by Robin Caroll
Great. Now she would be late to her interview. Mondays were the pits. She made a mental note to herself—never schedule interviews on Mondays from here on out.
She pulled over to the shoulder, if the space could be called such, and slammed into Park, all the while watching the officer get out of his cruiser and saunter toward her door. She rolled down her window as he approached.
Hurry up. Just write me the ticket and be done. Let me get on my way.
Deputy Anderson rested his arm against the roof of the car over her window. “Well, hello there, Ms. LeBlanc.”
Recalling Jackson’s insinuation that the lawman might be interested in her, she plastered on a bright smile. Hey, two could play the flirt-with-the-nice-cop-to-get-info game. Now, what was his first name?
“Deputy.” She nodded, making sure she used the Southern drawl she’d fought so hard to tone down. “Was I speeding?” She laid a hand against her chest.
Oh, somebody should give her an Academy Award.
He leaned closer to the window. “Why, yes, ma’am, you sure were. I clocked you doing sixty-four in a forty-five.”
“Oh, my. I’m so sorry. I’m late for an appointment and didn’t pay attention to my little speedometer thing.”
Could she sound any more ditzy? Surely men didn’t buy this ploy.
“I can understand that, ma’am.” By the appreciative look in his eye, he did buy it. Hook, line and sinker.
Reel him in.
“I’m so sorry, Deputy. I promise to watch my speed from now on.”
He straightened and paused. Deliberating whether to give her a ticket or let her go with a warning?
She smiled wider and batted her eyelashes.
Oh, man. She actually batted her lashes. How sickening.
“Okay, Ms. LeBlanc. You keep your speed down now, ya hear?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Certainly will.”
He smiled, almost as if he didn’t want to let her go.
She cut her gaze to the clock. She had a couple of minutes to spare.
“Deputy, how’s the investigation going?”
“I can’t really discuss that with you, ma’am.”
“I understand. I’m just saying, I don’t know why they called in those FBI agents. I’m sure the Lagniappe sheriff deputies could work the case just as well. Probably better.”
“I’d have to agree with you there, ma’am. They aren’t even interested in looking at the cases the sheriff worked on before the attack.”
This was too easy.
“I figured as much. In my experience, those federal boys can’t find their thumbs in the dark with a flashlight.”
“You can say that again. I even showed them the evidence of one case we were working on together. Could be something big. Do you think they even cared?”
Alyssa’s heart sped. She gripped the steering wheel to calm herself. “Really?” She shook her head, options running through her mind. “Maybe they didn’t take the case seriously if it was just something you and the sheriff were working on alone.”
“But it wasn’t. Deputy Martin Gocheaux has been working it, too.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say. That’s just wrong.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The radio on his belt squeaked before Missy’s voice recited a series of numbers. “Well, that’s my call.” He knocked on the roof of the Honda. “You keep it under the speed limit, Ms. LeBlanc.”
“Will do.”
She watched in the side mirror until he buckled his seat belt, then she put the car in Drive and steered back onto the road. She might arrive at the senator’s in time, but if not, she’d at least gotten the name of the other deputy the sheriff had shared information with on the case. Oh yeah, she was good. Alyssa spared a second to wonder how Jackson fared with the buxom blonde dispatcher.
A sourness coated the back of her throat. Why should she care who Jackson flirted with? She wouldn’t allow herself to be attracted to the man who held her job. No. Not now.
Suddenly she felt that odd sensation of being watched. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw nothing. Must just be her mind playing tricks on her.
Luck decided to smile on her. The next main street sign read LaRue Avenue. She flipped on her blinker and turned north on the paved road. The senator had told her to look for the white house on the right, that she couldn’t miss it. A quarter of a mile down the road, she understood.
No other homes littered the perfectly manicured and fenced lawn of Senator Mouton’s estate. A white plantation home with eight columns across the front sat back several hundred yards from the road. An archway over the gated entrance held a wrought-iron sign reading MOUTON. Nope, no chance she’d miss it.
She crept down the driveway, taking in the drooping live oak trees lining the way. Miniature rosebushes filled the distance between the trees, forming a greenery fence. Alyssa pulled into the circular drive. She straightened her skirt as she exited, grabbed her briefcase and headed up the massive brick steps.
The ornate wooden door swung open before she could ring the bell. A lanky man, resembling a black Ichabod Crane, bowed low. “Ms. LeBlanc?”
“Yes.”
A butler. The Moutons had a real live butler. Unreal.
“Follow me, please.”
The heels of her gray pumps tapped against the marble foyer. Sculptures sat on elaborately designed pedestals. Large arrangements of fresh flowers adorned a polished wood highboy.
Talk about living in high cotton. The Moutons must be neck-deep in the crop.
The butler opened French doors and waved her into a formal sitting room. “Please have a seat. The senator will be with you directly.”
“Thank you,” she uttered and stared at the beautiful leather furniture. Art pieces framed in gilded gold hung on all four walls. A wet bar sat in the corner closest to her. The snifters and tumblers were Waterford crystal.
Alyssa didn’t dare sit for fear of smudging the cream leather sofa.
“Thank you for waiting.”
“Senator Mouton. Thank you for seeing me.” She offered her hand.
His handshake wasn’t as soft as the politicians she knew.
“Please, have a seat. May I get you a drink?”
Gently perching on the edge of the sofa, Alyssa shook her head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Hope you don’t mind if I have one. It’s been a long morning already.” He moved to the bar and opened a brandy decanter. The strong, smooth aroma with a touch of alcohol danced on the air.
White at the temples, his hair had a nice blend of brown and gray throughout the rest. A neatly trimmed mustache lined his upper lip. Eyes as green as kudzu leaves nestled under bushy gray eyebrows.
He took the chair opposite the sofa, drink in hand. The kid leather rustled, even though he couldn’t weigh more than one hundred and fifty pounds. Those bright eyes pierced her. “You look like your mother, did you know?”
Her heartbeat thudded into the back of her throat. “I’ve been told that before.” She pressed her lips together, waiting for the professional instinct to take over. The mention of her mother threw her off.
Her hero.
She pulled out her recorder and pressed the Record button before setting it beside her. She grabbed her pen and notebook. “Senator Mouton, tell me how you feel about a candidate running against you in the upcoming election, when there hasn’t been one for the past decade and then some.”
“I’m proud to live in a country where the people have a choice. This is a prime example of opportunities presented to the public. I welcome the race.”
“Rumor has it that this candidate, Mr. Lewis, is arming himself with slanderous information regarding your past political actions. Care to respond?”
His face twisted into a somber expression. “I’ve heard that, Ms. LeBlanc, and I have to tell you, it saddens me to think that anyone aspiring to a position to represent the people would resort to such low actions.” He shook his head before he took another drink of his
iceless brandy.
“Is there anything in your political past that could hurt you if made public knowledge?”
“Now if there was, do you really think I’d announce it in an interview, Ms. LeBlanc?” He chuckled, but the sound came out dry, devoid of humor. “Honestly, I think everyone has a skeleton or two in their personal closet. We’re human. But using information in a manner to make yourself look better…well, that just says a lot about the person’s character, doesn’t it?”
She flipped through the notes she’d made during her research last night. “Mr. Lewis claimed in a parish paper that the port authority of the intercoastal port just miles from your own home is corrupt. He states, and I quote, ‘Senator Mouton has allowed the port authority to become a good ol’boys’ network, with total disregard for the laws of our federal government.’ End quote.” She paused for effect. “Would you like to respond?”
“It would seem Mr. Lewis doesn’t have his facts straight. That’s the problem with some aspiring politicians in today’s society—they rely on rumors and listen to the gossip mills.” He took a long sip of his drink. “There is no corruption of the port authority. In the last ninety days, an overseeing committee conducted an internal audit. They found no exception in the accounting that couldn’t be traced back to plain human error.”
Oh, he’d mastered the fine art of sidestepping. Then again, he’d had many years of practice.
“Do you have any parting comments for Mr. Lewis?”
“I wish him the best of luck in the election. I have no ill will toward the man—I welcome the challenge. It would be nice, however, to stick to the issues. Unemployment, lack of federal funding, our schools—things that are important to the voters in this district. These are what I’m focusing on, not trying to smear someone’s reputation.”
Alyssa turned off the recorder and slipped it, along with her notebook and pen, into her briefcase. She flashed a smile. “I really appreciate this, Senator.”
“Anything for Claire’s daughter.” He finished off his drink. “You know, I really miss her. She was such a breath of fresh air during a trying time.”
The knot in her stomach tightened. “Really?”
“Oh, yes.” He stood, walked to the bar and poured himself another glass. “Claire was a go-getter. She didn’t care about anything but getting to the truth. One of the best in the business I’ve ever seen.” He faced her and took a long sip. “Must be hard for you, being in her field and having to live up to her reputation.”
And not measuring up to her high standards. Isn’t that what he meant?
Alyssa swallowed the bile scorching the back of her mouth. “She was a photojournalist. I’m an investigative reporter.”
“Same difference. Both look to expose the truth, yes?”
Yes.
Would she ever be able to shed the weight of her mother’s accomplishments?
When compared side by side, Missy couldn’t hold Alyssa’s pen.
Jackson sat across the table from the dispatcher, listening to her drone on and on about herself. The eleven o’clock lunch crowd apparently didn’t swarm the diner, much to Jackson’s disappointment. He’d have loved a distraction. So much for being nice and getting her out of the office.
“And you know I was crowned Ms. Lagniappe, right?” Missy shoved a French fry, drowned in ketchup, into her busy mouth.
“No, I wasn’t aware.”
She swallowed. Had she even bothered to chew her food? “Oh, yeah. Of course, that was many moons ago.” She gave a slow wink.
Didn’t the woman realize she’d passed the age of college coed pickup lines? He didn’t think he’d be able to finish his Reuben sandwich. “So, how’d a beauty queen become a sheriff’s dispatcher?” As much as she jabbered, if he could just get her on subject, surely she’d let some information loose.
Hopefully, information he could use.
“Oh. Well, back then we had a different sheriff, Roger Thibodeaux, who was a little sweet on me, if I do say so myself. Although he was much too old for my taste. I was only eighteen, you know.” She patted her dull hair. “He asked me to apply for the job when it opened up. I did, and I got it.”
“The rest is history?”
“Yeah. I miss ol’Roger, though. He was like a favorite uncle figure to me. He works over at the rice plant now.”
Focus, woman.
“You must love working at the police station, being on the inside of everything.”
Missy laughed, brass and phony. So unlike Alyssa’s throaty chuckles. “Just like I imagine you do, being a big-time reporter and all.”
“It has its moments.” He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “But this business with Bubba has me upset. Very.” He lowered his brows.
“Me, too. Did you know that he asked me out once?”
If his friend regained consciousness, Jackson would have a serious talk with Bubba about his taste in women. Or lack thereof.
“I just don’t get why the FBI haven’t found out anything yet.” He bit the bullet and reached across the table to lay his hand over hers. “It’s frustrating.”
“They’re trying, I suppose. Like, they’ve been checking up on Bubba’s hunting buddies.” She laid her other hand atop his and squeezed. “So far, they all have alibis.”
He resisted the urge to flinch from her calloused hands. “Surely they could find some of the open cases he was working on and see if there’s a link?”
“To date, they haven’t found anything really important.” Missy leaned close. “They couldn’t even figure out what happened to that missing evidence from storage.”
“What missing evidence?”
“Apparently, the sheriff had recently gotten some evidence on a case he was working on, cash at that, and logged it into the storage area. The night he was attacked, the evidence disappeared from storage.”
“Really?”
She nodded, her hairspray-plastered hair not moving. “And the FBI agents, cute as they are, didn’t even realize it until this morning.” She shook her head. “They haven’t a clue.”
TWELVE
“You’ll have it today,” Alyssa grated into the phone as she typed away on her laptop, clicking filling the room. “I’ll get an interview with his opponent as soon as I can to get a rebuttal article.”
“Good job, kiddo. If you can dig up and prove the allegation this Lewis is making about Mouton, I’ll run it front page.” Simon rarely made such declarations.
Despite the bitter taste in her mouth, Alyssa’s heartbeat quickened. “I’m also working on another piece.”
“Something hot, I hope. Don’t want you wasting your time.”
If she told her editor the truth, he’d blow her off again. She couldn’t chance that. Not with Marlee nipping at her career’s heels. “I’m actually working with a reporter from the Times-Picayune on a story.”
“What reporter?”
“A Jackson Devereaux. Ever heard of him?”
“Have I ever, kid. He’s got a nose for sniffing out scandals.” Glee laced Simon’s tone before he sobered. “Don’t let him get the scoop on you about Mouton.”
Jackson wouldn’t do that. Would he? He was, first and foremost, a reporter.
“He doesn’t even know I’m working the angle.” She rolled her shoulders, pushing the tension into her lower back. “Besides, the senator hasn’t granted anyone else an interview.”
“Keep it that way, or your article will be just one of many.”
A cardinal sin in the journalism business. Sometimes the industry slap wore her out.
“Sure, boss.”
Simon let out a long breath. She could picture him, sitting at his desk, cigar burning in the ashtray while he gnawed on a ratty toothpick. In the years she’d worked at the Shreveport paper, she’d never seen him actually smoke the cigar burning continuously at his hand.
“And get that rebuttal interview with Lewis.”
“I’m on it.”
The pho
ne connection broke. Alyssa clicked the phone off and went back to her laptop. She scanned the information she’d already written. After pulling up every available interview she could find on Senator Mouton, she realized none had been invited into the sanctuary of the Mouton home. Another edge to her article—the description of his personal space.
She opened her Internet browser and did a search on Warren Lewis, the upstart candidate opposing Senator Mouton. Within moments, she had his office phone number. She lifted the cordless and punched the series of seven digits. When she told the chipper woman her name and what she wanted, they put her right through to Mr. Lewis.
“Ms. LeBlanc, how nice to hear from you.” His tone suggested his eagerness to talk to the press.
“Mr. Lewis, I’ve just concluded an interview with Senator Mouton regarding the forthcoming election. I’d like to offer you the opportunity to respond.”
“That old goat denying my accusations?”
She inhaled slowly. Old goat? Senator Mouton had been one of the speakers at her parents’ funeral, giving a beautiful eulogy to her mother’s memory. She didn’t think him capable of being an old goat. Dirty politics at its best, and she didn’t like Mr. Lewis’s attitude. While she’d like to just hang up the phone, Simon’s constant insistence of putting aside personal feelings drummed in her ears. She clutched the phone tighter. “I’d really like to meet with you and ask a few questions.”
“Sure, come on down to campaign headquarters, and I’ll answer any question that cooyon threw out.”
She flinched. “What time is good for you?”
“Come by now. I’m curious to hear what he had to say.”
Hadn’t he heard that curiosity killed the cat?
“I’m on my way.”
She hung up the phone and went back to her article. She gave it a final read-through, satisfied she’d painted a strong picture. Then she opened her e-mail program. She fired off a quick message to Simon, letting him know she would have a rebuttal interview available tomorrow, attached her article on the senator and hit Send. She shut her laptop and stood, stretching. Tension weighted every muscle in her back and shoulders.
