by Stacy Green
Emilie drove back the angry laugh. “Do you want to apologize and mend fences?”
“I have nothing to apologize for.” And just like that, any resemblance of maternal instinct Claire might have developed evaporated. She’s still the same hateful narcissist.
“Me either. I’m actually calling about a picture I found in the box of stuff from Mémé.”
Claire hissed. “I don’t want to hear about anything that woman left you.”
After nearly thirty years, Claire still resented her mother leaving all of her assets to Emilie: her townhouse in the Garden District, her numerous investments, her safety deposit box with several expensive pieces of jewelry. Claire only received the deed to the antique store, which she promptly sold, claiming it never made a dime anyway. As if Emilie’s grandparents’ wealth appeared out of nowhere.
“I suppose you’ve gone through your inheritance and need help from Sam and me?”
You’d love that. I’d live on the streets before I asked you for money. “No. My inheritance is still invested and doing well, thank you. I wanted to ask you about a man in a picture.”
“How am I supposed to remember a man from thirty years ago?”
“You might not, but unfortunately, you’re the only person I can ask.” Emilie gritted her teeth to keep from saying anything more. “There’s a picture of he and me together. I was about five. He’s probably in his late twenties. Dressed typical. He looks like he might be Creole. And there’s another one of him when you’re behind the counter. He’s smiling and handing you some kind of necklace.”
“I don’t remember,” Claire snapped. “And I don’t know why you care.”
“He’s got his left ear pierced,” Emilie said. “The ear ring is a tiny gold hoop, and there’s a ring on his right hand, I can’t make it out. But he’s wearing nice clothes in this one, one of the flashy suits like Tubbs from Miami Vice wore.”
“Emilie, I told you—”
“Mother.” Using the term made her feel slimy. Claire didn’t deserve it. “I’m positive this man spoke to me at an art exhibit a few months ago. I was admiring Renoir’s Girl with a Straw Hat. I told him about how Mémé and Grand-père met, and he was interested. So much it made me nervous.”
“Then maybe he recognized you.”
“He’s the man who tried to kidnap me from the bank.”
The line went so quiet Emilie thought her mother ended the call. Finally, Claire spoke. “You can’t be sure of that. A lot of time has passed.”
“I’m sure. It’s the eyes. I’ll never forget them.”
“You sound like a teenage drama queen. Have you not changed at all?”
Emilie slammed her fist on the hardwood floor and immediately regretted it. “Yes, Claire, I have. I am being totally rational. This man from the shop is the one after me.”
“Can you see the inside of his right wrist in either picture?”
Emilie squinted at the old photographs. “Yes, in the one with the necklace, he looks like he has a small tattoo. Maybe a letter, but I can’t tell.”
Another dreadful silence. “Mother?”
“Forget about this picture. Forget about the man. He’s someone from the past, and you need to leave him there.”
“I can’t.” Emilie’s shrill voice hurt her ears. “He’s after me.”
“It just can’t be him,” Claire said. “I’m telling you to forget about it.”
The finality of her tone set Emilie’s pent-up rage on fire. “I will go to New Orleans and track down Méme’s attorney, her old shop employees—anyone who might have an answer. So if you know who this is, you might as well tell me, because I’m going to find out.”
“I forbid you.” Claire sounded like she was spitting teeth. “You go down there asking questions, and you will stir up a hornet’s nest neither one of us needs. Let it go.”
“You’d rather I sit back and let him snatch me?” Tears threatened to supersede her anger. She couldn’t cry, not over Claire. And certainly not to her.
Ice clinked in a glass. Was Claire having her afternoon martini? “Believe it or not, I am trying to protect us both. There are things you don’t know about, and you don’t need to know about them.”
“If they involve my safety, I have a right to know.”
“I’m quite sure they don’t. They’re just secrets that will drag both of us down,” Claire said. “No, you need to forget about the picture. It’s not the same man. Focus on getting on with your life and staying safe. Whatever you did to set this man on you, stop doing it.”
“That’s your advice?” Emilie threw the pictures in the box. “As if this is all my fault?”
“I can’t talk about this anymore. You’re giving me a headache.”
“I will find out who this man is.” Emilie already knew who she’d call for help. Surely he would listen.
“Not if you have any sense. Goodbye.” The line again went silent, and this time, Claire was gone.
Emilie lay down on the cool wood floor, ignoring the discomfort. Immediately, Otis hopped from his perch on the couch and came to touch his nose to hers. She rubbed his soft fur.
“I’m okay.” She felt oddly empowered. “I’ll call Ronson and tell her about the photos. She’s got better resources, so I’ll see what she can find first. But in the meantime, I’ve got to take matters in my own hands.”
Otis settled his large body across her neck purring loudly. “Claire was sort of right. I need to stop being passive and letting other people take care of me or assume life is all good. It’s time I worked on saving myself.”
19
AFTER A LONG day of heat and relentless ultra-violet rays, the sun was finally fading into the distance. Cirrus clouds streaked across the sky, their feathery tips stained pink. Nathan stepped on to the walking path and scanned the area for a now-familiar head of auburn hair. Emilie had asked him to meet her at Allegro Park, a popular Henderson spot. He should have said no. SWAT had a raid scheduled for 4:00 a.m., and getting involved with a victim on any kind of personal level was bad idea. But he wanted to help her. He needed to help her.
Stragglers still inhabited the park. A woman played Frisbee with a large black lab, and Nathan smelled the tangy aroma of barbeque somewhere on the park’s five acres. A jogger ran past, then another. Nathan stepped out of their way and continued down the path. He kept an eye out for anyone fitting Creepy’s description. Most of the trees in the park were Palo Verde and the brush was relatively sparse, but there were always places to hide. Nathan didn’t like Emilie being so exposed and alone.
He rounded the bend and saw her waiting on a wooden bench near a large flowerbed of native orchids and primroses. Sitting with her back to him, she watched a colony of butterflies flit around the flowers. Her hair was down around her shoulders. The dark green tank top set off her fair skin.
“Hey,” he called out.
Emilie turned and smiled. Nathan’s heart fluttered unexpectedly. He didn’t need any attraction to this woman. The reputation of the department came first.
“You really shouldn’t be out here alone,” he chastised as he took a seat next to her. Whatever fragrance she wore smelled like the warm summer night: blooming flowers, fresh-cut grass, and a sweet scent he couldn’t describe.
She waved her iPhone at him. “Got my phone ready. Besides, I knew you were coming.”
“And I could have easily been late.”
A hummingbird buzzed past and dived between the butterflies to feast on the nectar. Emilie smiled as she watched the little bird. “Did you know that hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backwards?”
“I actually didn’t know any bird could fly backwards.”
“Yep.” She smiled as the bird flittered to the next flower. “When I was married, our house had a small backyard. No room for a dog, and Evan didn’t want one anyway. So I started collecting bird feeders. I got a lot of larks and purple martins, but the hummingbird was my favorite to watch. Busy little birds.”
/> “Is everything all right?” Nathan couldn’t quite pinpoint, but something in Emilie’s attitude was different. A sense of purpose, maybe. Or calm.
“Why do you ask?” Emilie tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“Because you called me and asked to meet here.”
“You said I could call.”
He decided to follow her lead. Emilie’s face seemed relaxed, but her tapping foot gave her anxiety away. “Nice toenails,” Nathan said. They were painted a dark purple, and each big toe featured a yellow daisy. “That had to take a while.”
“I didn’t do it myself.” She laughed. “And the pedicurists have patterns.”
“My sister got a scorpion design once. She said it represented her love for the desert. Why the daisy?”
“They’re my favorite.”
“Very pretty.”
Emilie stretched her legs, turning her face toward the setting sun. “I went into the basement the other day. Don’t ask me why. I was leaving, but somehow I ended up at the stairwell. The door’s locked.”
“What happened?” Nathan tried not to stare at her, but she looked so relaxed and peaceful it was like seeing a new person. “Another flashback?”
“No. I got pissed off.”
“At who?”
“At Creepy. The cops for not being able to find him. Myself for being so damned weak.”
“You’re not weak.” Nathan rested his arm on the back of the bench. He wanted to wrap it around her.
“I have been since I left Portland. I’ve hidden away from anything scary or challenging. I didn’t want to face the truth. I’d just ignore it and move on.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” Nathan said. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t. Not for what’s going on right now.” Her flushed cheeks made her smile even more charming. “But I spent a lot of time running from my mother, and even more time pretending my ex-husband wasn’t a jerk. Ignoring the problem is kind of what I do.” Emilie shifted, and her leg brushed against Nathan’s. He didn’t move.
“What happened today?”
“I found a picture of Creepy in a box of my grandmother’s.” Emilie said the words casually, as if she were sharing a recipe.
Nathan nearly fell off the bench. “What?”
Mind creating one scenario after another, Nathan listened as Emilie described the picture and her conversation with her mother.
“I gave Agent Ronson all the information I have about my grandparents’ shop. She’s contacting someone in her New Orleans office to see what they can find, but chances are it’ll be a dead end.”
“A lot of time has passed,” Nathan said. “But that’s still something. If she can get an idea of your grandparents known associates—”
Emilie giggled, a girlish noise that didn’t fit her and yet sounded perfect. “You make them sound like they were mobsters. My grandparents were working class people who ran a small antique shop. They invested their money wisely. I doubt there’s going to be anything for Ronson to find, unless by some miracle Creepy was a frequent customer.”
“That’s going to take a while. What about your mother? Any chance she’ll change her mind?”
“Unless there’s something in it for her, no.” Emilie twisted to face him, taking the last of his personal space. “I’m sure you’re wondering exactly why I asked you to meet me.”
“Yes, but I’m glad you did.”
“Good.” Emilie’s lips twitched into a smile. “I really hope you don’t think I’m crazy.”
“I’ve seen your ‘crazy’ in action, remember?” Nathan teased. “I can handle it.”
“I hope so, because I need your help.”
“With what?”
She hugged her knees to her chest. “I can’t sit around anymore. I need to do something.”
“Like what?”
“I want to look for my stalker.”
20
EMILIE STOMPED UP the steps to the Las Vegas library. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck and moisture pooled on her upper lip.
Stupid heat.
She was still smarting from Nathan’s refusal to help her.
He’d sat on the park bench beside her, listening as she laid out her plan. And then crushed it. “You’re a civilian. It’s not safe for you to run around town. If Creepy’s following you, he’ll figure out what you’re up to pretty quickly. Then he’s going to be pissed.”
“I can’t do ‘nothing’ anymore.”
“You’re remembering things that are helpful, Emilie. That’s not doing ‘nothing.’”
Sitting around on her butt all day having her mind probed wasn’t her idea of helping. She yanked the library door open and sucked in a breath of cool air. She’d just have to investigate on her own.
She had chosen the downtown branch as her first stop because it housed local history. She wandered through the tables feeling stifled. Libraries always gave her the creeps. They were too quiet, too structured. People sat at their study tables waiting for someone to talk too loudly.
A gray-haired woman sat at the information desk working on a computer. She looked over her glasses at the screen, her upper lip raised and her eyes narrowed.
This should be fun.
“Excuse me.”
“Can I help you?” The woman didn’t look up.
“I’m doing some research about the storm drain system. Could you help me?”
Cranky Librarian Lady rose from her chair with a sigh. “Follow me.”
She led Emilie to an imposing section of binders and documents. “All city information is here.” The librarian pulled an overstuffed binder off the shelf. “This has maps, engineering documents, city hall records.”
Emilie sat down at a table and started leafing through the binder. “Do you have anything more specific to the storm drains?”
No one answered. The librarian had already gone back to her computer.
“Christ.”
She pulled out a confusing looking flood map. Every tunnel of the city’s extensive storm drain system was coded, but she couldn’t make sense of it. Where were the entrances? How did she figure out what building a tunnel ran under?
This is a waste of time.
Emilie heaved the binder back to the reference desk. “This isn’t what I need. Do you have any kind of history on the storm drains? Or a map that’s easier to understand?”
“The flood map is in the binder.”
“It’s like reading Greek.”
“Maybe I can help you.” A wrinkled hand patted Emilie’s arm. “The storm drains again? Are you working on the project for the historical society too?”
“No, personal research.” She glanced at the second librarian’s nametag. “Richelle. Please, can you help me make sense of this?”
“I can try.” Richelle pulled a pair of glasses out of her pocket. “Let’s see, everything eventually ends up in the Las Vegas Wash.”
“Where are the main entrances?”
“Entrances? Well, they’re all over. There’s one here,” she pointed to a jumble of code. “Off I-15. It’s pretty big.”
“This is going to sound weird, but are there any old maps? Maybe some that have hidden entrances or entrances that aren’t used anymore?”
“You’re the second person to ask me that. The man from the historical society asked the same thing.”
The hair on Emilie’s arms stood up. “When was this?”
The woman squinted and thought for a moment. “Three months ago, maybe. He was working on a project.”
“Do you remember much about him?” Emilie’s mouth had gone dry.
“You know, I do. He was strange.”
“How so?”
“Oh, he started off charming at first. Chatted at me like we were old friends. Was interested in the history of the city. I told him the stories I’d heard about the storm drains being built over the old bootlegging system the mob used during Prohibition. My granddad always bragged about runnin
g with the mob. Had all kinds of stories like that.”
“And this man was interested in the stories?”
“Oh, yes,” Richelle said. “In fact, when I told him I had a hand-drawn map of my granddad’s, he insisted on purchasing it from me. His whole attitude changed when I declined. He went from smooth-talker to angry southerner in seconds.”
“Angry southerner?” Emilie’s voice rose. Cranky Librarian Lady shushed her.
“He was covering up his accent. Can you believe that? One minute he sounded like a polished businessman and the next he’s knee deep in southern-speak, using words that were hard for me to understand.”
She sucked in a ragged breath. The man in Mémé’s shop. Emilie thought he looked Creole. Could he have been speaking Louisiana Creole? She hadn’t heard the language in years, but it was fast and beautiful, with the kind of French accent that couldn’t be imitated.
In that instant, she remembered Creepy’s accent, and her knees nearly buckled. She grabbed the back of the chair. “What did he look like?”
“Tall, fairly thin. Well-dressed, a neatly trimmed beard. Lovely olive-colored skin and dark eyes.”
The room swam, blending into an impenetrable sea of books. Emilie shook her head. “Can you remember anything else about him?”
The old librarian rubbed a gnarled finger over her bottom lip. “No. He left when I threatened to call security.”
“He was with the historical society?”
“That’s what he said.”
Emilie shut the binder, trying not to turn into melted Jell-O. “I don’t suppose you’d consider selling that map to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Richelle said. “It’s all I’ve got of my granddad’s. But it’s just a series of chicken scratches that would only make sense to someone familiar with the system.”
It had been worth a try. At least Emilie knew Creepy had been searching for a tunnel entrance months before he tried to abduct her. And he had a southern accent. “Thank you.” Emilie headed for the exit, her head spinning.
The back of her neck began to tingle. A shiver ran up her spine. She had the same smothering sense of being watched she’d had at the bank on her first day back. Had she been followed?
