by Robin Caroll
Sometimes, her job wore her out. While she loved the written word and enjoyed the rush of scoping out a good story, the truth was that she’d become to be quite disenchanted with reporting itself and the politics of the industry.
Grabbing her briefcase, she headed out the front door toward her car. If only she could report the good side of things, the better view of people. But those types of feel-good stories didn’t win awards.
Would the sun ever shine where her mother’s shadow hovered? How had Claire LeBlanc done it? Portraying emotions on film, uncovering a wealth of injustice, and still beloved by all. Maybe Alyssa would never have what it took.
No, she wouldn’t allow her thoughts to drag her down. She would succeed—she’d worked too hard not to.
The noonday sun blazed in the sky, as Alyssa steered her car toward downtown Lagniappe. She flipped on the vent, only to be blasted by warm air. Ugh. The swampland coated the area in heat and mugginess. She pressed the button to turn on the air conditioner.
After parking in front of the strip center, which housed the temporary campaign office for Warren Lewis, Alyssa straightened her skirt, grabbed her briefcase and strode purposefully to the door. A gust of cool air greeted her.
About ten people were packed into the small space. If she did have claustrophobia, this place would send her into a tailspin. A middle-aged woman sitting at a desk answered the phone. A stack of old textbooks filled the gap for a missing leg on a battered desk. Two banquet-length folding tables filled the room, manned by people writing on posterboards or stuffing envelopes.
A young man stood. “Hi, there. How can we help you?”
“I’m looking for Warren Lewis. I’m Alyssa LeBlanc, here for an interview.”
“Ah, you made it,” said a booming voice from a door in the back of the room. “Come on back.”
She wove around the table and desk, all the while taking stock of Mr. Lewis. Younger than Mouton by probably twenty years, Warren had the working-man look down pat. His hair had yet to be speckled by signs of graying. His skin had a sun-kissed glow, but its texture resembled worn leather. He wore blue jeans and a pullover. Nothing about his appearance set him apart from the rest of the workers.
Until she drew closer.
A long scar marred the entire left side of his face. Puckered and pink, but not recent. Alyssa knew the signs only too well. She rubbed her own scar, then stiffened her back and offered her hand. “Mr. Lewis.”
“Thank you for coming down here so quickly. I appreciate it.” He waved her toward the doorway. “Let’s talk in my office.”
An office? The room he indicated looked no bigger than a walk-in closet. A shabby desk sat against a wall, with two facing chairs. At least the desk had all four legs. He motioned her to sit. “Sorry it’s not as nice as where Mouton held his interview, but I’m a working man. No silver spoon ever passed my lips.”
She refrained from commenting. What could she say? This place couldn’t even compare with the trash bin at the Mouton estate. She dropped into one of the chairs. The wood creaked in protest. Alyssa scooted closer to the edge of the seat.
Mr. Lewis took the other chair and slapped his thigh. “So, what’d old Mouton have to say about me now?”
She’d learned early in her reporting career not to allow herself to be badgered, but to take control of each and every interview. She placed her tape recorder on the edge of the desk while settling her notebook in her lap. Pen poised, Alyssa smiled. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, she plunged ahead with the questions she’d already formed. “What made you decide to run for senator, Mr. Lewis? Especially against such a popular incumbent?”
“I didn’t like the way Mouton did the job. I uncovered some discrepancies in his actions. When I called him on them, he blew me off. That told me right then and there the man had something to hide.”
“What sort of discrepancies?”
“Little things at first. Like unqualified people getting jobs over better-suited candidates.”
“But that happens all the time, Mr. Lewis.”
“Not as consistently as with Mouton. And his committees. He appointed people who had no clue. They did what he told them. Pigeons, that’s what they are.”
“Isn’t that the function of a committee? To carry out the wishes of the person overseeing it?”
“Not like this. For instance, I found out some shipments left the port without going through an inspection. That’s against federal guidelines for intercoastal ports. When I brought the situation into the open, Mouton formed an overseeing committee to audit the inspectors’ books.”
“Doesn’t that imply he was concerned about the allegations and set out to research the facts?”
Mr. Lewis snorted. “His so-called committee consisted of one of the rice plant managers, a deputy and a dock manager—all Mouton flunkies. I’d hardly call that being concerned.”
“But did this committee find any basis for your allegations?”
“You don’t get it, Ms. LeBlanc. Those were all people on Mouton’s payroll. Of course they didn’t find anything amiss.”
“Are you implying Senator Mouton instructed the members of the committee to look the other way with regard to federal guidelines?”
“I’m not implying it, Ms. LeBlanc. I’m out-and-out stating it.”
Alyssa took a moment to gather her thoughts. “If what you say is true, what could possibly be the reason?”
“That’s what I don’t know. Why I’m running to find out. Something’s going on out there at the port, right under the authorities’ noses, and Mouton’s got people covering it up.”
“What’s the benefit of shipments not going through inspections?”
“Lots of reasons. The load is heavier than the bill of lading declares, which would be more freight cost. Shipments not containing what they’ve listed on the sheets. Could be a number of things.”
This man was adamant, and in a strange way, he made sense. But for Senator Mouton to be involved? The facts and the man who’d given such a moving speech at her parents’ funeral didn’t compute.
Time to change tactics.
“How’d you get that scar, Mr. Lewis?”
He hesitated, absently running a finger along the jagged skin. A habit Alyssa herself employed.
“I got mugged. This was the result.”
“I’m so sorry.” And she truly meant it. She hated using shock tactics, but she had a job to do. “I would think you’d be campaigning more on a platform of crime.”
His smile turned into a sneer. “In a way, I am. You see, Ms. LeBlanc, I was assaulted four years ago. Back when I began asking questions about what was going on.”
What could she be doing in town?
Jackson paused at his truck, watching Alyssa stride to her Honda across the street. She’d come out of one of those holes-in-the-wall. What was she up to?
And why did she look so good?
He chewed his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes. She carried a briefcase and wore a straight skirt and blouse. Her short hair glistened in the sun. She must use that gel that made hair look wet even when dry.
Enough wondering. Jackson made clean steps across the parking lot to her car. She caught sight of him before he reached her. She tossed her briefcase into the passenger’s seat and turned to face him. “How’d your date with Missy go?”
Ah, the green-eyed monster did stir within her. How promising.
“Just fine.” He wouldn’t let her know that the woman bored him beyond tears. “What’re you doing in town?”
Her gaze darted to the building, then back to him quicker than a tornado could spin. “I had an errand to run. Did you find out anything interesting?”
So she wanted to play the avoidance game, did she? Okay. “Actually, I did.”
“Do tell.” Sauciness dripped from her words. “I found out something, too.”
“Really?”
“Yep. From Deputy Anderson.”
> My, she had been busy today.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“What?”
“Lunch? You know, one of the three squares, commonly eaten around now.”
“I know what it means. No, I haven’t.”
“Let’s grab a bite and update one another on our findings.”
She nodded. “Where?”
He gestured toward the little diner sitting at the end of the town square. “How about there?”
“Sounds good.”
“Want to walk?”
She rubbed that spot under her lip. “It’s awfully sticky out.”
“Come on.” He took a gentle hold of her elbow. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Back in the air-conditioning,” she mumbled as she shut and locked her car.
He noticed her walking with a bit of hesitation. Not a limp exactly, more like when he’d bought a new pair of shoes and wore them without breaking them in slowly. She wore fancy pointy-toed heels.
“Are your shoes hurting your feet?” he blurted out.
She faltered, but recovered quickly. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
Answering a question with a question—bull’s-eye.
“You’re walking funny.”
Alyssa stiffened under his touch and jerked her arm free from his grasp. “I am not. I’m just trying to be more dignified than your strut.”
Strut?
“Men don’t strut, chère, they saunter. Watch your verb usage.”
“Oh, please. Must you be so annoying?”
“Must you be so amusing?”
Her lips formed a tight line.
He focused on that little circle. “Is that a birthmark?”
She snapped her gaze to his. “What?”
Heat fanned his face. Had he really asked that aloud? How incredibly rude, but the question couldn’t be unasked now.
“That pink circle beneath your lip.”
Her face lost all expression and her hand immediately went to the mark. She widened her eyes. Her nostrils flared. “It’s a scar, not that it’s any of your business.”
Now he felt lower than the bottom of a quicksand pit.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Wasn’t your fault.” Her steps punctuated her words. Sharp. Curt. Precise.
They’d almost reached the diner’s front door when guilt assailed him. He took her hand and jerked her back toward him.
She glared openly. “What?”
“A scar from what?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“But it’s attractive, it draws my attention, and I want to know.” Had he really just said that?
A myriad of emotions crossed her face, seeming to battle for dominance. Finally, dejection appeared to win. “A car accident when I was a young teen. A piece of hot metal adhered itself to my lip.”
“I’m so sorry, Alyssa. Was anyone else hurt?”
Tears welled in her round eyes, twisting his gut.
“They were killed.”
THIRTEEN
And I lived.
Alyssa jerked her arm free from Jackson’s gentle grasp and stomped into the diner. She blinked furiously, as if that could whisk away the tears pooling in her eyes. No matter how many times she thought about the accident, guilt always won over logic. No matter that she’d been so young and unable to understand what happened. She’d lived, and they hadn’t.
And had left her to the mercy of the small-minded townsfolk of Lagniappe.
The penetrating odor of grease and French fries nearly made her gag. Informality reigned the diner, no hostess to speak of, so Alyssa marched to a corner booth and slid in. She breathed through her mouth, nice and slow like the therapist had taught her. In and out. Smooth and steady.
Jackson sat silently across the table, his stare piercing the distance between them. She kept her head ducked, refusing to meet his eyes. How could she? She already knew there’d be either pity or condemnation reflected there—neither of which could she tolerate. Not from him.
“Do y’all know what you want?” a woman’s voice asked, sounding tired and cranky.
The waitress took their order of cheeseburgers with fries and shuffled away. Alyssa met Jackson’s inquiring look. At least he hid the compassion or censure. “I don’t want to discuss it, okay?”
“I understand.”
No, he didn’t. He couldn’t. But it was enough that he’d leave the subject alone.
He wiped invisible crumbs from the table. “Well, I found out something new on the case.”
She arched a single brow, relieved he changed the topic so quickly.
“According to our friendly dispatcher, the day Bubba was attacked, some police evidence came up missing from their storage.”
The case grew more intriguing with every turn.
“Did Ms. Flirt happen to say what particular evidence is missing?”
“Money from one of the cases Bubba worked.”
“Have they recovered it?”
“Apparently not.” He traced the grooves in the table with his thumb. “According to Missy, the FBI agents aren’t overly concerned.”
“Huh. Since it was money, you’d think they’d be a little more interested.”
“You’d think. Obviously, someone on the force is involved with this case. I couldn’t think of a way to get any more from Missy.”
“Oh, I got the names of the deputies who were assigned to the case.”
His mouth hung open, and his eyes widened.
She couldn’t help herself, she chuckled aloud at his expression. “Well, if you can dig for info, so can I.”
“How?”
“All because of my lead foot.”
His eyes darkened in confusion.
“I got stopped for speeding by none other than Deputy Anderson.”
He smiled, kicking himself mentally for not having caught on to what she’d said immediately. “And you flirted?”
“Of course not.” She giggled. “Well, just a little bit. I’m really shocked men fall for such obvious ploys, by the way.”
“I bet.” His lips formed a hard line.
“Anyway, he and Martin Gocheaux were assigned to the case.”
“Ring any bells?” he asked.
“Not off the top of my head, no. Remember, I haven’t lived here in a long time and haven’t visited in awhile.” She shrugged. “And when I did visit, they were normally quick trips and I didn’t pay much attention to anything going on locally.” Truth be told, she hadn’t paid much attention to anything.
“Well, the FBI aren’t looking into the sheriff’s open cases.”
“Figures.”
The waitress returned, plopped their plates and glasses on the table, and then spun away.
“So much for service with a smile,” Jackson muttered.
“You know,” Alyssa said as she lifted the pepper and dumped a smattering over her fries and burger, “one of those deputies has to be involved. But which one?”
“We need the duty roster from Friday night. That would tell us who’d been on duty. Whichever one wasn’t working is most likely the culprit.”
She swallowed the fry she’d just chewed. “True, because there wouldn’t have been time for the assailant to drive off and then run back to the station.” Alyssa wiped her mouth. “I don’t think it’s Deputy Anderson.”
“Because he likes you?”
She frowned. Where had that come from? “No, because I don’t recognize his voice. And he’d been the deputy who arrived first on the scene. He wore his uniform, still clean. If he’d been one of the men who attacked Bubba, he wouldn’t have appeared all neat and tidy. Not without changing and cleaning up first. There was a lot of blood on the sheriff.” Suddenly, the ketchup didn’t look so appealing.
“Good point, but we still need to confirm that with a look-see at the duty roster.” He pulled out a BlackBerry and punched buttons.
“What are you doing?”
“Asking my friend with the FBI in New Orleans to run a check on this Gocheaux.” He glanced at her, warming her to her toes. “What’d you say his first name was?”
“Martin.”
“Right.” He punched more keys. “And it won’t hurt to find information on Gary Anderson, too.”
Gary. She’d need to remember that in the future. Just in case.
Jackson slipped the gadget back into his pocket. “Are you done? I’ve got work tonight.”
She glanced at the ketchup on her plate. “Yeah.” She pushed back from the table and headed to the door.
He had to take full strides to keep up with her. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going home to check on my grandmother, try and visit with my sisters a bit, and ignore this case for a while.”
“Oh. Okay. I’m going to run by the hospital and check on Bubba before I head to the dock.” He ran a hand over his hair.
Frustration evaporated only to be replaced by something else—something she didn’t want to identify. Her fingers itched to touch his waves, just to see if they were as soft as they looked. “Is there any change in his condition?”
“Nothing yet. But I’m praying for that miracle of healing.”
Alyssa gripped the keys harder. She needed to get away from Jackson Devereaux. He made her think things she had no business considering.
“Do you want me to call you later and let you know what I find out, chère?” His voice came out more like a physical caress than mere words. Combined with the term of endearment, well, her heart fluttered.
“Yeah. Let me know.” She opened her car door and dropped behind the steering wheel. Giving Jackson a quick smile, she started the engine.
Oh, yeah, she had to get away from him. He encompassed everything she wasn’t looking for in a man—he’d taken a job that should have been hers, he had the arrogance of success, he carried himself with confidence.
Yet he had the softest expression in his eyes when he looked at her. Looked through her. Saw into her very soul.
Maybe the time had come to let the issue go. Wasn’t his fault he won the job she’d wanted. All this time she’d spent coveting and resenting—wasted energy.
Well past time to let go of her animosity. But if she did, what would stop her from falling in love with Jackson Devereaux?
