by JoAnn Ross
She turned and framed his face with her palms. Her own expression was tortured. "And if it gets you killed?"
"Broussard is a good man. He'd never kill an innocent person."
"I wasn't talking about Nick. I was referring to whoever it was who threw Desiree to her death. Did it occur to you that you may be murdered as well?"
"Of course."
"And?"
'Then my soul would be together with Desiree's in Ginen. I can't think of anything that would give me more pleasure. More peace."
"Peace," Téo scoffed bitterly. "That is not a word anyone would ever use in connection with Desiree Doucett."
"She was growing in the faith. She was finding peace within herself. And when we were together, honoring the Gédé with our bodies, well, I don't know how to describe it, but lying with her afterward was the most peaceful I have ever felt."
"Sex is like that."
"Sometimes," he agreed. "But it was different with her."
She pulled away again. Resumed pacing. "How many men do you think gave her money to feel exactly that way? She sold her body, Toussaint! She knew what men wanted. And she gave it to them."
"I never paid her anything. And she was leaving that life."
"So she said."
She stopped again. Took a deep breath.
"I wish you'd never met the whore."
"If I'd died without ever having known Desiree, I would have died without ever knowing true joy."
"Or pain."
"Life consists of two sides," he said, reminding her what she'd told Nick Broussard and Desiree's sister when they'd come into the shop seeking information about left-hand magic. "Light and dark. Joy and sorrow. Without a balance, one cannot fully experience a full and well-rounded life."
He took hold of her upper arms again, restraining her when she tried to twist away. "Don't worry."
"I'm your older sister. It's my fate to worry."
"I'll be fine. Now I must go."
"Where?"
"I had a dream last night. Of the woman, Kathleen, out in the bayou. In danger. I must watch out for her."
"That's Broussard's job."
"Yes, you'd think that, wouldn't you?" he agreed. "But in my dream, he was bound hand and foot by trumpet vines and hung over a deep, dark pit."
"But alive?"
"He was when I awoke." He touched his lips to her forehead, which was uncharacteristically marred with deep horizontal lines. "But just in case—"
"Be careful," she begged. "Stay safe."
"Si Dieu vlé," he responded. God willing.
Truer words were never spoken. He'd done everything he could to save Desiree. But all his efforts and prayers and spells had failed.
For some reason, while he'd been serving gumbo and overly sweet Hurricanes to drunken tourists, she'd left his home and gone to her own apartment, only to plunge to her too-young death. Since then Toussaint had not been able to escape the feeling that the world, at least his little corner of it, had spun totally out of control.
37
"I HAVE SOME GOOD NEWS," NICK SAID AS KATE joined him in the galley.
"Tell me Remy called again and told you they've caught Tara's killer." She took the mug he held out to her, cupped it between her hands, and breathed in the fragrant steam.
"Sorry. But I described the woo-woo Voodoo stuff to Téo and she says the feathers were probably from a black rooster. The blood and bones as well. It's a protection charm."
"I suppose that's good news." Kate still wasn't so sure. The idea of any Voodoo person skulking around on the boat while she and Nick had been making love, or sleeping, was still more than creepy. "Does she have any idea who did it?"
"She thinks it might have been some guy who was sort of mentoring your sister in the religion."
"What?" Kate nearly choked on her coffee. "There was some guy in her life and Téo Jannise knew it and never said anything when we were at her shop?"
"Yeah, I asked her about that. She said she hadn't thought to mention it because she was so shocked to learn Tara was dead."
"So, what did she have to say now?"
"Only what I told you." He broke some eggs into a bowl.
"You asked her his name, right?"
Nick gave her a look.
"Okay. Sorry, Of course you did. What did she say?"
"Not much. In fact, she pretty much dodged the question."
"Which we're not going to let her get away with, right?"
"Right. I figured we'd drop by her shop after Remy leaves. Which is going to be a while, by the way. He called again and said something had come up."
"About Tara?"
"No. He caught a case. A carjacking went bad last night and two tourists are going back to Baltimore in pine boxes."
"That's tough."
"Yeah, even tougher because Remy doesn't think they were real tourists, given that they had rap sheets as long as your legs."
She smiled at the compliment and gave him a quick, light kiss. "Does he think they were in town on business?"
"Yeah. Like I said, things are pretty wide-open right now, what with all the gangbanger drug dealers fighting over turf. So I suppose it's not unexpected that out-of-towners would be trying to muscle in. But I don't envy Remy."
"Why not? It sounds fairly routine, as far as drug murders go."
"It would be. Were it not for the little fact that one of the victims just happens to be the son of a Maryland congresswoman."
"Ouch." Kate whistled. "I don't have my crystal ball with me, but I think I see a red ball case in Detective Remy Landreaux's immediate future."
"Yeah. He figures he's got about four hours, tops, before the media leaps onto the story."
"So what are we going to do for the next four hours?"
"I was thinking about mixin' up a little batter for pain perdue. But if you've got something else in mind ..."
Kate did.
And it was the last thing either one of them was to say for a very long time.
It turned out to be closer to six hours. Since even they couldn't make love all that time, Kate found herself enjoying being forced to sit around and do nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing. They played several hands of gin rummy, finally tossing in the towel with them tied.
And they talked. She shared stories of cases she'd worked, he told her about missions his team had been on around the world. At least the ones he was free to talk about; she accepted that others would have to remain classified.
He also told her about returning home early from a mission and discovering his wife was having an affair with her hairdresser. She thought it said something about his character that he didn't seem to blame her, but only said that being the wife of a SEAL could be tough duty.
They discovered they both loved books, enjoyed many of the same authors, although he didn't share her fondness for romance novels, which she decided was fair because she really didn't "get" Westerns, either.
Neither were that wild about reality TV shows, although Kate admitted to being a sucker for any program about animal rescues on the Animal Planet, and Nick liked Cops, which made Kate laugh because, after all, how many drunks in how many trailer parks can any one program show?
They both had eclectic tastes in music, with a preference for country, although she liked jazz, which he believed sounded like "warm-up" music, and she was still trying to gain an appreciation of hip-hop.
And in a discussion she thought should have been uncomfortable, they learned they both someday wanted a family and children. But not now.
And when they weren't talking, they just sat out on the deck, enjoying the warm South Louisiana winter day, and the company.
At first Kate felt a little strange. Off center. As tf she'd been at sea for a very long time and hadn't quite gotten her land legs back.
Then, finally, as the sun lowered on the horizon, she realized that what she was feeling was relaxation. It had been such a long time since she'd let go of her anxiety an
d stress, she'd forgotten what it felt like not to be emotionally and mentally tied up in knots.
"Wait until we get you out in the Gulf," Nick said when she shared that revelation with him. "You'll never want to come back to the real world."
When he'd first suggested sailing away, Kate had scoffed, considering just lifting anchor and heading off for parts unknown the height of irresponsibility. Now there was something wonderfully appealing about the idea.
She was about to tell him that when an unmarked police car pulled into the lot. Without even thinking of what she was doing, Kate held a hand out toward Nick, who laced their fingers together.
"Whatever it is," he said, "we'll work on it together."
Like a team. And wasn't that another concept that had seemed unthinkable when she'd first arrived at The Hoo-yah? One that now seemed as natural as breathing.
Even knowing how Remy must've been under the gun, and working his tail off on his political red ball murder case, Kate had to marvel as he strolled toward them on a long, sexy stride that reminded her of a sleek panther.
"What the hell does he do?" she asked, taking in the navy blazer, the crisp white shirt topped off with a perfectly knotted navy-and-red-striped tie, gray slacks creased to a razor's edge, and loafers shined to a mirror gloss. "Take a Teflon shower every morning before going into the station?"
"He's always been that way," Nick said. "He was the only kid in our first communion class who ended the day with his shirt and shorts as snowy white as when he'd put them on. Hell, I've been on stakeouts with him, and not once did he ever spill hot sauce from his po' boy onto his shirt. And don't even think about tossing a burger bag on the floor. It was a lot like bein' stuck in a car with Felix Ungar."
"Well, I'm glad someone's having a good day," Remy drawled when Kate laughed at Nick's description.
"We're just sharin' a joke, cher," Nick said.
"Well, share it with me, because I could sure use a good laugh."
"Sorry." Nick exchanged a look with Kate, who was studiously biting her lip. "It's sorta private."
Remy flicked a quick, judicious look from Nick to Kate. Then back to Nick again. Although his eyes were hidden behind a pair of designer aviator shades, once again Kate had the feeling they weren't putting anything over on the special-crimes cop.
"Well, I can't stay long. I just wanted to bring you this file. Which, by the way, you've never seen."
"Roger that," Nick agreed as he took the manila envelope Remy handed over. He in turn passed it to Kate. "How's your murder going?"
"Don't ask."
"Want a beer before you get back to the salt mines?" Remy glanced down at his gold-banded watch. "Yeah. Sure. Sounds great."
As Nick went below for the beer, he sprawled in one of the deck chairs.
"I appreciate you taking the time to do this for me," Kate said. "Especially when it involves going against policy."
"Hey, if you can't break the rules for friends, what's the point?" he asked. "Besides, in case Nick hasn't told you, this is—"
"The Big Easy," Kate said with a smile, trying not to blush about some of the things Nick had done to her using just that excuse. "Folks have a certain way of doing things down here."
"Fuckin'A," he said, returning her smile with a dazzling one of his own.
As good-looking as Nick was, Remy Landreaux seemed more like a TV or movie cop than a real one. He and Nick must've cut quite a swath through the girls of New Orleans, back in their high school years.
"Here you go, cher." Nick was back, carrying three brown bottles of Abita Bock. He handed one to Kate, another to Remy, and kept one for himself.
Kate held her breath as she pulled the papers from the envelope. As much as she wanted to know, needed to know the facts of her sister's death, there was another very strong part of her that just wished she could sail away.
She cast a quick glance up at the mizzenmast, then caught Nick watching her and realized he knew exactly what she was thinking. She also knew that although he wanted to solve his father's murder as much as she did Tara's, if she said the word, they'd be off.
Despite having always considered herself a strong, independent woman, knowing Nick Broussard was in her corner gave her the strength to begin reading.
Rather than start with all the dry details, height, and weight—which she noticed was within half a pound of her own—Kate skimmed down to the final page.
"Manner of death undetermined?"
"There wasn't enough evidence, cher," Remy said, speaking to her more as a grieving survivor than a cop. "The cause of death was clear enough—"
"A broken neck." She momentarily closed her eyes as the image of her sister hitting that stone fountain flashed through her mind. She imagined she could hear the crack of bone.
"Even Dubois called that one," the detective said. "But manner . . ." He gave her a palms-up shrug. "Bein' a homicide detective yourself, you know the coroner could've found for murder, accident, or suicide. Though I know it's tough to accept, my money's on suicide. But it's still just an educated guess."
Kate knew he had a point. But the determination had knocked so much wind out of her sails. Where to go next:1
Rubbing her temple, she went back to the beginning and began to study the report, line by line.
"There's no mention of that tattoo you told me about," she said to Nick.
"What tattoo?" Remy asked.
"A gad," Nick answered. "It was of a coiled serpent. Supposedly to represent both some Voodoo goddess and the snake Marie Laveau used to dance with in Congo Square. It was on her breast."
As if worried he'd wandered into dangerous conversational waters, Nick immediately turned his attention from his former partner to Kate, who only shrugged. However Nick knew the location of her sister's tattoo was the very least of her concerns right now.
"Maybe it'll show up later in the report," he said.
"Maybe." Though unlikely, since that type of information was always the first to be written up. "Do you have the photos?"
"Sorry," the detective said. "Not yet. This was faxed over because the ME knew we were in a hurry for it."
It was difficult to separate cop from sister as she read about the semen that had glowed fluorescent beneath examination from the Woods light.
"Has anyone checked to find the man she'd last been with?" she asked Remy.
"We're working on that. Actually, I'm working on it, because, well, how do I put it politely, my current partner is pretty much a—"
"Dickhead," Kate and Nick said together.
Remy nodded. Shrugged. "That's it. Anyway, although it was one of the busiest party nights of the year, she didn't work the ship that night."
"You sure?"
"There wasn't any record, and none of the girls I spoke with remembered her being there."
"So whoever she was with was either off the books or a personal friend." Kate exchanged another glance with Nick and knew that once again they were on the same wavelength. They needed to find the Voodoo guy.
"That's pretty much what I was thinking," Remy agreed. "Problem is, we get a helluva lot of out-of-towners during Mardi Gras. A lot who probably are long gone."
"Back to their safe, boring worlds," Kate muttered. It would be like looking for a damn penis in a haystack.
They shared the same blood type. Her lungs were a dark and sooty gray, revealing her to be a heavy smoker, her enlarged liver evidence of alcohol abuse. Which wasn't surprising. Kate couldn't remember meeting a prostitute who didn't feel the need to self-medicate.
Her blood chilled as she read the next item.
"She was pregnant?"
"So it says," Remy said. "Not uncommon in the business. Even the best precautions aren't one hundred percent effective."
"That's not the point." Kate's head was reeling. There had to be a mistake. "It's impossible."
"Why?" Remy, who'd remained comfortably sprawled in a deck chair, enjoying his beer, abruptly sat up. He was now openly alert, g
iving Kate hope that Tara had just knocked the red ball gangbanger down to number two on his crime-solving priority list.
"She had an STD her sophomore year of high school. Life had been complicated, she'd been looking for comfort and love in all the wrong places—"
"No one's judging her, chère," Nick said gently.
"She wouldn't be the first fifteen-year-old to have sex with the wrong guy," Remy seconded.
"No." Kate sighed. "And unfortunately she probably wasn't the first fifteen-year-old to end up sterile because of it."
"Christ," Remy muttered, shoving a hand through his sun-gilded hair.
"If the coroner didn't make a major mistake," Nick said, "that means the girl in the courtyard wasn't Tara."
Kate had known her sister hadn't committed suicide. She also hadn't believed, when Remy Landreaux had first called her, that she could be dead.
But the idea that she was alive, perhaps still somewhere in this city, proved staggering.
38
THE IDEA OF TARA BEING ALIVE DIDN'T DETRACT from Kate's need to solve whatever crime had taken place. On the contrary, now that she knew her sister wasn't dead, there was even more reason to find her before the bad guys learned they'd killed the wrong person.
"Maybe they meant to kill this other woman, whoever she was, in the first place," she suggested.
"Then Tara wouldn't be hiding," Nick pointed out.
"Maybe she doesn't know. Maybe she took off on a vacation somewhere." Kate knew she was grasping at straws. "Damn. I guess the thing to do now is go back to the beginning. Try to track down her Voodoo lover. And talk to LeBlanc."
"Let's not tip our hand to LeBlanc. It makes sense for Remy to interview him one last time to close out the case. If Leon knows we're interested, he might start wondering what's changed since the other night. If he believes his goons have killed her, he won't be out looking for her again."
"But maybe the reason he isn't looking for her is because he already has her."
"Good point. But LeBlanc runs his operation on a lake-no-prisoners basis. Though I hate to say it, chère, given that we're talking about your sister, if he or his kid or his goons found her before I could, he wouldVe got-u-n the information from her real quick. Then ..."
