Look at him, he’s not strong enough to take down Jiminy Cricket, let alone Darnell or Jimmy. According to Cowan, all he was doing was standing off to the side watching. Same as several other kids. “
“And it’s not suspicious that he knew about the murders so quickly? In time to get to both scenes?” she asked.
“Those scenes were where the bodies washed up from the river, not where the boys were killed,” he reminded her. “So him being there doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. “Besides, he has a car.”
“A car? How—”
“Not all the kids who hang out here are homeless. Some of them have plenty of money.”
“Money? How? Dealing drugs?” she asked incredulously.
“Why would you think that?” He shook his head. “No. Not Elliott. He wouldn’t last a minute in that business.”
“So, what? Rich parents?”
“I’ve never asked. I try to stay out of the kids’ home lives. They’re at the cen
ter because they want to escape.”
For a cop, he had very little curiosity. It was maddening. She thought about it. She’d heard about people who enjoyed dabbling in dangerous subcultures, just for the thrill. She supposed the center qualified, sort of. And if Elliott had a car, that explained how he got from the Port of New Orleans out to Chef Menteur. But it didn’t answer the question of how he knew about the discovery of the bodies so quickly.
When she and Dev arrived at the station, a crowd of reporters was milling about. Dev passed by the front of the building and drove around back. “Looks like your cronies have been camped out all night, waiting for you.”
She turned to look at them. “For me? Maybe they’re here to get information on the murders.”
Dev snorted. “You’re one of them, Connor. Which would you be after, a slim lead on a homeless kid’s murder or a juicy story of a famous TV journalist and her stalker?”
At his casually tossed out words, her heart thumped painfully in her chest. She nearly choked on her shocked response. “Stalker?”
…
For a seasoned investigative reporter, her stunned reaction was surprising to Dev. He pulled into a parking place behind the station, got out, and opened her door. Taking her arm, he whisked her across the few feet of asphalt and through a back entrance just in time to dodge the reporters who were scurrying toward them.
“Yeah, stalker,” he said. “That’s what we generally call someone who sneaks in and out of a celebrity’s house, leaving no trace, and paints cryptic warnings in plain view.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “You can’t be surprised.”
She looked uneasily at him. “I just hadn’t thought about it like that. I was picturing someone who was obsessed with you—not me.” She uttered a short laugh. “I thought he—or she—was just trying to stop me from being mean to you.”
He didn’t miss the faint drawing up of her shoulders and the quiver of her lower lip as she began to absorb what he’d suggested. “Are you telling me you’re not afraid?”
“Yes, I’m—” she cleared her throat “—afraid. You may think I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid.” She pushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “People have been murdered because they got too close to the object of the some maniac’s obsession.”
“I’m thinking more have been murdered because they were the object of obsession.”
She nodded a little jerkily, making the lock of hair fall back over her cheek. He itched to tuck it behind her ear. Matter of fact, he itched to nibble on her ear.
“Okay. I said I was afraid. You don’t have to render me petrified with terror.”
He grabbed a newspaper from a desk and handed it to her. “Have a seat and check the paper while I see if Givens and Benoit are ready for us.”
Before he could do something really stupid.
…
Reghan watched Dev disappear down a corridor, then looked down at the newspaper’s headline.
Local Talk Show Celebrity Target of Fan Stalking?
“Oh no,” she whispered.
Right under it was a photo of her standing beside Dev’s car, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes wide as a deer’s in headlights. She knew exactly when it was taken. Dev had just walked away, back toward her front porch. The moment when the crowd of reporters had descended on her. She looked pale and lonely and scared, her expression uncertain as to whether the mob would talk politely to her or tear her apart.
Next to that photo was one of her front porch, with the LEAVE HIM ALONE OR REGRET IT graffiti centered crisply and clearly in the frame of the shot. It looked ominous and menacing, even in black and white.
She scanned the article. The reporter, whom she’d thought was a friend of hers, had interviewed her boss. Worse, her boss had apparently been all too eager to share information about her last several shows, and had recounted, or rather embellished, stories of anonymous threats, veiled warnings, and outraged telephone calls following some of her telecasts.
She was reaching for the phone when Dev came back. He laid his hand over hers. “What are you doing?”
“I’m calling my boss. Look at this. Can you believe it?” She punched the paper with her forefinger. “He allowed them to plaster my picture and my name all over the papers.”
Dev leaned over and glanced at the article. “Hmm. I’ll bet that hurt.”
Reghan bristled at his sarcasm. “Look,” she said archly. “I get it, okay? I understand how awful it is to have your private life dragged out in front of hundreds of thousands of people. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Don’t even try to make this the same thing. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the victim.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Really? You didn’t do anything?” He shrugged. “Whatever. It’s still news, right?”
Her face burned. He was throwing everything she’d done and said to him back in her face. She’d said the same thing to him on the air. It’s news, Detective. And the people have a right to know. Now she could hear how pompous and self-serving she’d sounded. She remembered being vaguely disturbed when Fontenot had asked her how it felt to be part of the feeding frenzy. But she hadn’t really gotten it back then. Now, having experienced that frenzy firsthand, she understood what Dev was insinuating. And what he’d been trying to get her to see, with his not-so-subtle gibes.
Yes, she provided a vital service to the public, and she did her job well. She believed in what she was doing, and in the public’s right to know. But somehow she’d lost track of where the public’s right to know ended, and the individual’s right to privacy began…
She looked back down at the paper, and Dev’s name caught her eye. She read the sentence, then glared up at him. “You told them I’m ‘helping the police in their investigation’? Why did you do that?”
“Because you are,” he said evenly.
“Everybody knows what that means. It makes me sound guilty.”
“Of what? That’s the reporter in you coming out. It means what it says. You’re helping us with our investigation. Period. Speaking of which, Givens and Benoit are ready to roll the DVD.”
She followed him to the interrogation room where the TV and DVD player were set up, too annoyed to respond. Dev formally introduced her to Detectives Givens and Benoit, who were sitting at a wooden table drinking coffee. Both looked like they’d been up all night. Givens was the tall, skinny one who looked as much like a caricature of an undertaker as anyone she’d ever seen. Benoit was the short round one with the comb-over.
“Heard anything else from the crime scene folks?” Dev asked them as he took a chair next to her.
Benoit shook his head. “They’re still going over the area, but all they got were some scuff marks and a very few blood samples, all of which appear to be the vic’s.” He drank his coffee, grimacing at the taste.
“His name is Jimmy,” Dev said irritably.
Benoit looked up from his cup. “Huh?”
Dev pushed his chair back and propped one ankle on the other knee. “The vic has a name, Benoit. Jimmy Treacher.”
“Oh, right.” Benoit gave a little shake of his head. “I’ll get with CSU when we’re done here. See if they’ve got anything from fingernail scrapings.”
Givens shifted in his chair and shot a sidelong glance at Connor. “Okay, Ms. Connor, what can you tell me about this DVD?”
Reghan glanced at Dev, who pulled the disk out of his pocket and skimmed it across the table like a stone across a pond. “Ms. Connor went up to Angola back in February to interview Gerard Fontenot.” He slid it across the table.
Both detectives sat up. “Fontenot?” Givens asked in surprise.
“The wacko who kidnapped Maxwell’s wife?” Benoit put in as he inserted the disk into the player.
“Hang on a minute,” Givens said, grabbing the remote control off the top of the TV. “I’ve got some questions before we start watching.” He angled his head toward Dev. “Seriously? Fontenot?”
Dev gestured toward Reghan. All three
men turned to look at her.
“Well?” Givens prompted.
She grimaced. She hadn’t realized she was going to have to explain everything about the interview, including the fact that the subject was Fontenot. She thought Dev would have told them at least that much. “Back in February, my producer was contacted by the warden at Angola, letting him know that Gerard Fontenot wanted to give an interview. He stated that he would only talk to me and only in person.”
Givens scowled and scribbled furiously with a ballpoint pen onto a notepad. Benoit sat back in his chair and rubbed his round belly with his palms, then slid his thumbs inside his black suspenders, stretched them, and let them go. They popped. He did it again, and then again.
“Benny!” Givens snapped, and Benoit went back to rubbing his belly.
“So you went up to Angola?” Givens asked.
“I didn’t want to. I’d seen Fontenot in court during his trial. I had no desire to be alone in a room with him. So my producer told him if he wanted to talk to me he’d have to agree to have a cameraman in the room. Fontenot agreed.”
Givens picked up the DVD case and studied it. “This is the date you interviewed him?”
She nodded. “February 24.”
“Detective Gautier said it never aired.”
“That’s right,” she said. “We decided it was too disturbing.”
“Too disturbing, eh?” Givens repeated as he opened the case and took out the DVD. He clicked the remote. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
…
Dev leaned back in his chair as Connor’s face appeared on screen. She was smiling at the camera, apparently chatting with the cameraman while he set up and adjusted the equipment and the lighting. He’d seen this part in her office, before she’d fast-forwarded to the specific frames she’d wanted him to see. He felt her shift nervously next to him. “You might want to fast-forward to when Fontenot comes into the room,” he said.
“Hold on, Dev. I was enjoying the scenery,” Benoit said, and laughed.
