by Julie Chase
“Are you not familiar with the expression, ‘sit tight’?”
I hung up on him. I didn’t have time for sarcasm. I was in a car. I could drive away and save myself. I restarted the car, overwhelmed by indecision. My gaze traveled to the SUV parked across the lot. Who was in there? Why?
Curiosity clawed through me. I imagined marching over and knocking on the tinted glass. What if the glass slid down and a gun poked out? Maybe leaving was a better idea. I could visit Heart to Heart another time. The police station wasn’t far. I was willing to bet the SUV wouldn’t follow me into that lot. I forced my curious thoughts away in favor of survival.
Unfortunately, the Quarter streets and sidewalks teemed with traffic and pedestrians, making travel nearly impossible. I could cut into the mix, but it would take time, and I wasn’t sure how my tail would react. And Jack had told me to sit tight. A Segway tour glided through the mess like ducklings after their mama, wearing little yellow helmets and fierce expressions of concentration. A little smile tugged my mouth. Segways were a lot of fun as long as they weren’t driven while under the influence, like goofy Chase Hawthorne had many years ago. I shook off the happy feeling. I had serious problems to deal with. Anyway, it was a good thing Chase had left town again, because I owed him a kiss for his assistance in Penelope’s safe return, and I wasn’t ready for kissing Chase. I’d never be ready. He was too smooth, and I was a sucker for good looks and confidence. Honestly I should steer clear of all handsome men.
I breathed hot, stale air, afraid to roll my windows down despite the greenhouse effect on my skin.
I cast a guilty look at the bags on my passenger seat and imagined peanut butter frosting dripping from my pretty pupcakes onto their papers. I cranked the air conditioning and flicked a vent in their direction. “I will deliver you soon,” I promised. “Do me a favor and try not to melt first. Do we have a deal?”
A siren barked.
“Good grief!” I jumped.
A sleek black Camaro parted the pedestrians like a shark through the sea. Custom red-and-white lights flashed behind the grill. Undercover cop. Someone was busted. I looked around for trouble.
The car stopped behind me.
Was he here to rescue me? Excitement coursed through me.
The Camaro’s door swung open, and a man in black jeans, black boots, and a clingy black T-shirt slid out. His hair was long enough to put fingers through, and his cheeks were lined in stubble. He headed straight for the SUV.
“Yes!” I spun around like a child peeking into the next booth during dinner.
He rapped his knuckles against the glass and braced his free palm against the blatantly visible sidearm at his back. “New Orleans PD.” His deep voice cut through the distance between us. “Roll this down. Now.”
The window powered down a few inches, not enough for me to see the driver.
I cracked my window for better acoustics and dialed Jack.
“Oliver.”
“There’s a cop talking to the SUV guy. I can’t see who’s behind the wheel, but there’s definitely a cop. Should I go over there and talk to them?”
“Yeah. I’ll go with you.” Jack’s truck swung into view and parked on the sidewalk across the street. People stared a moment, then went around.
Jack loped into the lot and headed for the SUV.
I jumped out and followed.
The SUV’s door opened slowly. Jack and Undercover Cop dragged Dylan Latherope, Annie’s ex-husband, from the vehicle.
I stumbled back a step.
“There she is!” He lunged toward me as the other men held his arms. “You have my cats, and I want them back!”
Jack cuffed Mr. Latherope and pressed his face against the truck’s hood.
Undercover Cop gave me a curious look before poking his head inside the SUV.
I inched closer, uncertain how close I wanted to be if Latherope hulked out or exploded.
He struggled against Jack’s grip. The skin of his cheek stretched and contorted against the SUV’s hood. He glared at me with bulging eyes. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You already have one cat and two of mine! Are you getting more? Are you planning to leave mine here while you go on collecting their trust? Did you lock them in a car on a day like this?” He wiggled and lifted his feet, trying to kick Jack away.
Undercover Cop pulled out of Latherope’s car. “No weapons. No contraband. Car’s clean.” He extended his hand to me.
I accepted.
“Detective Henri LaSalle, New Orleans Homicide.” He squeezed once and turned to Jack. “This guy’s stalking your girl over a pair of cats? Like kitty cats?”
Jack lifted his chin. “Yep.”
Henri flicked Latherope’s forehead. “Man, don’t be stupid. You want to go to jail over cats?”
I tried not to focus on how easily Jack had allowed Henri to call me Jack’s girl. Juvenile as the term was, I liked it. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. “Did you happen to see a cat head in there?” I pointed to the SUV. “And coveralls?” Mr. Latherope was currently in faded denim and a Saints shirt.
“Cat overalls?” Henri asked.
“Coveralls,” Jack answered for me. “Black ones and a big papier-mâché head. A black cat face with pointy ears.”
He gave Latherope a long look. “Nah, car’s clean.”
Latherope stopped fighting. “What?”
Henri clapped Jack’s shoulder and anchored Mr. Latherope off the car by his cuffs. “I’ll have a talk with this one for you.” He unlocked the cuffs.
Latherope rubbed his wrists.
I stepped back and bumped into Jack. I hadn’t noticed him move behind me.
He set a wide palm on my arm. “Latherope.” His breath blew against the top of my head. “I want you to pretend I just issued a restraining order, because if I catch you within a mile of Lacy again, I’m going to serve you up a hot Louisiana butt whooping.”
“Whooo-hooo!” Henri hollered. He crossed his arms and smiled. “You don’t want none of that, sir. I’ve had some. It’s no good. Now start by telling me why you’re stalking that nice woman.”
Jack spun me in his direction. “You okay?”
I nodded stiffly, straining to hear Latherope’s answer. “Why aren’t you talking to him?”
“I’m pissed off. Henri’s here. Better to let the cool guy ask the questions.”
I gave his blank face a careful exam. “This is you mad?”
One stiff dip of his chin confirmed.
“Okay then. Moving on. If Latherope wasn’t the cat-man, then he’s still out there.” Unless I’d finally gone around the bend. “What’s the point? To wave and stare? Why the costume?”
He crossed his arms and widened his stance. “Is your ex mad enough to come down here and try to upset you?”
“Pete?” I tried to picture it, but anytime I thought his name, I remembered the look on his face when I’d come to surprise him during his night shift. As it turned out, he wasn’t working that night as much as getting to know a coworker. Biblically. “No. Even if he was mad enough to think about coming to New Orleans, he’s too lazy to do more than angry text. Plus, he was a cheater, not a psychopath. What kind of person does stuff like this?”
Jack shifted his attention in the direction of Henri and Latherope. “I dispatched a pair of uniforms to Magazine when you called. They’re asking around about a guy in a cat head.”
“Then you called Henri.”
“I knew Henri was closer to you than I was.” He dropped his gaze back on me. “I called him first.”
The statement felt weighted, and I didn’t like what that did to my pulse.
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I came to talk to Gideon Fargas. Charlie mentioned him. Gideon runs this place.”
“I’m aware.” He tapped a finger to the shiny badge on his belt. “My guys talked to him already. He’s harmless.”
I raised my brows. “He writes a blog on the health and safety of animals in New Orle
ans, and the guy who mentioned him by name was arrested for stealing my kittens. I think those facts make him relevant—at least enough to provide a new lead. I’d like to talk to him.” I took a step toward the rescue and turned back. “Did you hear Latherope? He knew those kittens came with a trust.” I squinted against the brilliant midday sun, unable to bring Jack’s face into view without my sunglasses.
“I heard that, and I plan to hear more about it when I’m done with you. Meanwhile, you’re wasting your time—this Heart to Heart guy’s not a killer.”
“How do you know?” I shaded my eyes with one hand. “You weren’t even the one who talked to him.”
The rescue door flung open and smacked shut. A man in a ball cap and glasses barreled onto the sidewalk. His shoulders were hunched forward as if he’d robbed the place.
Instinct kicked me into gear. “Mr. Fargas?” I followed him down the crowded street. “Mr. Gideon Fargas?”
He stopped. “Yes?” A look that resembled hope crossed his face. He pulled earbuds from his ears and smiled.
“I was just on my way to the rescue.” I pointed behind us.
“Oh.” His smile widened. “I’m probably not going to catch a cab anytime soon in this mess, am I?”
“Probably not.”
He nodded and turned toward the rescue with me at his side. Khaki cargo pants sagged around his drooping tummy, where a black canvas belt was failing its job. His wrinkled polo shirt had a logo over the pocket and a coating of animal hairs. He pushed round-rimmed glasses up his nose with the side of his index finger. “What kind of pet are you looking to adopt?”
Jack fell into step beside us. “Actually,” he butted in, flashing his badge, “we’d like to talk to you about Annie Lane.”
Gideon stopped. “What?” The hope in his eyes extinguished. A sad smile tugged his mouth. “That’s a chubby guy’s luck, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “Did you know PrettyCharlie86?”
He groaned. “Yes, of course. I read about what he did to Annie’s kittens. What a loser. Always trying to pull some stunt for new followers. I’ve already spoken with the police. I can’t help you, but maybe the lady caring for the kittens can. Have you spoken with her?” He looked at the sky. “Her name’s on the tip of my tongue. It was in the paper. Lucy Cracker.”
“Lacy Crocker,” I corrected.
He dropped his gaze to mine. “I think it was Cracker.”
“No, it wasn’t. And yes, we did. We’ve concluded that she’s a lovely person and completely innocent. Is there somewhere we can speak privately? Your office, perhaps.”
Gideon’s expression blanked. “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Why don’t we talk here?”
Jack glared at the side of Gideon’s head. “Any particular reason we can’t see your office?”
“No. Why would you ask me that?” The words jumbled out in a near stutter.
“Because you’re acting squirrely,” I said.
“Come on.” Jack opened the rescue’s door and waved us inside. “Let’s take a look at the office.”
I followed Gideon. Jack followed me.
Both sides of the main room were fenced off. Cats on one side. Dogs on the other. Some in cages, some romping through narrow play centers. Barking morphed into a low yodel when a hound dog took notice of our arrival.
I stopped to rub behind its ears. “What was your problem with Annie anyway?” I asked Gideon. “All those nasty allegations about mistreatment of her kittens were completely unfounded. Her kittens are in perfect health. They’ve seen a top-tier veterinarian who will confirm my statement. See how that works? I consulted a relevant professional and reported facts to you, but you go online and slander based on hearsay and speculation. Don’t bloggers have a code of ethics?”
“I am not a blogger,” he nearly puked the word. “I founded this shelter. I’m the sole proprietor. I write an ongoing essay about the state of our city’s orphaned pets. I’m a professional, Miss—?” He hung on for my name.
“Lacy Crocker,” I deadpanned.
He arched his brows. “Of course. The lovely and completely innocent woman recently questioned for murder?”
“Correct.”
He opened his office door with a stage sigh and motioned us inside.
Covering the entire wall opposite his desk was a detailed, megacreepy Annie shrine. Memorabilia. Selfies from the Internet. Professional photos of her and the kittens. Surveillance pics of her PA, house staff, moving trucks, delivery men . . .
“You were stalking her?” I guffawed. “Are you serious?”
“No.” He flopped into his cracked leather office chair. “I tracked her. It’s my job to monitor the safety of local pets.”
“By whose authority?” I asked.
“Mine. The community’s. Guardians everywhere.”
I circled one wrist to keep him moving along and rubbed my aching forehead with my free hand.
“When a local pet owner has multiple online accusations of animal mistreatment, I have to dig for the truth. Either to confirm or dispel the rumors. If I confirm them, then I need proof of the animal’s endangerment before I can request a removal or have the owner fined. What I do isn’t stalking, Miss Completely Innocent. It’s called due diligence. The cop understands me, right?”
Jack snapped pictures of Gideon’s stalker wall. “I’m not supporting this. Stalking is illegal.”
Gideon lifted his desk phone. “Fine. I can see you don’t believe me. I’m calling my lawyer.” He pressed an old-fashioned receiver to his ear. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Annie’s death, but maybe something good will come from it. If someone killed her for mistreatment of those cats, then maybe the next person will think twice before harming their pet. It sets a good example in a complicated way, you know? At least she’s protecting animals in death.”
I turned to Jack. “Can I kick him?”
“No.” He snapped another photo. “I think he’s got the right idea. I’d call my lawyer too if I was him.” Jack turned his phone around and sent a text.
I surveyed the crazy. Gideon’s wall was all kinds of disconcerting. He must have followed Annie every day since she’d returned to the city. He had a dozen shots of movers hauling boxes to her home and every step of her life since then.
I leaned closer for a look at a young man in basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt. He carried a box with a big X on it, like the one filled with little pillows in Annie’s office. The one Annie’s assistant had returned for. I tracked my finger over the pictures. The movers wore navy work pants and red polo shirts. “This guy is the only one carrying boxes with an X, and he’s not with the company.”
Gideon hung up, walked to the office door, and whipped it open. “My lawyer says he can meet us at the station to answer questions. Otherwise, you need to leave me alone.”
Jack nodded. “Detective Henri LaSalle will meet you there.” He went into the hallway, and I followed. “It’s been . . . eye-opening.”
Gideon shut the door in our faces.
“You barely spoke to him,” I whispered as we hurried back through the rescue and out the front door. “How did your guys think he was harmless? Did you see that crazy shrine? What should we do now?”
“My guys spoke with him at his home. Speaking of homes, you need to go to yours. I’m going to meet Henri at the station.”
I beeped my car unlocked and dropped behind the wheel.
Jack caught the door before I could pull it shut. “Where are you really going?”
“I want to know who that guy in the pictures is and what was in the boxes no one else was allowed to carry.”
Jack rolled his head back and made a disgusted sound. “If I go to the station, are you going to break into Annie’s house and dig through the box of pillows in her office?”
We settled into a staring contest.
“Five minutes,” he said finally. “And you aren’t allowed to touch anything.”
“You’re a good man, Detective Oliver.”
“You’re a big pain in my—” He shut my door, snuffing out the rest of that thought.
I gunned my VW to life and smiled. I was a big pain with a new clue and finally getting my way on something.
Chapter Ten
Furry Godmother’s warning for your ovaries: Newborns don’t always smell like powder and lotion.
I followed Jack onto the porch at Annie’s and kept watch for nosy neighbors while he unlocked the door. I definitely didn’t want to show up in the morning paper again. My mom would have ten consecutive strokes.
“Wait here.” Jack walked inside and closed the door.
I counted silently to ten and let myself in. The home was eerily silent. Strips of well-trodden plastic formed a path from front door to kitchen.
I crept onto the steps, careful not to alert Jack. Halfway up the stairs, something thumped in the kitchen. I leaned over the handrail and listened harder. This time it sounded like the door opening. “Jack?” I whispered. What would have made him go in the front door and out the back? “Jack?” I crept down two steps, debating whether or not to run up and check on the box in Annie’s office before he caught me.
“What are you doing?” Jack’s voice boomed from the top of the steps.
I spun fast enough to lose my footing and fall back against the sturdy railing.
“I thought I told you to wait on the porch.”
“You!” I pointed a trembling finger at him. Words bottlenecked in my mind and throat. You don’t tell me what to do! You nearly scared the coffee out of me! You are downstairs! I heard you! I wobbled upright and gripped the railing. If he wasn’t downstairs, then who was? “I thought I heard the back door.”
Jack sprinted past me, lithely taking the steps two at a time.
I sat where I was and wished for a paper bag to breathe into. This wasn’t how my day was supposed to go. Or my life for that matter, but opening the scope of my complaint that wide was asking for trouble. I rubbed my hands on the soft knit of my dress and shoved myself upright. There was plenty of time for a breakdown later. At the moment, I had unsupervised access to Annie’s office.
