No Safe Place

by JoAnn Ross

  Given that LeBlanc had dealt himself a hand of aces, Nick sprawled in the wooden chair and took a long pull from the bottle, enjoying the faint tang of the barrels the beer was aged in. There were beer snobs who probably wouldn't consider Dixie the best beer in the world, but Nick had been drinking it since he was fifteen, and as far as he was concerned, there wasn't anything on the planet better with crawfish.

  "Good man, your daddy," LeBlanc said. "I was sorry to hear he'd passed on."

  "Well, that makes one of us."

  Nick knew damn well that although he probably hadn't been the one to pull the trigger—LeBlanc hadn't survived all these years by risking capture while doing his own dirty work—the mobster's fingerprints were all over Big Antoine's so-called suicide.

  He put the bottle down on the table and went for the bluff. "Look, LeBlanc. You may have half the cops in the parish on your tab, but I'm not my old man."

  "So I've heard. Antoine used to say you might be wild, but you were as clean as a fuckin' altar boy."

  "Excuse me if I have trouble buying that."

  A patrician silver brow arched. "Which? That your father thought you possessed integrity? Or that he talked about you at all?"

  Nick shrugged and took another long drink of the beer. Talking about his old man made him thirsty.

  "He was real proud of you," LeBlanc continued smoothly. Despite the outward convivial tone, this was not, Nick knew, a casual conversation. Wiseguys like LeBlanc didn't send their goons to haul a guy out into the bayou in the middle of the night because they were looking for someone to chew the fat with. "Didn't understand you worth shit. But he was proud."

  "You got cell-phone signal out here?"

  The older man's brow furrowed at the seeming non sequitur. "It's spotty. Why?"

  "Because you might want to use that friggin' phone to call someone who cares."

  Nick suspected not many people would have the nerve to mouth off to Leon LeBlanc. At least that's what he was counting on.

  Bingo. LeBlanc threw back his head and roared. "Damned if you ain't your old man's kid after all."

  He rubbed his palms—which looked as if they'd never done a lick of physical work—together with apparent glee, enjoying some private joke he wasn't prepared to let Nick in on.

  "Hear you got yourself into a little trouble with the cops."

  Nick shrugged. "I was set up."

  "That's your story and you're sticking to it." LeBlanc winked, beaming like a vinyl-siding salesman at his own humor. "But you know, it got me thinking."

  Always a dangerous thing.

  "Taking payoffs from some low-rent hot-sheet places, like you were busted for, isn't usually enough to make even a ripple in the department."

  Not in this city, anyway. "I suppose gettin' my picture on TV didn't win me any political friends."

  "Sure enough, that's a possibility. Cops never like seein' one of their own on the nightly news. Unless, of course, one of them can be spun as a dead hero. Still, that type of pissant stuff tends to blow over."

  "So did Katrina."

  LeBlanc's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "That hurricane may just turn out to be the best damn thing that ever happened to this city."

  "I suppose that depends on what side of the government contracts you're sitting on."

  Leon LeBlanc's Crescent City Construction Company had been tearing condemned buildings down for months. While his waste management trucks hauled mountains of debris away. When they started handing out government contracts, LeBlanc had been first in line at the public trough. Any subcontractors wanting a piece of the rebuilding of New Orleans parish had to pay LeBlanc to play.

  "Maybe so. The thing is, Broussard, I've been givin'a lot of thought to your situation."

  Again Nick didn't respond.

  "And I've decided that either you're the unluckiest sumbitch who ever lived, or just maybe you've pissed off some people in the department. Given your previous reputation as a Boy Scout, I'd say it's the latter."

  "If people get pissed off, hey, that's not my problem."

  "Unless those pissed-off people just happen to decide to get you out of the way. By framin' you. But here's the kicker." LeBlanc folded his hands and leaned forward over the table. A glacier-size diamond pinky ring glittered like ice in the lantern light. "I did me some diggin' and I can't find a single solitary soul who'll cop to settin' you up for that bribe that got you busted."

  Unsure where this conversation was headed, Nick had the niggling little suspicion that he may have miscalculated the situation.

  "Lots of stories in the Big Easy," LeBlanc said amiably. The smile in his eyes was about as trustworthy as a government promise. "Some truer than others. I figure you got railroaded out of the department because you're the one thing everybody hates. A hypocrite."

  "That's your opinion." Nick polished off the Dixie. "You're welcome to it. And, for the record, that little trouble turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Now I got my own business. Nobody tells me what to do. Or how to do it. There's no Big Brother looking over my shoulder."

  "There's the state licensing board."

  Nick laughed derisively. "Yeah. Right."

  "You got a point." LeBlanc's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Been a while since Katrina, but everyone's still a bit distracted."

  Distracted. That was one word for it.

  "Guess that's how you managed to get yourself a license without taking the required forty-hour PI course."

  "You have been keeping an eye on me."

  "Big Antoine and I went to Redemptorist High together. We were friends. I'll always feel guilty that he didn't come to me with his problems before—"

  "Blowin' his damn head off with a shotgun?"

  LeBlanc shook his head. "I heard it wasn't pretty."

  "Brains splattered all over a bedroom wall seldom are."

  Actually, when he'd seen the police photos, Nick had been surprised the son of a bitch had any brains left, considering his rather had spent most of his life—at least the part of it after he'd returned home from Chu Lai with two Purple Hearts and a serious jones for booze—trying his best to pickle every damn cell in his body.

  "As for my skipping that PI course, with the police department shorthanded these days, certain, shall we say friendly members of the licensing board believe it's more efficient to get cops back on the streets. Even private ones."

  "What did that cost you?"

  "Not a red cent."

  LeBlanc chuckled. "You're a fair-to-middlin' liar, Broussard. But I'm not buying it. You're runnin' on fumes, boy."

  "Yeah, but I got me some snazzy new business cards. I figure I'll snag myself a hot case soon enough."

  So far he had three clients. The first was a former high school girlfriend who wanted him to run a check on a guy she was considering getting serious about, the second a friend whose dickhead of a husband was too quick with his fists.

  Nick had refused to take money in either case. The first he figured he'd owed, having pretty much dumped her to join the navy after high school. In the second case the woman was a victim, and no way would his conscience allow him to make money off that.

  The third was a trickier situation. And, he was beginning to suspect, the real reason he'd been dragged out here tonight.

  "Ask and ye shall receive. Because, as it happens, I've got a job for you, boy."

  Nick leaned back in the chair, balancing on the hind legs. Bien. This was better. Now things were getting back on track. "What kind of job?"

  "Let's call it a missing-persons case."

  "Lots of people still missing since Katrina scattered folks to the four winds."

  A shitload of cops had taken off that weekend, too. Some in cars they'd "borrowed" from local dealerships.

  "Ain't that the truth. But this particular person shouldn't be so hard to find. Given that you and she are ... well, shall we say, close?"

  Hell. Damn if she hadn't gone and done it.

 
It took a Herculean effort, but Nick managed to keep his expression and his voice bland. "I'm close to a lot of people. Especially those of the female persuasion." He flashed the kind of grin two guys might share when a well-endowed female sashayed by.

  "Another way you're like your old man. Antoine liked the ladies, too, back in the day. But the word on the street is that you and Desiree Doucett have been doin' the nasty together."

  "The street doesn't know shit about what I do behind closed doors."

  LeBlanc exhaled a long, patient sigh. "You're not bad at bluffin', boy. But you know what they say. About a picture bein'worth a thousand words."

  He reached into the jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope. Then fanned the photos out on the table like a poker player showing off a royal flush.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! Nick pretended scant interest in the photos even as his mind spun like a damn Tilt-A-Whirl.

  There they were together, Desiree all smooth, perfumed, and powdered magnolia skin, him still fully clothed, which didn't really let him off the hook. Especially when he took in the others: photographs of Desiree in his arms, Desiree's lush ripe mouth on his, Desiree wrapped around him like a damn python in her pretty iron-frame bed.

  "I don't suppose you'd believe I was visiting a sick friend?"

  "I'd believe you and that little chippie were playing doctor, sure enough," LeBlanc said. "You being so close to her, you'd probably know where to find her."

  Ice skimmed up Nick's spine. "And you're looking for her why?" His voice was steady. His palms moist.

  Trust the crazy, willful redhead to screw things up. Well, he'd wanted to infiltrate LeBlanc's cadre of killers, thugs, and thieves.

  But, dammit, not this way.

  He'd suspected the criminal boss might give him a hit right off the bat, to test how far he'd fallen. How desperate he might be.

  As a SEAL sniper, Nick had taken lives before. In the line of duty. For flag and country. But no way would he commit cold-blooded murder. Unfortunately, when he'd come up with what had seemed, at the time, a crackerjack plan to uncover who was really responsible for his father's death, he'd decided to set fire to that bridge when he got to it.

  Problem was, he'd never foreseen the proposed target being a woman. And, damn it all to hell, not just any woman. A confidential informant.

  He couldn't tell LeBlanc he'd been at Desiree Doucett's apartment so she could feed him information about the South Louisiana rackets. Not if he wanted to walk out of here alive.

  And not if he wanted to keep Desiree alive. Which it sounded like involved finding her first.

  Jesus, Mary, and Thibodoux. Nick had gotten himself into some tight situations over the years. But this was the first time he really understood the old cliche" about being between a freaking rock and a hard place.

  "The girl stole somethin' of mine. Somethin' she has no right to," the mobster growled. "I want it back."

  Roger that. No problem. Desiree might not like it, but even as reckless as she was, the woman wasn't stupid. When he explained the alternatives, she'd see the light.

  "So, you gonna tell me what it is I'm supposed to get back?"

  "Desiree knows what it is. What I want is for you to bring her to me. So she and I can have a come-to-Jesus meeting about how stealing's not only a crime, but a sin."

  Like LeBlanc wasn't personally acquainted with all seven deadly sins?

  "So why haven't you sent your goons after her?"

  "Let's just say this job needs a bit more finesse. Plus, I can always use a PI on my team. This seems a good way for you and me to see how well we work together."

  "Okay. So I bring Desiree Doucett in for that little chat. Then what?"

  "Then ain't none of your business."

  The man's expression hardened. His eyes turned flat as a gator's. Gone was the jovial wiseguy known for the best Jazz Fest parties and Mardi Gras fireworks on the Gulf Coast. In his place was the stone-cold killer Nick knew him to be. Unfortunately, knowing a guy was rotten to the core didn't necessarily mean you could get as conviction when said guy was as connected as Leon LeBlanc was.

  "You want the job or not, Broussard?"

  He took a hammered gold case from the same pockety from which he'd pulled the photos, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it with a black Zippo adorned with a retro sixties Playboy cover girl. Adding this piece of evidence to the pinups on the wall, Nick concluded LeBlanc liked women.

  When he wasn't trying to kill them, that is.

  "And just in case you decide you need time to think about it, let me explain how things work," LeBlanc said on a stream of smoke that hung on the humid bayou air. He then proceeded to offer a sum equal to what it would've taken Nick five years in the military to earn. "The deal is, boy, it goes down ten thousand dollars a minute for the next ten minutes. Then, it's off the table."

  He stood up, shot his snowy cuffs. "I'll let you think about it while I go talk to the boys."

  Not wanting to let LeBlanc and his thugs have themselves a little powwow about what to do with him, Nick decided he could think later. "Ill take it."

  "I rather thought you would." A satisfied chuckle rumbled up from the older man's chest. "Did I mention the job comes with an end date?"

  "I don't believe you did."

  "You've got forty-eight hours to bring that little gal to me."

  "And if I don't?"

  "Well, the obvious thing is you won't get paid. But you never know what kinda accidents a fella might have." He shook his head, took one last hit on the cigarette, and dropped it into the beer bottle, where it sizzled and went out. "Sure would hate to think about that boat of yours goin' up in flames some night. Even worse if you happened to be there when it happened."

  It was a threat, pure and simple. And both men knew it.

  Now all Nick had to do was figure out how the hell keep reckless, headstrong Desiree Doucett from becoming a New Orleans homicide statistic, solve a murder—no way would his old man kill himself—and, oh yeah, manage to keep from being clipped himself.

  Piece of cake.

  5

  Chicago

  AS STANDOFFS WENT, IT DEFINITELY WASN'T the most life-threatening she'd ever encountered.

  The adrenaline still pumping trip-hammer fast through her veins, Kate double-handed her Glock as she faced off against a ... flashlight?

  Oh, hell.

  Strangely, the man she was pointing the pistol at didn't seem all that nervous. Instead, he merely smiled and sort of waved the flashlight, a yellow beam shooting over the walls and ceiling.

  "After getting stuck in here for twenty minutes last week, I've started bringing my own light with me," he said mildly.

  "That's a good idea." One of the good things about having been a patrol cop was the Mag-Lite Kate had carried on her utility belt.

  "It doesn't keep the elevator from getting stuck. But at least I won't be in the dark next time." Somehow his attention shifted to the gun, though he kept his eyes on hers. "I'm one of the good guys. So you can put that away."

  "Sorry." There were cops in the department with itchy trigger fingers. Kate had never been one of them. Until now.

  Welcome to Paranoiaville.

  "You've been under a lot of stress lately."

  She was holstering the gun when his words sent another little jolt through her. "You know who I am?"

  "Of course. Even if you weren't the best-looking police officer I've ever seen, it would've been hard to miss all the media coverage."

  "Damn vultures." Like most cops, Kate had never been that fond of reporters. The past few weeks had not altered her opinion that most were carrion who fed on human tragedy.

  "It's a compelling story. There's a tall blue wall inside every police department dividing the good guys from the bad guys. The rules behind that wall are the cop counterpart to omertà, the mobster code of silence."

  She tilted her head and studied him as the elevator reached the ground. "And you know this how?"

  His sm
ile was quick and friendly and made him appear absolutely harmless. "I'm a psychiatrist."

  Could her day get any better? Shrinks rated below reporters on Kate's personal hierarchy. They were all the time wanting you to talk about private stuff. About your mother. Yeah, like that was going to happen anytime in this millennium.

  "Good for you." Her tone said otherwise.

  "I've consulted with the department before."

  Her heart jumped as adrenaline, laced with a cop's instinctive caution, spiked through her. "You're not—"

  "Stalking you? Watching you for police brass who undoubtedly aren't all that pleased to have one of their own turn Serpico on them?"

  "I was going to say keeping me under surveillance."

  "No." He shook his head. "My moving into the building was just a coincidence. But perhaps"—the steel door opened—"a fortunate one."

  He reached into his coat pocket, took out a leather folder, and handed her a business card. It was ivory, the lettering in bark-brown raised type. Classy.

  "If you want someone to talk to," he said, "I'm told I have an empathetic ear."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  She gave a smile as false as her words as she slipped the card into her coat pocket. Mephistopheles would be ice fishing in hell before she spilled her guts to anyone. Let alone a shrink with ties to a department that believed she'd betrayed it.

  "And I don't want to boast, but I also make a mean lasagna, if you're ever in the mood for a homemade Italian dinner."

  How did he know she didn't cook? Had he seen one of her microwaveable meal cartons while searching through her garbage?

  And can you get any more paranoid? He's only asking you to dinner. Like a casual date. You do remember dating, don't you?

  Sure she did. Just barely.

  "How about I give you a rain check?" Kate forced a bit more warmth into her tone

  It wasn't this shrink's fault her life was screwed up. Or that she'd decided—after her unsurprising breakup with one of the cops she'd be testifying against in the Justice Department's police corruption case—to embrace her celibate side.

  "I'll hold you to that," he said as they left the elevator together. "Good luck in court."

  "Thanks."