“What’s bothering you?”
He glanced up, gave a half shake, then a wry grin. “Wish I knew.”
She shifted her chin to one hand, started tracing patterns on the wood with her other. “Wish I could help.”
“You have helped.” She must have looked skeptical, because he added, “Eliminating possibilities helps.”
“Okay.” She hesitated. “You’ll…be careful, won’t you?
Before he could respond, they heard footsteps in the hall.
“Detective?”
“In here,” Alex called, half turning in his chair.
The uniformed cop peered inside. “They need you outside, sir.”
“Right.” He pushed his chair back. Looked like he wanted to say something, but if he did want to, he decided against it. “Excuse me.”
He strode out and she didn’t know if he would be back. Her sigh was on the shuddery side, but a rumble from her stomach helped redirect her thoughts. She got up, felt free to groan now that she was alone, then headed for the fridge. This time she flicked on the small TV sitting next to it. Just in time for the news. She flipped to the channel that she’d seen lurking outside—maybe they’d be on the news—and opened the fridge, randomly shifting through containers as the announcer did a recap of the stories to come and then launched into the top one.
“In a bizarre twist, wealthy businessman Phineas St. Cyr was shot to death on the Moon Walk—”
It was the location that made her look at the screen just in time to see a photograph replace the announcer. She straightened and stared. If it wasn’t the creepy old man who tripped her, then it was his twin.
Alex watched the tow truck drive away, taking his wheels to an uncertain future. It wasn’t just the windows that got hit this time. Shooter had taken out his engine, which was better than taking their lives—though he had a feeling his insurance company wouldn’t agree. Techs were rolling up the tape, uniforms had thinned to just those trying to untangle the snarled traffic. Laura had been gone when he came out, but she must have started texting the family as soon as she and her partner drove away. His cell had started buzzing like angry bees. Hadn’t stopped either, despite being ignored. Press had cleared off. He looked at his watch. They might make the end of the broadcast. He expected the texts to graduate to a call from his dad, who never missed the news. Eventually he’d have to call someone, unless he wanted to walk home. He looked at the house, wondering why he didn’t make the call. It was past time to leave.
It’s not like Nell would go out with him, even if he had a way to take her somewhere. Getting shot at twice in a single day had probably cooled her jets. Wouldn’t take her long to figure out that hanging with a guy like him was a bad idea. Too bad. Been awhile since he’d kissed a girl. Been longer than that since he kissed one he liked. Couldn’t remember when a woman had asked for it. He liked that.
He should make sure she was all right before he left. He knew it was an excuse, maybe even a stall. So far he was only one who knew it. If the signs looked good, maybe he could still get in the lip action…he climbed the shallow steps but before he could knock, the door opened. For some reason, seeing Nell there in the open made him uneasy, so he stepped inside, like she’d invited him, and closed the door. He didn’t really believe someone wanted to kill her, but…
“You all right?” He studied her. She looked a bit pale.
She rubbed the back of her head, creating more disorder in her hair. It was kind of cute.
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t. With six sisters, he knew when a woman wasn’t all right. He’d never knew the what, didn’t expect to cuz he was a guy, but had learned to know when something was. “Did you remember something else?”
She shook her head. “It’s just…well, odd.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you have time to come back in the kitchen?”
“Of course.” The trip felt short, though the hall was long, and not unpleasant following Nell. The boots put a nice sway in her caboose. Inside, his gaze swept the room, stopping at the small television, an image frozen on the screen. They must have a DVR. “Someone capped St. Cyr? Well, that was a public service.”
“He’s not…nice?”
“No, he’s not nice.”
“I didn’t think he was, but then I thought, well, I do have an imagination. It’s kind of obligatory for an author, you know.”
He frowned, unease creeping in and making itself at home. “What?”
“I think I…actually I don’t think, I did see him today. In the Quarter. On the Moon Walk. Where they found…him—he wasn’t dead when I saw him,” she added hastily.
“No, of course not.”
She shifted from one foot to the other. The move was not unfamiliar to a guy with six sisters. He jerked his head toward the table.
“Let’s sit and you tell me what’s worrying you.”
“It’s probably nothing.” She didn’t protest when he pulled out a chair for her and only winced a bit when her ass hit wood.
He took the chair next to hers, angling so he could watch her face. Settled back, his feet planted, but relaxed, like his dad. Even heard his dad’s words come out his mouth. “Tell me.”
So she did. She was a natural storyteller, guess she would be since she wrote stories, but he could tell she tried to stick to the facts. Almost enjoyed her recital until she got to the part where she tripped over the wise geezer’s cane. He straightened some, even though he could see no possible connection between that and the recent shooting. Or the wise geezer’s timely demise. It was weird, though. “So the bodyguard helped you up.” That made him itchy, not sure why. She nodded. “St. Cyr say anything to you besides sorry?”
“Told me I should wear a hat.” She touched the end of her lightly sunburned nose. “Or use sunscreen.”
He studied her, trying to figure out if it meant anything. “I’ll make some calls, see what I can find out. Don’t think a chance, one-time—”
She twitched a bit.
“This was the first time?”
She shook her head. “Not the first time I saw him. First time we talked. I notice faces, it’s kind of my thing when I’m not doing Alphonse, or even when I am because—” She stopped. “Sorry. Anyway, I noticed him before today. I guess he liked to come sit on the Moon Walk. That’s where I saw him.”
St. Cyr liked to sit on the Moon Walk? Since when? “You say this is the first time you talked?”
“He sort of smiled at me once.” She made a face.
“Sort of?”
“He’s not—he wasn’t good at it. Kind of creepy, actually. Like a crocodile.”
“He probably didn’t get much practice smiling,” Alex pointed out, a bit dryly.
That made her smile, though it faded too fast. “I felt a bit guilty. I didn’t like him. When I saw him after that I’d avoid him, but today—”
“What about today?”
“Today he was between me and my lunch. And my bike. And I didn’t see him until it was too late to find an alternate route. And I was running late—” Her gaze turned distant. “It was probably a good thing I was late. I wanted to sketch him, but I didn’t think he’d like being a bok choy.”
Had he missed something? “A…bok choy?”
She blinked and distant disappeared. “It’s a Chinese cabbage.”
“I know.” Maybe. He knew that it was a vegetable anyway. “So you didn’t sketch him?”
“Not as a bok choy.” She turned and grabbed a sketch pad he hadn’t noticed laying on the table. She flipped through the pages and then handed it to him. “Sometimes I just need to do a mental dump, to clear my head. So I sketch my day.”
She’d had a lot of material today. He looked down, not surprised he’d made the mental dump. She was better than he’d expected. Not sure why he hadn’t expected it unless, maybe it was the whole vegetable thing. Following the muse on a bicycle. But she was published. Someone had invested money in her books, and she had at least one creepy lit
tle fan, so he should have expected her to be decently good. But she was better than that. Not that he was an art critic, but he liked what he saw.
It wasn’t just the white of the page and gray of the pencil that made it so surprising. The sketches were small, but well done. There was one of him getting jacked by the kid. She’d caught the humor of it. The contrast. He gave her a quick glance and got an apologetic grimace. His gaze got caught by another sketch, across from his. He blinked. Tapped it.
“What’s this?” he asked, even though he knew.
She angled her head to look. “Oh, a client. Sarah had an appointment so I had to meet with him.”
“Dimitri Afoniki was here? In this house?” It had to be a weird coincidence.
Her brow wrinkled. “His uncle hired us to cater his dinner party.”
In one day, she’d had contact with a wise geezer who died and the evil nephew of another. And got shot at. Hi gut twitched, but it refused to tell him what or why. And his brain couldn’t find the connection between the three events, though he pressed it.
“You ever met him before?”
She shook her head. It helped. Some. Though his gut still twitched with unease.
“Why does it matter?”
Alex hesitated. “New Orleans has a mob trifecta we call the three wise geezers, or rather we did,” he added, casting a glance at the frozen television screen.
“Geezers?”
“They’re really, really old.”
Nell straightened. “St. Cyr, Afoniki and—”
“Calvino.” He half expected to hear she’d met him today, too. She frowned. “Don’t tell me you met him?”
Nell half grinned, shook her head, then paused. “Might have served him canapés, but not even sure about that. We did this big fundraiser last week with some other catering companies. Seems like I’ve heard the name, but it doesn’t mean he was there…”
Not sure whether to be relieved or not, he returned his attention to her sketched mental dump—yeah, that was St. Cyr. No question. She’d managed to capture the moment. And the sinister quality of both men.
The river, the Moon Walk, the old man on the bench. He even got the impression of light and dark, of sun and cloud, all with a pencil. In one cameo, the old man leaned toward her. The angle was from the ground, the other man standing aloof, behind him, though his hand was outstretched. Reluctance in every line. Hard-faced, cold eyes. Alex shifted his attention to the old man. She’d caught something in his eyes, though he didn’t know what—the more he looked, the more the drawing flattened out. It was like he had to glance, then look away, and think about it. He leaned back, trying to figure out what he’d seen. When he couldn’t, he sighed, looking down again. Something bothered him— “His cane was tucked in.” He tapped the drawing.
Nell shrugged. “Maybe he’d started to stand. I was looking at the river when it happened, trying to get by without making eye contact.”
“He wouldn’t have stuck it out to stand up.” If anything, it would have been closer to his body. “You sure you didn’t trip on his foot?”
She tipped her head to one side. “Only if he has a wooden leg.”
Could St. Cyr have tripped her on purpose? But why? Nell wasn’t a stripper or under twenty-five. Not remotely St. Cyr’s type. But he’d smiled at her. Noticed her at least once before tripping her. He looked at the drawing again, and this time he caught it—the look that puzzled him. He’d known he was going to die. Alex had seen too many men on the brink of death not to recognize the look. So he could have tripped Nell to—what? Tell her she needed to use sunscreen?
“This is going to sound weird,” Nell said, shifting uneasily in her chair, “but I thought he did it on purpose. It’s like he knew I didn’t want to talk to him so he made me stop.”
Now that sounded like St. Cyr. He couldn’t have hoped she’d help him. Still, it was odd. “He didn’t…look worried or anything?”
She frowned. “You think he stopped me—but the only person around him was the bodyguard guy—” Her eyes widened. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know what to think, Nell. I have some contacts I can call.” Most of them relatives. And someone needed to know Nell might be a material witness. At the very least she might help them fix the time of death. And at worst? He looked at the sketch of the bodyguard. He could be a steely-eyed killer and a bodyguard. For St. Cyr, that would be a requirement for the job. And if he was the one who’d tapped St. Cyr? Survival of the fittest. Was that what amused St. Cyr? He didn’t seem the type to want to die, but he wouldn’t mind going out causing lots of trouble to lots of people. Which brought him back to, why Nell? Had he tripped her because she wouldn’t look at him? To make her? Was it that simple?
He didn’t like that she’d become a witness. Again.
But it did give him an excuse to hang around while he figured out why he wanted to hang around. If he had wheels, they could still go get food. As if on cue his stomach complained.
She grinned. “I’ll fix our stomachs something while you make your calls.”
Where a murder investigation started, and who ended up with it, depended on how high-profile it was likely to be. St. Cyr’s getting tapped was almost as high as it could go. It wasn’t just his wise guy status. His death was bound to cause some ripples in the criminal underclass. Maybe shift the power balance. St. Cyr would have an heir apparent who would have to prove he was tough enough to keep it together.
Feds would be interested and so would the Organized Crime Unit. He had a brother in either place, but in the end, he decided to follow the body and called his sister, Hannah. If she wasn’t digging through St. Cyr’s brain, she’d know who was—and where they’d be sending the pathology report. He needed to talk to whoever would get that report. She was—he flipped through the texts—the only one who hadn’t texted him. Either she hadn’t heard about the shooting or she was digging through someone’s brain.
He went into an unoccupied room to make his call. Shut the door, just in case he had a lot of explaining to do. He half expected to get her voice mail and had his pitch ready. Took him a minute to realize he had the voice, not the mail.
“Alex?” This was delivered with a hint of impatience.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Funny how almost every conversation with his sisters started or ended with an apology. Ninety percent of the time he didn’t know why. It was a bad habit. Sometimes it saved time, though he suspected his sisters had started to figure it out. When they did, it wouldn’t be pretty. “Long day.”
“Really? I wouldn’t know.”
“Sorry.” Really bad habit.
“I’ve got a corpse waiting.”
“Not St. Cyr?” Would the cutters fight over the body? Or try to pass the brain?
“Yeah. Lost the toss.”
“He’s one of the three wise geezers.” It was historic. Not to mention a happy day. One down, two to go. Felt a twitch again at the thought of Nell having contact with two out of three. In one day, too. Had to be some kind of record.
“It’s a bullet to the brain.” A pause. “You’d better not let Dad hear you call them geezers.”
“They’re older than he is.” He did some math. Okay, a little older than Zach. Not that old age had made them less deadly. If anything it had made them worse. But they’d been around longer than Alex had been alive. He tried to think of a way to ask that wouldn’t catch her interest. Figured out there probably wasn’t one. “Who you sending the autopsy report to?”
He swore he heard her straighten to attention. Or maybe he just felt it coming across the ether.
“Why?”
“I might have some information relevant to the case.”
“You sound like a snitch.”
He did. “Need to know.”
She sighed. “The Feds and OCU are still duking it out. Last text from Ben, he’d offered to arm wrestle Frank for it.”
“Frank won’t go for that.” He’d lose. This brother didn’t like to wrinkl
e his clothes.
“He is less susceptible to the taunting dare than most of you.”
Alex let this possible side swipe pass since “most” might exclude him. Frank was a cerebral s.o.b. Good fit for the feds. “So for now, it’s Ben’s case.” Frank probably had someone working on a court order. That was at least one Baker too many on the case. Bad enough when a case was twice “Baked,” but a triple? None of them would want big brother sticking a toe in. Wouldn’t believe he didn’t want to be all up in their business. Had plenty of his own, not to mention keeping off his Lieutenant’s bad side long enough to get a good night’s sleep. Complaints from other divisions or the feds would not help him achieve this goal. He looked at his watch, tired hitting him like a bat now that he thought about sleeping. “Look, Hannah—”
“How come everyone is texting me about you? Why do they want to know if I heard from you?”
He tapped the phone. “Sorry, what was that? Losing signal or battery or something. Bye.”
“Alex—”
He disconnected and dialed Ben before Hannah could call him back. Since Ben was one of the sibs that had texted him, Alex wasn’t surprised when his brother answered. Or his WTF greeting.
“I’m fine. And Laura knew that when she sent out the all points.”
“You shouldn’t have cut that hunk out of her hair, bro.”
“She was eight and she needs to learn to forgive.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen.”
Alex could hope. “You still on the St. Cyr case?”
“Your district doesn’t have enough bodies? You gotta come looking for one of mine?”
“I don’t want your body.” He rubbed his face. “I have a witness, someone who saw the old fart and his bodyguard, maybe not long before he got capped, but if you’re not interested...”
He heard Ben’s chair give a loud squeak. “The bodyguard got capped, too. Found him stuffed in the trunk of the geezer’s limo.”
Alex felt a mild stirring of interest and stomped on it. Not his problem. “My witness has a sketch of them both. She’s one of those French Quarter artists.”
Relatively Risky Page 7
