No Hero

by Mallory Kane

Givens sent the portly detective a quelling glance, then he looked down at the remote, apparently searching for the fast-forward button.

  “Would you like me to find the pertinent section, Detective?” Connor asked.

  Givens sent her a narrow, suspicious look, but after a brief hesitation he slid the remote across the table. “Sure,” he said. “Save us some time. Let’s stick to the parts that relate to our case, okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded.

  “This better be worth it,” Benoit muttered.

  Dev watched as Connor unerringly let the disk whirr until she saw what she was waiting for on the screen, then hit play. She was almost dead-on. Fontenot’s weaselly face appeared, and the dirtbag licked his lips. Givens and Benoit both sat up straighter as he began to speak.

  “My dear Reghan. You are smarter than that. I’m not talking about the penitentiary. I’m talking about this damn chair. You know the story. During his oh-so-daring rescue of his partner, Maxwell, and his wife, Gautier slammed me against a marble-topped table and broke my spine. I will never walk again. That cretin stole my freedom. But I am not defeated. I have resources I have not even begun to tap.”

  Benoit whistled through his teeth. “Now this is interesting,” he whispered.

  Givens waved him to silence. Tension reverberated off the walls of the small room.

  Dev felt the same revulsion now, watching Fontenot, as he had the night before. Fontenot’s voice rose as he screamed his vitriol about how he would take away what Dev valued most, in revenge.

  Dev held up a hand toward Connor, and she stopped the DVD player.

  “Hey!” said Benoit.

  “I asked her to pause it,” Dev said. “This is as far as I’ve seen. Connor believes that Fontenot got her up to Angola because he wanted to say this on camera. She’s convinced that—”

  “Dev, let her speak for herself,” Givens interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Ms. Connor?”

  She leaned forward. “Right there, when he says that Dev will suffer—that’s a threat, right? And then he says that about watching what he values most, destroyed.” I mean, when I was there hearing it for the first time I didn’t think anything of it. He was raving like a madman. You’ve seen how he is.”

  Givens watched her with narrowed eyes. “So you didn’t read anything into what he was saying at the time? When did you start reading something into it? And what was your take?”

  She gave Givens and Benoit the explanation she’d given Dev about how Fontenot’s ravings began to make ominous sense once she’d found out about the teenagers from the center who were being murdered.

  “There’s more, too,” she said, raising the remote. “I still don’t understand all of what he said. Maybe it will make sense to you.” She rewound for a couple of seconds, then pressed play, and Fontenot’s pale face reappeared.

  “—that which he values most, destroyed,” Fontenot said, turning to look full into the camera lens. “All it will take is a mere flick of the wrist, and the slice of life becomes the slice of death. No one’s future is safe. No one.”

  Benoit snorted. “Ugh. What a pervert.”

  “Slice of death?” Givens said. “Jesus. Is he talking about slicing their throats?”

  Dev sat up and held out his hand for the remote. Connor passed it to him. He played the bit again and swore. “Sure as hell sounds like it,” he said, studying Fontenot’s frozen face on the screen. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that. He’s got to be talking about the murder weapon.”

  “The scalpel,” Benoit said.

  Beside him, Connor gasped. “Their throats were slit with a scalpel?”

  “That’s what the ME thinks.” Dev went back and played Fontenot’s last words again. “‘No one’s future is safe.’ He’s talking about the kids’ scholarships.”

  “What scholarships?” Connor choked out.

  Dev briefly explained about the program. “Brian and Darnell already had theirs. Jimmy Treacher is scheduled to take the exam next Tuesday, and I’ve got a really smart kid, Nicky Renato, who’s on the nomination list.” He went grim. “It’s called Safefutures Scholarships.”

  Connor’s face blanched. “Safefutures? He said ‘no one’s future is safe.’” She pressed a trembling hand against her mouth. “Oh, God.”

  Dev knew what she was thinking. If she’d known all that, she’d have put the pieces together and come to him, and could have saved at least one or two of the boys, if not all three.

  He wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault. That no one would have made the connection. But that would be a lie. She was right—if he’d heard this back when it was recorded, he’d have known exactly what Fontenot was doing. He wouldn’t have believed the man could pull the strings so easily from prison, but he would have taken steps to make sure it didn’t happen.

  Because Dev had held the one vital piece of information that she was missing. The Safefutures Scholarships. If only he’d heard Fontenot’s words right away, he could have saved three innocent lives.

  He stood and stalked over to the barred window. He stared out at the street, but what he saw were the faces of his kids. Did he really believe that Fontenot had engineered their deaths from behind prison walls? He wasn’t sure. But could he afford to ignore the man’s threats? No.

  Behind him, a chair leg scraped across the vinyl floor. It was Givens, scooting closer to Connor.

  “Now, Ms. Connor,” Givens said, “just exactly when did you begin to suspect that the DVD you had in your possession might contain valuable information that could lead to solving the murders of three teenagers in the New Orleans area?”

  “I explained that, Detective. When I—”

  Their voices droned on and on, but Dev was barely listening. It was all he could do to keep himself from tearing out of there and speeding up to Angola. His fingers itched to rip Fontenot’s head clean off his shoulders.

  Thibaud’s voice echoed in his memory, louder than the conversation in the room.

  Don’t never go off half-cocked, son. Wait till you got the whole story. A story ain’t much of a story without a beginning, middle, and an end. Many’s the time the ending’ll surprise you.

  He sucked in a deep breath, sent a prayer of thanks to Thibaud for having the good sense that he didn’t. He turned around. Three sets of eyes turned to him.

  He nodded at the screen as he spoke. “I’ll guarantee you Fontenot did not choose those words at random. Think about it. He intended for this interview to air. He knew I’d see it. In fact, he’s talking directly to me. He likes nothing better than to be able to sit and watch people flutter about helplessly, knowing what he is doing but unable to stop him. He wants me to know that he is exacting his revenge, right in front of me, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”

  Givens eyed him. “Are you saying you believe he’s actually directing the murders from prison?”

  Dev answered carefully. “I’m saying I have to respond as though I do, to play along with his sick game. I can’t afford to dismiss Fontenot as a lunatic. Not while my kids are in danger.”

  Givens nodded, scribbling furiously on his notepad. He spoke without looking up. “Why do you think Fontenot chose you, specifically, to do his interview?” he asked Connor.

  She grimaced. “I don’t know. At one point during the interview he told me he liked me.”

  “What did he mean by that?” Givens asked.

  “No clue. Maybe he watches my show.”

  Givens’ head shot up and he scowled at her. “Or maybe it was because of your past relationship with Dev.”

  Dev had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at the junior detective. Givens was still being an ass, hoping to make Dev angry. Dev pointedly ignored his potshot and answered before she could. “Fontenot is a sociopath. He wants an audience to be amazed at his superior intelligence. Getting Ms. Connor to air the interview on her show guaranteed that hundreds of thousands of people would see him—or so he thought.”


  He turned to her. “I’m sure it’s killing him that the show never broadcast. Has he contacted you asking why?”

  She swallowed, her throat quivering. “No. I thought he was just raving.” Her voice sounded choked, desperate. “Dev—I didn’t know about the scalpels or the scholarships.”

  Dev squeezed his eyes shut for a second, blocking out her anguish. He hated to see her so crushed with guilt, but there was no denying what he’d seen on the DVD. And he knew she couldn’t deny what she’d failed to do. “I know that,” he said.

  For a brief instant he wondered how different the past week and a half would have been if she had felt she could come to him, trust him. If they’d somehow been able to work together from the beginning. Would the three teens be alive today?

  And what else would be different between them?

  Their antagonistic relationship?

  Would they have declared a truce? Picked up that amazing kiss where it had left off…?

  Would he already know what it was like to have her fragrant red hair spread across his pillow? And have her naked beneath him?

  Chapter Seven

  After an hour of grueling questioning by Givens and Benoit, Reghan was banished back to the corner desk where Dev had deposited her earlier, and the three detectives returned to the interrogation room without her. She had no idea what was going on, but their raised voices plus snippets of gossip from other people in the office helped her piece together the argument. Apparently Givens planned to send Benoit up to Angola to interview Fontenot, and Dev was not happy with the decision.

  She was pretty sure she knew why. No doubt Dev wanted to have a go at Fontenot himself, but Givens wouldn’t authorize him to do the interview—probably couldn’t, since Dev was officially barred from the case because of his connection with the murdered teens.

  It was after noon when Dev finally emerged. His face was as dark and ominous as his piercing eyes. Reghan figured if she wanted to keep her head on her shoulders, she’d better keep her mouth shut. She followed him out of the station to his car, then sat quietly beside him as he drove away. But when Dev turned the car toward the Garden District, she couldn’t resist asking, “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you to get your car,” he growled.

  “Really?” she said in surprise.

  “Don’t get too excited. It’s just for one day.”

  Reghan waited, but he didn’t say anything else. She sat in silence, her brain racing a mile a minute. By the time he pulled up in front of her house, she could no longer stay mute. “I know what you’re doing,” she said as he cut the engine. “There’s only one reason you’d let me have my car. You’re going up to Angola, aren’t you? I guess Benoit is planning to go tomorrow, so you’re going today.”

  His expression had been closed down, giving her no response to read.

  “You have to take me with you,” she’d told him. “Fontenot won’t talk to anyone but me. He’s sure as heck not going to talk to Benoit. But if you and I showed up together, he might allow you into the room with us.”

  Dev vaulted out of the car and stomped around to jerk the passenger door open. “Allow?” he said sarcastically. “He’s in prison. He doesn’t get to allow anything.”

  “Fine,” she said as she dug into her purse for her car keys. “But when you have to turn around and drive back here with nothing, just remember I told you so.”

  “Listen to me, Reghan Connor,” he said through gritted teeth. “You will drive directly to the WACT building. I’ve arranged with the security company for you to park in a handicapped slot just outside the lobby doors. At six o’clock you will leave the WACT building—”

  “But—” she started. She’d never be done by six o’clock. She needed until at least eight just to prepare for tomorrow’s show.

  “Don’t push it, or we’ll leave your car right here and you can cool your heels at the center.”

  “You might as well,” she said glumly. “I won’t be able to get anything done by six. I need until at least eight o’clock.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Fine. Eight o’clock. The security guard will walk you to your car and call Penn to let her know you’re on your way. You won’t stop for anything. Head straight to the center. If you’re not there within fifteen minutes, Penn will call you. If she doesn’t get you, she’ll call the police.”

  “You should take me with you,” she repeated.

  He slammed the passenger door, barely giving her time to scoot out of the way.

  She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Is that all I get? The silent treatment?” she snapped. “Why don’t you just give me a police escort?”

  “I tried. Captain Hamilton said we’re too shorthanded.” He headed back around his car.

  “Oh my God, really?” she exclaimed. “You are so darn stubborn. I can’t wait to hear every word Fontenot says to you.”

  He sent her a look designed to burn her where she stood, got into his car and peeled away from the curb.

  She rolled her eyes. Saying “I told you so” tonight would be so sweet. Dev was going to be sorry he spent the whole afternoon and evening on the road for nothing.

  …

  It was eight-fifteen when Reghan emerged from the elevator into the lobby of the WACT building. Mr. Daniels, the night security guard, stood and walked over to hold the door for her. She noticed he was favoring his right hip.

  “Rained some this evening,” he remarked.

  Reghan shivered. “Yes, it did. It’s chilly at night for this time of year.” She exited the building with the guard behind her.

  He grunted. “This rain makes my bad hip act up.”

  “It aggravates my allergies.”

  “Honey, you just wait until you’re forty or fifty years older. Allergies’ll be the least of your problems.”

  She laughed politely. “My car’s right there,” she said, pointing her ignition key toward the BMW and pressing the unlock button. Two dozen feet away, the Beemer’s lights flashed and the door locks chirped.

  Mr. Daniels walked beside her as she headed to the rear passenger door to throw her briefcase inside.

  “Okay, Ms. Connor. You have a nice night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” she said, not looking up as she closed the passenger door. She turned to walk around the front of the car and heard a thump, a harsh explosion of breath and a sickening crunch that sounded like bone breaking. Then a pained screech.

  She whirled in time to see Mr. Daniels tumble to the ground. His right arm was twisted at an odd angle. “Mr. Daniels? What happened?” She started toward him just as someone bumped her from behind.

  “Oh!” she cried out, startled. She tried to whirl and see who had hit her. But before she could, an arm came around her neck. She gasped and grabbed at it. It was thin but muscled. Her fingers caught in soft material. She heard rasping, shallow breaths—hers or the attacker’s?

  Then—a whisper. “Just wouldn’t listen, would you—bitch?”

  “No! Stop!” She got her fingers inside the circle of the arm and pushed desperately, trying to slide under and out. She tried to use her elbows, tried to kick backward. Nothing worked.

  Suddenly, the arm was gone. She took her chance and lunged forward, but before she could get away, strong hands pushed her so hard against the side of the car that it knocked the breath out of her. She struggled to suck air into her lungs as her legs collapsed.

  The arm encircled her neck again and she felt cold metal against her skin. She tried to scream, but she had no air. She pushed reflexively against the arm restraining her.

  “All your fault, Reghan Connor.”

  Reghan pushed again, as hard as she could. The cold thing slid across her palm. It stung. She jerked away and managed to free her elbow. She jammed it backward with all her might and heard an “Oof.” The punishing vise on her throat eased.

  Her lungs spasmed again, then sucked in air voraciously. After a few precious seconds struggling for oxy
gen, she finally drew in a good lungful.

  She did her best to move—to run and scream. But she was pitifully weak. Her legs felt like rubber. She heard harsh breathing and shoes scraping the pavement behind her. Her attacker. She had to move. Had to get away. A hand grasped at her blouse just as a vehicle rounded the corner, its headlights blinding her.

  Immediately the grasping hand was gone and the crunch of footsteps receded. Dazed, she turned to spot her attacker, but all she saw was a dark form disappearing into sparks and stars. She blinked and shook her head, and the sparkles and stars swayed back and forth. Everything else was black.

  The vehicle whose lights had spooked her attacker passed by without stopping. She should have cried out and waved, but all her strength was consumed with the struggle to get air and to keep the panic at bay. She collapsed against the side of the car again, trying to look in all directions at once. Was he really gone? What if he came back?

  She had to do something.

  Cell phone. Yes. But where was her purse? She looked around. There, several feet away, she saw it, right next to—

  Mr. Daniels. She remembered. He’d cried out. She’d seen him fall, seen the arm that had been bent like a stick. “Mr.—Daniels,” she cried, or at least tried to. All that escaped from her throat was a croak.

  He didn’t answer, didn’t even move.

  She needed to get to him, to see how badly he was hurt. Her eyes lit on her purse again. It was between him and her. She’d call 911, then check on him. 911 was more important. If he was badly hurt or, God forbid, not breathing, she wasn’t sure she could help him in her current state.

  She took a cautious step toward her purse and the pale streetlight glinted on her shiny red plastic cell phone cover. She bent over and reached for it, but something on her hand caught her eye. Something black. Dirt? She wiped her palm on her pants. White-hot pain stunned her and stole what little breath she had. She cried out and tears stung her eyes.

  She looked down. Now the black stuff was all over her pants. She stared at it, uncomprehendingly. Was it wet? Mud?

  Finally, it registered.

  Blood.