"Hey, now, easy." George uttered a nervous laugh. "Your brother and the girl are holed up here for the night. Ronnie'll be here until five a.m.—then he goes to get beignets. Best come then for them."
Cort's door swung open, and Terri strode inside. "Right. I'll be there."
"Don't forget my money." George hung up the phone.
The tall brunette kicked the door shut behind her.
"You and I need to talk."
He sat back in his chair. "No, we don't, but don't let that stop you, Detective."
She stepped in front of his desk, shoving a chair out of her way. "I'm not a detective these days; I'm a freaking secretary, thanks to you."
"Take it up with Pellerin."
She stared at him the way she would a pile of dog shit she'd just stepped in. "I don't get you. I really don't. I thought you cared more about your brother than the goddamn rule book."
"I'll deal with J. D."
She slung a hand toward the window behind him. "J. D. is out there, somewhere, and I'm pretty sure he's in trouble. You can't do this one by the numbers, Cortland."
"If you're upset about losing the case—"
She slapped her hands on his desk and leaned over it. T don't care about the case. Fuck the case. But your brother is my partner and my best friend, and he deserves better than this from you."
Anger had made splotches of color appear under her tan. She hadn't bothered with makeup or jewelry, and she smelled like cigarettes and coffee. And he wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab her by her short brown hair and haul her the rest of the way over the desk.
Realizing that made him rise to his feet and grab his jacket. "I've got somewhere to go. I'll walk you out to your car."
"Son of a bitch." Slowly she rocked back on her heels. "You know where he is."
And she was too damn perceptive. He found his keys. "I said I'll take care of him."
She blocked his way to the door. "Where is J. D.?"
"Go home and get some sleep." His head snapped to the side as her small, knotted fist connected with his nose, nearly breaking it. He caught the second swing and used the momentum to whirl her around and shove her into the wall, where he held her.
It wasn't where he wanted her, but it would have to do. "I could have you busted down to a meter maid for this."
She made a harsh sound. "Beats the typing pool."
Weariness and the blood trickling from his nose made him release her. As soon as he did, she turned and leaned back against the wall.
"Nice move." Her hand went to a reddening mark on her cheekbone. "Maybe you can show me that one sometime."
"Terri—"
She shook her head. "I've got somewhere to be myself. See you, Marshal."
Before he could say another word, she yanked open the door and strode out of his office.
Sable heard the phone ring but didn't move. She didn't think she could even if she wanted to—did J. D. take off the handcuffs after that last time?—but then she tested her wrists and found them free. The mattress shifted as he rolled off it and went to the phone.
She yawned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. Next time she'd cuff him to the bed.
A few minutes later something touched her bare back. "Wake up, sweetheart."
Sable felt weight depress her side of the bed and opened her eyes. "Jean-Del." She rolled over onto her back and stretched, sighing as her muscles sang with a delicious soreness. He was already dressed. "What time is it?"
"Almost dawn." He looked toward the door. "I need you to get up, baby. We've got to move."
She frowned, then propped herself up. "What's wrong?"
"Ronnie's clerk blew the whistle on us. They're coming for us." He handed her the clothes he'd taken from the lost-and-found box. "Get dressed as fast as you can."
"The police?" His nod woke her up the rest of the way, and she began jerking on the old clothes. The jeans were too baggy and the T-shirt was too tight, but she got them on in record time and found her shoes. "They're coming to arrest me?"
"I just need a few hours to straighten things out." He checked his gun before placing it in his shoulder holster, and then came over and put a roll of bills in her hand. "Go over to the Cafe du Monde and stay there until the tourists start coming out. When they do, take a bus, not a taxi. Go to Hilaire's and stay there."
"I'm not leaving you."
He stroked her cheek with his hand. "I'll catch up." He took a dark blue bandanna from his pocket and folded it in a triangle, then tied it over her hair. "I'm going out through the lobby. There's a side entrance down the other end of the hall—you go out that way." He kissed her brow. "Be careful."
She sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. "I can't do this."
"You have to." He went to the door and opened it an inch to look out, then held his hand out to her. She went to him. "I'll meet you at Hilaire's as soon as I can." He squeezed her hand in his. "Stay out of sight." He brushed his mouth over hers, then slipped out of the room.
Sable glanced around the edge of the door and saw him talking to a dark-haired coed who had just come out of a room two doors down. The intoxicated girl giggled and nodded, then went with him toward the lobby.
Carefully Sable edged out of the room and headed in the opposite direction, walking toward the side-entrance doors. She could hear sirens growing louder. Sweat trickled down her back as she walked out onto the uneven sidewalk and crossed the street, then walked quickly down the block.
A police car whizzed past her but didn't stop.
Sable walked into the first open bar she came to, where some hard-core partyers were still drinking and dancing to Jelly Roll Morton. She went through the crowd to the other entrance on the opposite side of the building, and saw the street beyond was empty.
From there she could see the front of the Lagniappe Inn, where J. D. and the coed were surrounded by a dozen officers and a man in an NOFD jacket. The latter she recognized as Cort, J. D.'s brother. They were standing toe-to-toe and shouting at each other. That stopped when the coed bent over and threw up.
Darting across the street and keeping her head down, Sable turned her back on J. D. and the police and headed at a fast walk toward Jackson Square.
"His truck isn't here." Lilah sighed as she pulled up in front of Cecilia and Billy's trailer. "We'd better make this fast anyway."
"I just want my photo albums." Cecilia sat up in back and looked over the front seat. "You can stay in the car."
"No, I'm sticking with you." Lilah smiled at her and picked up the shotgun from the floorboards. "Don't look so scared—this is the last time you'll ever have to see this place again."
Cecilia wouldn't feel safe until she left Billy for good, but Lilah was helping a lot. The two of them were going all the way to California, where Lilah said she had a sister who would put them up until they found a place of their own. The sister owned a couple of concession stands on the beach and promised jobs for both of them.
It felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders.
As she took out the keys to the trailer, Cecilia's hands shook. "I know it's silly to want a bunch of old pictures, but they're all I have left of my family."
"It's not silly." Lilah followed her inside, then bumped into her back. "What—" She looked past Cecilia, then lifted the shotgun.
Billy jerked it from her hand. "Hello, ladies."
The dodge worked beautifully. With the help of the coed, J. D. was able to decoy the police long enough for Sable to get away from the hotel. Now he rode in the back of his brother's car, mainly to have time to think what his next move should be.
"You'll have to file a statement."
"Terri can do it," J. D. told his brother. "I don't have time for the paperwork."
"You've got plenty." Cort eyed him in the rearview mirror. "You've been suspended from duty, and the only reason you're not in cuffs is because of me."
J. D. had expected the suspension, and still it pis
sed him off. "You want me to thank you?"
"I want you to tell me what the hell you think you're doing." When he didn't answer, his brother dragged a hand through his hair. "Jesus Christ, J. D."
J. D. didn't want to think about Sable. The fact that she was out there alone again scared the shit out of him. "Dad talk to you about checking the arson files?"
"Yeah. I was pulling them last night when I got word on you." Cort dragged a hand through his short brown hair. "You're chasing a dead end; no arsonist waits twenty-five years between fires."
That remained to be seen. "Terri come up with anything?"
"Terri's off the case and bordering on suspension herself." He thought for a moment. "You used her place down on the lake to stash the girl, didn't you? Shit."
J. D. stared out the window, watching the buildings go by. When Cort didn't make the turn for the station, he frowned. "You forget where I have to turn in my gun and badge?"
"We're going home. The station is crawling with press, and Mother is frantic."
J. D. didn't want to deal with his mother. "Take me to the restaurant."
Cort glanced back at him. "Dad can't bail you out of this."
"Just do it."
When they arrived at the service entrance to his father's restaurant, J. D. climbed out of Cort's SUV and slammed the door. "Thanks."
"Hey."
He looked back. "What?"
Cort looked as tired as J. D. felt. "I want to help."
"Then go and check the files." J. D. met his brother's gaze. "I need proof that the same perp was behind both fires, Cort—find it for me."
He strode through the back entrance and into the frantic hive of activity in the huge kitchen. His father was at the far end, sorting through crates of vegetables and tossing what didn't meet his standards into a discard bin.
J. D. saw the same lines of strain and exhaustion on his father's face. This case wasn't just tearing his own life apart; it was ripping his family to pieces. "Hey, Dad."
Louie looked up and knocked over a crate of peppers, reaching for his son. "Jean-Del." He took him in a tight embrace, then looked over his shoulder. "Where is Isabel? Is she all right?"
"She's okay—she's waiting for me. Dad, I need a favor." He pulled his father into a storeroom, away from the curious eyes and ears of the staff, and filled him in on what had happened, and then added, "I need you to find Remy Duchesne and talk to him."
"That the man who raised Isabel?" Louie frowned. "Why?"
"He's the only person who knows about the fire when she was a baby. I need to know everything about it, what he remembers, who he thinks might have paid Bud Gantry to set it." J. D. told his father how to get to the Martins'. "They should be able to help you find him."
His father sighed. "You really think he'll talk to me instead of you?"
"You're not sleeping with his daughter."
"Ah. Good point. Here." His father dug out his wallet, removed all the bills from it, and put them in J. D.'s hand. "Don't go home—your mama is on the warpath, and your scalp is number one on her to-skin list."
"Thanks, Dad." He hugged his father, then checked his watch. "I'll keep in touch."
After calling her cousin's store and getting no answer, Sable sat at the table closest to the pay phone outside the Cafe du Monde. While she waited, she sipped her café au lait and watched a mime pretending to clean an invisible window. Strings of beads hung from the branches of nearly every tree in Jackson Square, like strange Christmas decorations. Their colorful glitter reminded her of the night before.
Jean-Delano. She clutched her coffee between her cold hands. Not knowing what was happening to him made her feel sick.
"Keep up the good work." A street cleaner using a pointed trash stick to pick up napkins, plastic go-cups, and other Mardi Gras debris left on the sidewalk called out to the mime as he passed by. "We got to make everything sparkle, son."
Sable went back to the pay phone and tried to call her cousin again.
This time, Hilaire answered. "Where are you?"
"I'm on my way to you. Are there any police at the store? Has J. D. called you?"
"No. That woman cop called me yesterday, but I didn't tell her anything. J. D. isn't with you?"
"We had to split up. Hil, I need to stay there until he can come and get me, okay?"
"Don't even ask. You want me to come and pick you up?"
"No, I need you to stay there in case J. D. calls. I'm going to take the bus so it'll be a little while." She looked down at herself. "And I really need some clean clothes."
"I'll take care of it. Just be careful."
Sable hung up the phone and threw away her half-empty cup, then stopped to pitch a dollar into the mime's collection basket. When he offered an elaborate bow, she pointed to his invisible wall. "You missed a spot."
With a grin he went back to work with his invisible rag.
She caught a bus running mostly tour groups out to the Atchafalaya Basin, and settled in for the long ride. The hum of the bus's engine nearly made her doze off a few times, but she forced herself to stay awake. As they left the city, her heart seemed to constrict. She didn't want to leave J. D. behind; she never wanted to be parted from him again.
I love you, she mouthed silently as they passed the city limits sign. Hurry back to me, J. D.
She had to walk a quarter mile from the stop to Hilaire's store, but it felt good to stretch her legs. The sun had risen high enough to chase off the morning dew and make her take off the trucker's jacket, and when she saw the familiar hand-lettered martin's country store sign she picked up her pace.
The store wasn't supposed to open for another hour, but the lights were on and the front door was unlocked. Sable went in, hoping to smell coffee brewing. "Hilaire?"
There were twenty men standing in various spots around the shop. All of them looked at her without smiling. Sable backed toward the door, but before she could run someone seized her from behind. She screamed.
Caine Gantry spun her around. "About time you came home, Isabel."
Elizabet approved of the courtesy the reporter from the Daily News showed toward Laure as she interviewed her about Marc's murder. Still, she hovered nearby, ready to offer support for Laure or chastisement for the reporter as might be needed.
"Mrs. LeClare, our affiliate, channel seven, would like to take a statement from you for the noon broadcast. The citizens of New Orleans held your husband in high regard, and I know they would appreciate any words you could offer them. We can do it right now, if you like." The reporter gestured to the photographer, who had also brought in a video camera.
"I never was very good on camera," Laure said slowly, then looked to Elizabet for direction.
Elizabet was torn—her friend obviously didn't like the idea, and under other circumstances she wouldn't have permitted it. Yet she needed her to go on the air in order to condemn Sable Duchesne and her ridiculous claims.
The reporter followed Laure's gaze. "Would Mrs. Gamble like to make a joint statement with you? I know her son is missing—perhaps if she gave us some details, we might be able to help?..."
"I would feel better about this, if you're up to it, Elizabet," Laure admitted.
She could do it instead of Laure. This solved her problem perfectly.
"A very brief statement," she said, and came over to sit by Laure as the reporter told the photographer to set up the video camera. Elizabet arranged her skirt and brushed a piece of Laure's hair behind her ear before she gave the reporter a stern look. "There will be no questions, you understand. Laure will address the citizens, and then I will make my statement."
"Yes, ma'am, of course." The reporter, knowing she was getting an exclusive, would have agreed to anything. She nodded to the cameraman, then said to Laure, "Just start speaking whenever you're ready, Mrs. LeClare."
Laure smiled painfully at the camera. "My family and I are very grateful for the outpouring of sympathy and condolence that we have received from our friends here
in New Orleans. Marc was a wonderful husband and a great man, and I know you share in our loss. Please keep us in your prayers, and thank you."
The camera turned slightly as the reporter nodded to Elizabet.
"My friend Laure has lost her husband, and the state of Louisiana has lost one of our finest citizens. In times such as these, prayer is our only refuge. My son Lieutenant Jean-Delano Gamble was investigating Marc LeClare's murder and has since disappeared, pursuing a young woman who has claimed to be Marc's daughter. This is simply not true. Isabel Duchesne is an accomplished liar, and this is not the first time she has inflicted herself on innocent people."
Elizabet felt Laure stiffen next to her, but continued on. "Ten years ago this young woman wantonly attacked a group of students at Tulane University, for which she was expelled. You know from the newspapers that she was the only person found at the scene of Marc's murder. Now she has lured my son into the bayou, and to be honest, I fear for his life." She blinked real tears back. "Isabel Duchesne has no respect for others, and whatever lies she tells when she is caught, I hope that the people of the New Orleans will not be deceived by this hateful woman. I personally will not rest until my son is found, and Isabel Duchesne is prosecuted for the crimes she has committed." She nodded to the reporter.
"That was incredible, Mrs. Gamble." The reporter looked ready to faint. "Mrs. LeClare, thank you as well." She glanced back at the photographer. "Let's get it over to the studio."
"I tried to stop them, J. D., but Caine tied me up in the back storeroom." Hilaire was sobbing between the words. "I called you as soon as one of my girls came in and cut me loose."
J. D. looked at the other frightened faces of Hilaire's clerks. He had gotten the call from Sable's cousin a few minutes after leaving Krewe of Louis, and had driven directly to the store to find all the women nearly in hysterics.
"Any of you hear where they were taking her?" No one spoke, but one of the girls looked down at the floor. He went to her. "You, what's your name?"
"Lacelle." She shuffled her feet. "I don't know anything, mister."
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