by Wolff, Tracy
She gritted her teeth to keep from saying something she’d regret, especially since for once Chastian was actually making sense. “I still don’t think a leave of absence is the way to solve that problem.”
“Yes, well, that’s not actually your call to make.”
“Since when? I’m the one who has to put in for the time off.”
“Genevieve.” Alarm coursed through her as Chastian used her first name for the first time in three years. “You have a choice. Put in for time off or I’ll suspend you.”
Shock reverberated through her and she gasped, outraged. “Because of a few pictures that had no business being taken?”
“Because I’m trying to protect you!”
“Sir, with all due respect, I find that very hard to believe. You’ve gone out of your way to make my life difficult ever since I was assigned to your squad. Your concern now is more than just unexpected. In my opinion, it’s also suspect.”
“Delacroix!” he growled.
“You don’t have the right to suspend me because of something I do in my personal time that has nothing to do with this office.”
“Maybe not. But this deals directly with this office, doesn’t it?” His voice was sharper now, angrier. “The same man you’re investigating, the same one who is killing women in my jurisdiction, took these pictures of you.”
“Allegedly.”
“Don’t go there! We both know he did.”
“What we know and what we can prove are two different things.” She mimicked the words he’d used a few days before on her and could tell her words hit home with him in the most unpleasant manner possible. “And we both know that if this was Shawn being threatened, you’d expect him to suck it up and soldier on. Why should it be any different for me?”
“Because whether or not you and I see eye to eye on anything, the idea of walking into a hotel room and seeing you with your heart cut out and your body massacred is the kind of thought that keeps me up at night. And if you want to call that sexist, go ahead. But the fact of the matter is, this shit isn’t happening to men. It’s happening to women, and I don’t really give a shit if that offends your feminist sensibilities.”
His eyes said she had already lost, but she couldn’t resist trying to negotiate a truce. “Three more days—if I can’t get something together in three more days, I’ll take a leave of absence.”
“I’m not bargaining with you, Delacroix. I don’t want one of my detectives turning up dead in the middle of the Quarter.”
“This is my case. These are my bodies—justice for them is on me.”
“It’s on all of us.”
“No, it’s not, and you know it.”
Chastian’s fist hit the desk and he cursed roundly. But Genevieve relaxed because she knew she’d won the battle. The war, however, was another matter entirely.
“I’ll give you two days. And you stick close to Webster or one of the other guys. And don’t give me any of your bullshit, either. Working with a partner is SOP and you will follow the rules or you will be out. And it will be a cold day in hell before I let you back into my squad. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes. Sir.”
“Then get back to work and don’t get dead.”
“I’ll try my best.”
He snorted. “Forgive me if I’m not reassured.”
Genevieve walked to the door, paused when he called her name.
“I don’t really care what you do in your free time, but I don’t want these photos getting out. If they were made public, it would be an embarrassment to both you and this department, and that I will not put up with. Do I make myself clear?”
She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him as shame coursed through her. He was right—if these pictures got out, the press would have a field day. “Yes, sir.” What went without saying, however, was that it might already be too late. If Chastian had the photos, God only knew who else the sick fuck had given them to.
Her stomach clenched into knots at the thought.
What was she going to do? How the hell was she supposed to deal with Chastian and the evidence clerk and God only knew who else had seen such intimate photos of her?
“Hey,” Shawn called as she walked back to her desk. “What’d Chastian want?”
“Just info on the murders,” she said with a shrug.
“Without me?”
Guilt swamped her—she’d never lied to her partner before, had always made a point of being scrupulously honest with him. Knew that he felt the same way. But how could she tell him what was really going on? That Chastian knew was bad enough. If Shawn knew, she might as well be suspended, because she’d never be able to raise her head in here again.
Finally settling on a half-truth, she told him, “He wants me to take a vacation. Get me out of the killer’s line of sight.”
She waited for Shawn to explode, to tell her what an idiot Chastian was for even suggesting it. Instead, he merely regarded her thoughtfully. “That’s not such a bad idea, you know.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “This guy is gunning for you. Maybe if you weren’t around—”
“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She held her hands over her ears. “If I have to hear one more man tell me to run and hide, I swear I’ll scream.”
“I think you already did that.” Torres walked up behind her, carrying a bunch of roses.
“These came for you—they were at the front desk, and I said I’d bring them back to you.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the hot pink roses. They didn’t seem like something Cole would send, but the alternative was something she didn’t even want to think about.
Reaching for the card, she felt relief swamp her as she read what it said. Thanks for Wednesday. I miss you. Tonight? The flowers might not have been to her taste, but at least they were from Cole. Considering what had happened earlier, it was a huge relief.
She looked up to find the others staring at her, their faces so grim that they must have been fearing exactly what she had. “They’re not from him,” she said, slipping the card into her pocket.
“You’re sure?” Torres demanded.
“Yes.”
Shawn blew out a sigh of relief. “Well, thank God for small favors.”
“Yeah, no shit. Now, can we get to work, please?” Turning to the murder board, she stared at the newly tacked-up pictures of Maria. “What’s the connection? Why these women in a city full of women and tourists?”
“There doesn’t seem to be one,” Luc commented.
“There has to be.” She tapped a finger on Maria’s photo. “We find the connection and we’ll find him. I guarantee it.”
* * *
“You know I thought this was a bad idea from the very beginning, Cole. You can’t actually expect yourself to be able to produce a decent documentary with the stress you’re under.”
“I’m fine, Andrew.” Cole pushed away from the computer where he’d spent the better part of the last twelve hours trying to write the script for the documentary that had started this whole odyssey to New Orleans, and tried to focus on what his agent was saying. It was hard, when half his mind was wrapped up in the script and the other half was stuck on Genevieve, wondering if she was okay. Wondering why she hadn’t called.
“You don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you?”
“I don’t really care what you believe at this point. But if you expect a workable screenplay, you need to leave me alone and let me write the damn thing!”
There was a long silence. “You’re lucky I know you as well as I do, man. Another agent might take offense.”
“Bite me.”
“I’d rather not. You’re poison mean. God only knows what I might catch.”
Cole smiled despite himself. Andrew had been his agent for nine years—well over a year before Samantha had disappeared—and was pretty much the only person still in his life who knew what had made him the way he was. He
was a hell of an agent—absolutely cutthroat—and was also the best friend Cole had ever had.
“I’m mellowing in my old age. Didn’t you catch the article in People?”
Andrew snorted. “Compared to what? A nuclear bomb?”
Cole laughed. “I think I resent that.”
“You delicate artist types. You never can take the truth.”
“Screw you.”
“Sorry, buddy. Lisa might get upset—she’s pretty prickly about this whole fidelity thing.”
“I can imagine.”
Andrew cleared his throat, as if he was working up to something. Then mumbled, “So, have you made any progress? You know, on Samantha?”
Cole’s heart dropped to his stomach. He’d known the question was coming, had heard the concern in Andrew’s voice the second he’d picked up the phone. But what could he say? That he was sleeping with the cop he’d handpicked to help him solve the case? That he hadn’t even asked Genevieve about Samantha’s death because he was afraid of messing things up with her?
Or should he mention the guy currently cutting up women in this godforsaken town? And how eerily close his MO seemed to be to the bastard’s who had killed Samantha?
In the end, he didn’t say any of it, couldn’t say it—even to his best friend. Instead, he cleared his own throat. Answered, “I don’t know. Everything’s completely fucked-up down here.”
“Isn’t it always? That city’s never been good for you.”
He thought of Genevieve and the trust she’d put in him despite the odds. “It’s not all bad.”
“Do you need some help? I can hop a plane—”
“Thanks, Andrew. Really. I’m okay, just frustrated as shit.”
“Come home, back to L.A. It’s a balmy seventy-eight degrees here and everything is looking beautiful. That heat down there fries your brain cells, makes it impossible to think.”
“I don’t think it’s the heat.”
There was a long pause. “Yeah. Maybe not.”
“Look, I’ll call you in a few days. By then I’ll have a better idea if the script is working or not.”
“Great. And in the meantime, seriously. I can be there in, like, five hours.”
“I’m solid. Really.”
He hung up the phone a few minutes later, though he didn’t immediately get back to work. He couldn’t. Thoughts of Samantha were in his head, but hell, that was nothing unusual. She had haunted him for seven years now, and he had become pretty good at compartmentalizing so that he would work, talk, live around her place in his heart and mind.
But Genevieve—she was something else entirely. She took him over, drove almost everything from his head but the need to see her, to talk to her, to be inside her until everything faded away—even his past.
What is she doing now? he wondered. His kick-ass cop with the soft, vulnerable center. What was he supposed to do with her?
What was he supposed to do without her?
Just the thought had his stomach rolling, his fists clenching. No other woman had ever gotten under his skin like this. No other woman had ever touched him so deeply or made him feel so much. He wanted to resent her for it—and the attachment he was forming for her—but he couldn’t.
Their relationship was inconvenient, tempestuous, and hotter than hell. It was also more important to him than he could have dreamed possible even two weeks before. With her sassy mouth, deep thoughts, and hotter-than-hell body, Genevieve fit him. She made him whole in a way he’d never imagined, in a way he hadn’t known he could be after Samantha.
She hadn’t replaced his sister in his heart, nor had she made him any less determined to find Samantha’s killer. But knowing Genevieve, being with her, had somehow lessened the pain. Had made it easier for him to face each day, when before, getting out of bed to a world without Samantha in it had been unbearably difficult.
Leaning forward, Cole pressed a few computer keys and pulled up the statistics on New Orleans violence. Before Katrina, they had finally made some progress in lowering the homicide rate in the city, but now it was higher than it had ever been—higher than D.C. and Philadelphia, even Compton.
He was building his documentary around it—that even with half its population missing, New Orleans was a city where violence was endemic. Why? What made the dark and deadly so seductive when the motto of the place was Laissez les bon temps rouler? Let the good times roll.
The city wasn’t having a good time anymore. Oh, the tourists showed up and drank themselves stupid, claimed to be having a blast. But there was something missing in the frivolity—a lightheartedness that had once gone hand in hand with partying in the Big Easy. Like the ladies of the night that she was once known for, New Orleans was beautiful at night, as the stars sparkled against the darkness. In the cold light of day, she just looked cheap and used.
Maybe it was him. He no longer had a lighthearted bone in his body, so perhaps he couldn’t see the fun anymore. He thought back to the empty-eyed people he’d seen the other night on Bourbon Street, to the kids who hung out on Decatur near Café du Monde and tried so desperately to be something they weren’t. To the women dying such painful, senseless deaths.
No, something was missing from this city now; there was no disputing it. The question was whether it had always been missing. If he found out that answer, he’d have the documentary he and the studio were looking for.
But he couldn’t do any more tonight; his brain was fried, his body hot and hard and craving Genevieve. He hadn’t bothered her since he’d dropped her off at the Hotel Monteleone a few nights before, had known she’d be immersed in the investigation.
But he wanted to see her, was … lonely, if he admitted the truth. For a man who had never needed anything but his own company, it was a hell of an admission.
Screw it. He picked up the phone, dialed Genevieve’s cell. The worst she could tell him was to go to hell.
“Delacroix.” Her voice—clipped and soft and oh, so exhausted—trailed languorous fingers down his spine. Had his arousal ratcheting up a notch, as well as his need to see her. To take care of her.
“Hey, sweetheart. How are you?”
“Cole.” Her voice warmed up instantly, sent a softness spiraling through him that he didn’t recognize.
“I miss you.” He didn’t know where the words had come from, but they felt right.
“God, I miss you too.” Her voice caught on what sounded like a sob.
His body went on red alert. Eyes narrowed, breathing shallow, he demanded, “What’s wrong? What has you so upset?”
There was a long pause, then a watery laugh. “It’s just been a really long day. And it’s not done yet.”
“Come to me.”
Another laugh, sadder than the first. “Oh, God, I can’t. I’m stuck here, running out of time, and I have so much more to sort through.”
“You’re exhausted.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, but I’ve been tired before. Will be again.”
He gritted his teeth, fought against the urge to head to the station and demand that she get some rest. “Come to me,” he said again.
“Cole …”
She sounded too weary to argue, and that was when alarm and guilt really took hold of him. She was drained—emotionally and physically. He was part of what had drained her, he knew that, and hated that he’d contributed to the sad, broken tears he knew she was fighting so hard to keep inside.
“When you’re done—whatever time that is—come to me. Let me take care of you. I’ll be waiting.” It was a request, not an order, and he held his breath as he waited for her answer.
Another long pause, another shuddering breath. “Okay.”
It was a sigh so soft he had to strain to hear it, but it was enough. “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”
“See you … soon.” Then she hung up, leaving him staring at the phone and fighting the need to go get her and bring her back here with him.
He glanced at the clock—ten thirty
—and headed to the kitchen. She wouldn’t be here until after midnight; he was sure of it. But still, she deserved a home-cooked meal, a little pampering. And to his everlasting surprise, he was just the man to give them to her.
Chapter Seventeen
For the second time in less than a week, Genevieve stood staring up at Cole’s house on St. Charles. This time, however, she wasn’t nervous or aroused or any of the other excited emotions that had rioted through her three days ago. Today, she was exhausted—mentally and physically drained—and it was taking all her concentration just to think about climbing the impressive row of steps up to his house.
With an effort born from willpower alone, she put a foot on the bottom step and pressed up. Only twelve more to go.
But the front door flew open before she could try to take the second step, and then Cole was rushing down the stairs. Hauling her into his arms and carrying her the rest of the way into his house.
As he carried her through the foyer, the large grandfather clock near the door clanged once. Shit, she thought, laying her weary head on Cole’s broad shoulder. It was one o’clock—almost seventy-two hours since Cole had dropped her off at the latest crime scene. How had the days passed in such a blur?
“I can walk,” she said, struggling to push against him. It was ridiculous, really, to head to her lover’s house when it was too much effort to keep her eyes open, let alone make love to him.
But she’d been so sad, so tired, so fucked-up when he’d called, that she hadn’t been able to resist his order to come to him when she wrapped up what she was working on. It was a frightening thought—this urge for comfort, for the peace she had been able to find only with Cole, despite the doubt and confusion that had marked so much of their short time together.
He snorted. “I can tell.” His steps never faltered as he led her down the hallway to his bedroom. Then he was laying her gently on the bed with the soft command “Don’t go to sleep yet.”
