Watching for her.
Sable pulled the lab coats back to conceal the technician's body, then retrieved a pair of surgical scrub pants spotted with dried blood from a soiled linen bin. After yanking on the pants and tucking her patient gown inside, she pulled on the lab coat she'd taken down. A quick search of the shelves produced a plastic shower cap and a pair of elastic shoe coverings, which she used to cover her hair and feet.
With a silent prayer she grabbed one of the clean linen carts, and used it to push the door open. The man automatically stepped aside and glanced at her, but she kept her head down and quickly turned her back to him. "Pardon me."
She pushed the bin down the hall toward the red exit sign.
Just a few more feet.
"Hey—hey, wait."
When she glanced back over her shoulder, she saw him running after her. In desperation she swung the bin around and shoved it at him, then ran into the stairwell. She hurried down the steps to the next floor, where she darted inside the ward. She didn't dare stop to ask for help. He was coming after her; he could catch up at any second.
She had to get away.
The lab coat made her invisible to the nurses and doctors she passed as she followed the signs to the elevators. No one spoke to her or even glanced her way on the elevator, or tried to stop her when she left the hospital.
For a moment she stood outside and thought of J. D. waiting in the ER for her, then through the glass saw the man in the yellow hard hat step off the elevator. He was scanning the faces of the people in the lobby.
For the first time she got a good look at his face, and recognized him. Billy Tibbideau, one of Caine Gantry's men.
Caine had been fighting tooth and nail to keep commercial fishing out of the bayou. Marc had owned one of the largest commercial-fishing companies in the state.
Billy started walking toward the front entrance.
She had to find J. D. Sable hurried down to the ER entrance, then stopped when a sedan pulled up in front of her, blocking her path. The elderly driver got out and walked toward her, leaning heavily on the cane in his right hand. His left was wrapped in a bloody kitchen towel.
"What happened to you?"
"Durn stray dog bit me," he said, then scowled and nodded toward the sedan. "I left the keys in the ignition—you go on and park that for me. I'm about to keel over." Without another word he hobbled on into the hospital.
Sable glanced over her shoulder to see Billy step outside. No more time. She ran around the car and jerked open the driver's door.
"Cortland is returning early from Biloxi," Elizabet Gamble told her housekeeper, Mae Wallace, as she inspected the new floral arrangement in the dining room, and tucked a wayward fern leaf back behind a full-bloom rose. "Would you set an extra place for him at dinner tonight?"
"Yes, ma'am." Mae went to draw the blue satin curtains open. "Looks like it's going to rain."
"Better now than this weekend." Elizabet frowned at her slightly blurred reflection in the surface of the long mahogany table, which had been in her family since the French Revolution. There was nothing wrong with the short, neat arrangement of silver curls, but she lifted the glasses hanging on the chain around her neck to inspect herself anyway. "Either I've grown two more eyebrows, or this table needs polishing, Mae."
The housekeeper chuckled. "I'm sure if s the table, ma'am." The phone in the kitchen rang, and Mae excused herself. She returned a moment later. "It's Ms. Moriah Navarre for you."
"I'll take it in the library. Which reminds me, would you call the florist and make sure she has enough gardenias in stock for the party? I don't want to have to scramble for flowers at the last minute." Elizabet picked up her planner from the table. There was so much to do, and only a few days left. "Oh, and please let me know when the caterer delivers the serving tables—we'll need an extra one for the cold buffet."
The week of New Orleans's biggest holiday of the year was always hectic, but Elizabet Gamble had grown accustomed to handling the challenges. Aside from the annual Krewe of Louis Dinner, which her husband held at his restaurant for his business associates, the Noir et Blanc Gala was the most important social event on the family calendar. Since assuming the role of hostess from her mother twenty-five years ago, Elizabet had followed tradition and driven herself to put on the most elegant, perfect party of the season.
Tradition was a wonderful thing, but in the last few years keeping up with it had started to wear on her. I'm getting too old to be running around like this every Mardi Gras.
As she went into her husband's library, Elizabet wished for the thousandth time that she had a daughter of her own. Her daughter-in-law, Wendy, might have taken over the family duties, but she and Evan insisted on living on a ranch in the middle of godforsaken Montana, of all places. Still, Elizabet had two more sons to marry off, and as soon as Jean-Delano settled down with Moriah, she could pass the torch of tradition.
Now if I can just convince him to propose to the girl. She knew how stubborn her son could be, but it wouldn't hurt to drop a gentle hint. An engagement announcement at this year's gala would be the perfect highlight of the party. Once he was married, then she and Moriah could work on getting him out of the police department and into an occupation that wouldn't require him to carry a gun to work.
She picked up the phone on her husband's desk. "Moriah, my dear, how are you? What excellent timing—I was just thinking about you." The smell of strong liquor made her frown, and she opened one of the desk drawers, where her husband had left a bottle of cognac and a small snifter. She suppressed a sigh— Louie had promised her and his doctor that he'd stop drinking—and closed the drawer. "I've been meaning to have you and Jean-Delano over for dinner this week; would the two of you be free tonight? Cort will be home early, so we all could have a little pre-gala celebration."
"Elizabet, I'm sorry, I can't. Something terrible has happened." Moriah sounded uncharacteristically hoarse and unhappy. "Marc LeClare was killed this morning."
She slowly sat down in her husband's chair, unable to speak as Moriah related the appalling details of what had happened. Elizabet thought of Marc, who had been friends with her husband since childhood, and how devastated Louie was going to be when he heard the news. Tears stung her eyes as Moriah told her about Laure LeClare's near-catatonic state, and how vicious the media were being.
As the girl's voice trailed off, Elizabet rallied herself. "I'll call Louis; we'll bring some food from the restaurant over for Laure. Will you be staying with her, honey? I don't think she has any family in town."
"Yes, I think I'd better." Moriah sighed. "I've been trying to get hold of J. D., but they say he's at the hospital with the woman they found with Marc."
"A woman?" Elizabet frowned. "Who is she? Why is she at the hospital?"
"She was hurt or something; I'm not sure. They're having a press conference about her on television in a few minutes." An uneven voice spoke in the background, and Moriah added, "I have to go—Laure's calling me. You will come soon, won't you, Elizabet?"
"Yes. Try to get her to rest in the meantime, and don't speak to any reporters. I'll see you soon." Elizabet switched lines and dialed her husband's restaurant. "Philipe? Would you ask my husband to come to the phone, please." She listened for a moment as the maître d' explained that Louis was supervising a delivery. "Very well, then, please ask him to call me back as soon as possible. It's extremely important."
She removed the used snifter from Louie's desk before she went to the entertainment center and turned on the television. The chief of Homicide was already on, delivering a statement to the reporters. She disliked George Pellerin, who had come from New York City and had little respect for the way things were done in Creole society. She only invited him to her functions out of deference to her son. The sooner she convinced J. D. to leave the police force and take up a safer profession, the better. Until then she could put up with almost anyone.
"Isabel Marie Duchesne has been moved to a medical facil
ity for treatment of a head injury," the captain was saying. "At this time I have no update on her condition."
"What was she doing at the warehouse, Captain?" one of the reporters called out. "Was she involved with Marc LeClare?"
Pellerin's face reddened. "Ms. Duchesne is a witness in an ongoing investigation. That's all I can tell you now."
The balloon-shaped glass fell from her hand unnoticed, shattering on the hardwood floor. Isabel Marie Duchesne. After all the prayers she had made, hoping never to hear that name again.
Elizabet looked up at the shadow box on the wall, which Louie had built to display what he considered their most precious heirloom—a small square cassette box in which his family's original matriarch had brought her trousseau with her from Paris. Elizabet's own family could trace its roots back to Jean Baptiste Le Moyrte, sieur de Bienville, King Louis XV's builder and founder of New Orleans. For this reason, she had always considered her husband's pride in his "casket girl" ancestress to be slightly embarrassing. The girl had really been no better than a prostitute, selling herself in marriage in exchange for a pitiful dowry and free passage to America. The same way Isabel Duchesne had tried to use Jean-Delano to better her situation.
I won't let her hurt my son again.
In a panic, Elizabet went back to the desk and dialed the restaurant again. Her fingers shook so much that she had to dial it twice. "Philipe? I don't care about the delivery. Tell my husband to come to the phone at once. Yes, it's an emergency."
Unable to sit down or relax, J. D. went to the windows of the ER lobby to watch the evening traffic roll by. If Sable had to be admitted, he'd have to post an armed officer outside her room. Hell, he'd stay and guard her himself—maybe when she regained consciousness, she'd be more in a mood to talk to him.
"Was that your wife you brought in?" a gentle voice asked.
J. D. turned to see a middle-aged woman standing next to him. She had on a faded housedress and looked tired, but her smile was sympathetic. What she'd asked him finally registered—she thought Sable was his wife.
Something twisted in his gut. "No, ma'am. She's... a friend."
"Well, don't you worry. This here's a good hospital." She nodded toward the treatment rooms. "My husband's in there now. He gobbles down two of my po'boys at lunchtime; then he says he's having chest pains."
Her tone was amused but he could see the worry in her eyes. "Maybe it's nothing serious."
"Indigestion, most like. He'll blame it on the peppers and onions, like always." She laughed at herself. "I keep telling that man he's got to stop eating so much and so fast, but does he listen to me?"
He smiled a little. "Hard for a man to do when his wife's a good cook."
"I suppose." She eyed him. "Your girl looked like she bumped her head real bad—you all get in an accident?"
"No, ma'am. She fell." He looked back through the window. "I tried to catch her, but I didn't get there in time." All he seemed to do was try to catch Sable while she slipped through his fingers.
A nurse called out a name, and the woman patted his arm. "That's me. Don't you fret, son. You just take care of her now, and she'll be fine." She walked over to the nurse, then laughed and accompanied her back to the treatment rooms.
J. D.'s attention strayed to a figure in a lab coat and scrubs talking to an old man outside. It was a woman, but her back was to him. A stray shaft of light broke through the gathering storm clouds, making her red hair blaze like dark fire.
That can't be—
He swore as he ran for the exit, but the driver of the sedan blocked his path.
"Watch where the hell you're going!"
"Sorry." J. D. paused long enough to steady the old man before trotting outside.
Sable was already behind the wheel of the sedan and backing out. She'd not only faked him out; she was ditching him.
Over his dead body.
J. D. could call the station and explain how the only witness to Marc LeClare's death had just stolen a car, and wait for backup. Or he could catch her.
He didn't even have to think about it.
A minute later J. D. caught up with Sable on the highway, but kept back three car lengths so she wouldn't spot him. He knew where she was headed—the Atchafalaya, just as she had the night of the dance.
Only this time, she'd made a serious mistake.
Sable probably thought he was still some lovesick boy who couldn't see straight around her. She didn't realize he'd spent the last ten years dealing with death and destruction. Tracking down killers had changed him, had removed every ounce of pity from him, and had tempered him into what he was: an efficient, coldblooded hunter.
She could run all she wanted, but there was no place on this earth where she could hide from him now.
Terri took the predicted chewing out from Pellerin alone and in silence, only speaking up when required to answer. Like the press conference, it had not gone well, mainly because no one could get in touch with J. D., and the hospital still hadn't called back with any prognosis on Sable.
"I don't care if her brains are leaking out of her ears," the captain said toward the end of his rant. "You get on over to Mercy, have them slap on whatever Band-Aids she needs, and bring her back here for questioning. She stays in protective custody until we get the autopsy on LeClare, and no one—including her—talks to the press unless they clear it through me. I want a full progress report typed on my desk in two hours. Are you straight on this, Sergeant?"
Terri would have to get J. D. to do the reports, if she could pry his hands off their witness long enough for him to type them. He owed her for this. "Yes, sir."
Pellerin's phone rang for the fifth time since Terri had entered his office, and he gave it a disgusted look. "Go on, get outta here."
Terri escaped the station house and headed for her car, lighting a cigarette on the way. She'd been meaning to try to quit again since the beginning of the year, but nicotine withdrawal turned her into a total bitch, and she figured she was doing the world a favor by waiting until she went on vacation.
Only now she wouldn't get any downtime until they cleared the LeClare case—which wouldn't be soon, unless Isabel started remembering something. And then there was the very strong possibility that Terri might have to break in a new partner.
Good-bye, vacation. She took a deep drag and then released the acrid smoke from her lungs on a sigh. She really did need to quit, and soon. I sure hope she's worth it, J.D.
"Terri."
She swung around, expecting to see her partner. "Where the fu—" She cut herself off as soon as she met green eyes instead of blue. Every emotional wall inside her went into full lockdown. "That was quick." As a couple of uniforms stopped to chat outside the main station entrance a few feet away, she took another drag from her cigarette, making the tip flare. "You appropriate a plane for yourself, Marshal?"
Chief Fire Marshal Cortland Gamble looked the way he usually did—pressed, polished, and pissed-off. He was a few inches taller than J. D. and a little broader in the chest, and his hair was brown instead of black. Otherwise he could have been his brother's twin.
All except the expression on his face, and his mouth. The expression said he ate smart-ass female detectives for breakfast. The mouth said he'd start at the toes and work his way up.
Quit thinking about his mouth.
"Come here." He took her arm and hauled her around the side of the building, out of hearing range. "What's going on? Where the hell is my brother?"
"Easy on the jacket. It's dry-clean only." She eased herself from his grip. "J. D.'s over at the hospital, getting our witness patched up." She glanced at her watch. "I've been taking messages for him all day, though. Why don't I have him call you when he gets back?"
"Why aren't you with him?"
"Because we're not joined at the hip." She'd taken a lot of official crap for J. D. on this case already, and she wasn't going to take it from his big brother. "But if you've got a problem with how we handle our cases, Chief,
you can speak to Captain Pellerin." Unable to resist, she took another drag and exhaled a little smoke in his face.
"I intend to." Cort plucked the cigarette from her hand, dropped it, and ground it out under his shoe. "This woman, Isabel Duchesne—what did she say?"
"She said she can't remember anything." She had an urge to light another one, but he'd probably rip up the entire pack, and then she'd have to punch him. "It's pretty obvious that she's trying to protect herself, or LeClare. My guess is, she was his mistress."
"Fuck."
She arched a brow. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
He looked around for a minute, as if the patience he needed were hovering somewhere near. "I want an update on everything you've got."
"I want a Maserati, myself. Something in a nice cherry red, with lots of gold detailing. It's the insurance that holds me back." Feeling stupid, she pushed past him, heading for the parking lot and the quickest means of escape.
He caught up to her. "This isn't funny, Terri."
"Hey, my boss is all over my ass like a bad tattoo, your brother is about to trash his career, and I've got an injured witness to interview and a case to solve. Believe me, it's not been a bag of chuckles today." She pulled her keys from her trouser pocket and fumbled with them until she got the driver's-side door of her car unlocked.
"I need to know what's happening."
"You can talk to the desk sergeant. I'm a little too damn busy to hold your hand right now and tell you your little brother's going to be all right."
When she opened the door, he put out a hand and slammed it shut. "My brother is not getting involved in this shit with Isabel Duchesne."
She lifted her brows. "Here's a news flash for you: I tried to talk your brother into ditching this case. He wouldn't hear of it. J. D. wants to be up to his ears in this shit with Isabel Duchesne, and it looks like that's where he's staying. But if you think you can pull him out, have at it."
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