by Linda Ladd
Novak had a long, narrow scar that ran out of his hairline on the left side of his face, down through his sideburn, and then jagged back toward the nape of his neck. It looked like an old and very ugly knife wound, like somebody had tried to slit his throat and failed. Yep, he had the look of someone who had dealt with many a terrible thing in his life and probably would look at many more in the future. He shook her hand firmly and didn’t say a word.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Novak. Thank you for coming in to meet me.”
All righty now, she was going for polite, but he wasn’t. He still said nothing, just stared at her out of those deep, deep, well-traveled, speculating eyes. He was sizing her up, just like she was doing to him. No doubt about it. She couldn’t fault him for that, no way. “You are Will Novak, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Will Novak. How’d you do?”
Okay, he had a bizarre accent, all right, one that was rather hard to define. It sounded a little bit European, French maybe, with a dash of Cajun patois, but predominately Australian Outback, with a bit of New Orleans southern drawl and one definite if-you-look-at-me-sideways-I’ll-drill-your-ass-into-the-ground gruffness thrown in for good measure. All of which was a tad startling at first, even upon such a short verbal acquaintance. For the aforementioned reasons, he certainly didn’t look like the sort to say ma’am to anybody. He didn’t look like the sort to say much of anything to anybody. He looked like the kind of guy that Black would hire to follow her around and run interference and make sure she didn’t get in trouble with bad guys who would string her up or beat her up or kill her with some unpleasant cutlery and a demonstration of their highly personal trademark-butchering techniques. Damn, Black was already interfering big time, and she did not like it. Even if he meant well and was damn sick and tired of doctoring up her bodily wounds every few months. But it was sweet of him to care.
“I do fine, actually. So okay, Novak, we might as well cut the crap here. I’m not stupid. What is this exactly? Black wants you to tag along and babysit me, that it? This’s been planned for a while, huh?”
Will Novak gazed across the desk at her, silent, pretty much expressionless. He considered her for a long moment without blinking or moving a muscle, looking her over and looking totally relaxed while he did it. Then he said, “Know what? Nick’s way too obsessed with you for his own good. I told him that. Not good. He’s gonna lose you in the end, and then where’s he gonna be?”
Claire was not expecting that kind of damn personal observation. But his little negative critique of her love interest told her one thing, loud and clear. This man had loved and lost, and someone he cared a whole helluva lot about, too, bet on it. She wondered who and when and where, but had a feeling she would probably never find out. This guy did not appear to be one who got drunk and poured out his woes to various and sundry bartenders or sympathetic hookers. Or investigative partners.
So she said, “Well, well, aren’t you just a great big, Aussie Dear Abby.”
A brief, but definitely in-your-face stare-down ensued, and then Novak stood up and managed to look even more intimidating. “This sure as hell isn’t gonna work out, lady. So long and good luck.”
With that rather impolite adieu, he calmly walked out, leaving Claire staring at the door he left standing wide open behind him. Okay, now, that did not go particularly well. The fastest job interview in the history of mankind, in fact. Somehow, she pegged the guy as a tad on the touchy side.
Almost as quickly as Novak had exited, Black showed up in the threshold. “Well, Claire, that was quick. So what do you think of him?”
Claire thought about it a moment. Not quite sure. Then she said, “I like him. How about going out there and seeing if he’s interested in working this case?”
Okay, that invitation just might turn out to be a big mistake, but she wanted to try the guy out. Their little collaboration ought to prove interesting, that is, if it lasted longer than the interview had. Something about Mr. Will Novak mightily intrigued her. Just what, she could not say, not yet, but she was probably about to find out.
Chapter Four
As it turned out, and not surprising in the least, Will Novak was dragging his feet about working the Quinn case with Claire. She wasn’t exactly shocked at his reluctance. Maybe she should have interviewed him longer than one minute, forced him to say more than three sentences, but somehow she sensed she wasn’t going to get much more out of him. But she did trust Black, and Jack Holliday, and John Booker, and if they thought he was up for the job, she would be stupid not to give him a chance. If he was willing, which was an iffy proposition at the moment, and which was also putting it mildly. And which was of her own doing, no question about it. Apparently, he wasn’t one to screw around or let people mess with him.
So, she gathered up her pertinent gear, which included her sweet little Glock 19, the .38 snub nose revolver in its ankle holster, the big sharp bowie knife in a fringed scabbard that she’d taken off a creepy security guard on her last case, and a worn brown leather jacket under which to hide all aforementioned weapons, but immediately felt naked without her shiny sheriff’s deputy badge hanging on a chain around her neck. But she did stuff her cell phone and some plastic flex-cuffs in her coat pockets, which would have to do in lieu of her nifty departmental handcuffs. She would have to get used to being nonofficial, but something told her that wasn’t gonna be easy. She had been a homicide detective for well over a decade, in Los Angeles and Lake of the Ozarks and Lafourche Parish, and she had loved every moment of it, except for her many hospitalizations and near death experiences.
So Claire bid Big Bruno the Bruiser secretary so long and walked outside and stopped just inside the elegant black and gold, New Orleans Saints–lovin’ lobby and looked around. Black stood near the front revolving door, apparently trying to sweet-talk Novak into being nice to her. She walked directly over to them and looked up at Novak, way up in fact. “You got the job if you want it. I’ll be outside in the white Range Rover. I’ll wait ten minutes for you to get it together, one way or the other, and then I’m going it alone. License or no license.”
Outside the hotel, on the narrow but picturesque Ursulines Avenue of French Quarter fame, Claire climbed in her vehicle and sat awaiting Novak’s decision, very curious to see if he would take the challenge and show up. He was a man of few words, so few words would be what she’d use on him, too. She would give him the ten minutes and then she was going out to Tulane on her own. She spent the wait time checking out her weapons, making sure she had extra clips for the Glock and that the .38 snub was snug in her ankle holster. Both were already registered in Louisiana; she’d done that the first time she and Black had come down to stay temporarily in the house on Governor Nicholls Street. And did she ever feel good about having them strapped on again, loaded for bear, nice and secure and ready for action. Of course, she’d feel a heck of a lot better if she had that license in her pocket, too, but oh, well. Nobody was going to arrest her for wandering around a college campus and asking questions about a friend’s daughter, now were they?
When the car door was suddenly thrust open, Will Novak slid into the passenger seat without a word said. He looked huge and gruff and rumpled in his untucked light blue denim shirt rolled up to his elbows and tan Dockers and like he didn’t give a hot damn what she thought about him. She rather liked that about him, too. Related to it, in fact. Without saying a word, he pushed the seat back as far as it would go, which wasn’t far enough for his mile-long legs. Then he turned and looked over at her. His old-tortured-soul navy eyes held hers so totally, she felt unable to glance away. “So fill me in on the details, Ms. Morgan.”
Polite, polite. Oh, my, my, so that’s the way it was gonna be. “Don’t call me that. It’s Claire to you, and to everybody else.” Claire started the SUV, waited for a panel truck to pass, and pulled out onto the street, all the while filling him in on every detail that she’d learned about Andrea Quinn.
A man of few words still, he s
aid, “And that’s all you’ve got? You’re kiddin’.”
“I don’t usually kid.”
“Figures.”
Novak was armed. Claire had seen the bulge under the back of his shirt when he got in. “That weapon in the back of your waistband is registered, right, Novak?”
“I’m registered. Look, I know my way around. No need to run this conversation into the ground.”
Claire laughed aloud at that; couldn’t help herself. Fact was, with her other partners, Bud Davis and Zee Jackson, she was the one who sometimes wished they’d shut up with their tales of love and woe and television shows and constant chitchat. She wasn’t going to have that problem with this guy. Okay, he fascinated the hell out of her. She admitted it. His reticence made her want to ask him every single question under the sun and chatter on like some dang lonely magpie. But she knew better than that. He’d just ignore her.
“I take it that you know the way out to Tulane?” she said, turning and going east on Orleans Avenue.
“I know the way to everywhere in south Louisiana.”
“Well, now. That’s pretty good. Should come in handy, too. Everywhere, though? That covers a lot of ground. Guess I can turn off my GPS.”
Her attempt at ha-ha-let’s-break-this-ice-dam-and-be-friends went nowhere, and they rode in complete silence, except for Novak occasionally telling her the next turn. In single syllables, at that: right, left, right, straight. Claire glanced over at him and got a good shot of his profile. Man alive, he had menacing down pat, all right. And that usually didn’t happen, not to her, and not unless it was the Queen of England, or that hot Dean Winchester from her favorite TV show, Supernatural. Not that Black wasn’t topnotch in the hot category himself, but how many monsters had he killed? “You interested in what I’m gonna pay you for your time, Novak?”
“Nope.”
“Nope? Well, why not? Everybody’s interested in the numbers on their paycheck.”
“I don’t need money. Pay me whatever you want.”
Oookay. How unusual. “So, what? You win the lottery yesterday, something like that?”
“Nope. What’s this? Now we’re having our interview, that it?”
“That means you’re not gonna answer any more questions, right?”
“Probably.”
“How about we just get to know each other as we go along?”
“Suits me.”
Claire drove along 90 West for a few minutes. Then she said, “You do know how to investigate cases and handle weapons, right, Novak?”
He nodded. “Not to worry.”
“Want to give me a thumbnail sketch of your background with investigative techniques?”
“Former military. NYPD. That good enough?”
“What branch of the military?”
“Army first. Then Navy. Ended up with the Seals.”
Wow, and two more wows. Now that was a surprise, and one hell of an impressive one. “You’re sayin’ you were a Navy Seal?”
He nodded but kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Enough said.” And it was. If he passed the grueling training that Navy Seals put their guys through, he was good to go. No wonder he looked so tough and intimidating.
Novak really got chatty then. He said, “Take the State Street exit.”
Wow, an unsolicited five-word sentence and everything. Progress was being made. Hot damn. “Black said you played football at Tulane.”
“Defensive line.”
“I can see that. You’ve got the bulk. Holliday’s your buddy, I take it?”
“Damn good quarterback.”
“Spend much time with him nowadays?” Claire realized her sentences were getting chopped off, too. Soon she’d be speaking exclusively in Neanderthal, just like he was.
“That got something to do with this case?”
“Nope. Oh, darn, I forgot that you’re major laid back and laconic.”
“I know what laconic means. I graduated with honors. Master’s degree in Criminal Law.”
“Like I said, you’re hired. No need to brag about your credentials.”
Novak glanced over at her. “I read about you in the paper, especially the case that Jack was involved in. You seem to get yourself into some dangerous scrapes.”
“I get myself out of them, too.”
“No wonder Jack and Nick are afraid you’ll end up dead.”
“No need to sugarcoat it, Novak. Just lay it out straight for me.”
Novak gave her an itty bitty, teensy weensy grin, but only with the left side of his mouth. Well, okay, maybe the smile was even smaller than that. Or maybe it was just indigestion. He didn’t look so scary and tough when he let down his guard one quarter of a quarter inch, like that. She bet his college nickname was Taciturn Tackle, maybe T.T. for short.
“Know where a dorm named Wall is, Novak?”
“That used to be Zemurray Residence Hall.”
“That’s nice to know, I guess. Real good if you play college trivia.”
“Haven’t you ever been on the Tulane campus?”
“Once maybe, but hey, I’m usually busy working. Black took me to a Greenwave football game at the Superdome, but that’s about it.”
“Know where Bruff Commons is?”
“Nope. Like I just said, Novak.”
“Go straight ahead on Freret and take a left on Calhoun.”
“Yep, you’re real handy to have around, Novak. A regular Google map personified.”
Nothing, no tiny smirk or anything. Chitchat, mild amusement over and done with, back to utter silence, like it or lump it. Claire drove on, wondering if he was married, had children, had some kind of personality somewhere under all that grump. Or a major personality disorder, maybe. That could be it.
Wall Residential College turned out to be a pretty nice place, one affordable by young women with rich, criminal, gunrunning, exiled daddies, she assumed. She pulled up into an open visitor’s space and killed the motor. They sat there, listening to the engine tick and staring at all the cute coeds and young men leering at the cute coeds as they all milled around together at the front entrance of the five-story dorm. All of them, to a tee, were dressed in jeans or shorts and sweatshirts or Tshirts or tank tops and worn sneakers. Every single one had on a backpack.
“So what’s the plan?” Novak asked at length. So he was a curious type, after all, if not a runaway conversationalist.
“Thought we’d go in, nose around, talk to her roommates.”
“Okay. Who are we gonna be?”
Claire started to say “law officers, duh” but then she remembered that she wasn’t a law officer and didn’t have a badge to flash anymore. Well, crap. Oh, yeah, private eye work was gonna be different, all right.
“I don’t have any cards made up yet.”
Novak only stared at her. “So who you gonna be?”
“Who you gonna be?”
Novak said, “I’m gonna be a family friend who has come to pick up a package from her room at the request of her father.”
“Sounds good.”
“You haven’t ever worked private before, have you?”
“Nope, that’s where you come in. I know how to run an investigation, but I’m not much used to telling lies and scamming people.”
“Well, get used to it. That’s what going private is all about. You ready?”
At that, Claire felt an undeniable surge of excitement. Homicides had always revved her up and put her on point, but this case was something totally different. This new way of doing things was a challenge. Will Novak was a challenge. This case was a challenge. This was a whole new ball game, oh, yes sirree. And it was gonna be interesting, no doubt about it. She would let Novak handle the introductions inside and see if he was as good as Black seemed to think he was.
“We’re gonna have to have an ID to get inside,” Novak told her when they got to the front lobby. “Guess we can follow a student in.”
That took almost thirty seconds. A guy flashed his ca
rd, pushed open the door, and then politely held it open for Claire. She smiled and thanked him. Once inside a wide lobby filled with couches, chairs, and study tables made out of some kind of blond wood, Novak looked around for a moment, apparently gauging things, just like she was doing. “Okay, Morgan, there’s a guy working the information desk. You need to get over there and charm his pants off. We need to get a key to the room so we can toss it.”
“What?”
“You heard me. No college guy is gonna open up to me.”
“Just for future reference. I am not charming, and I do not charm anybody’s pants off.”
“You think I can charm that kid better than you can?”
Claire looked at the young guy at the desk. He was scratching his underarm. Gross. “Thought you were supposed to show me the ropes.”
“That kid’s had his eyes on you since we walked in. I take gifts like that when they’re presented. He obviously thinks you’re cute, or something, so go be cute with him and get that key.”
“I’ll go over there and talk to him, but I am not gonna be cute, and I am certainly not gonna be charming.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Ditto.”
Novak grinned but cut it short before it could really get going; Claire considered that a step in the right direction. Though chagrined at having to do so, she walked across the lobby to the long-haired college boy manning the front desk. He was medium height, brassy blond hair, had the currently popular five-o’clock shadow/scruffy beard and mustache, but it was darker in hue, almost black in fact. Which indicated a bleach job up top, probably done with a bottle of peroxide during a particularly potent pipe dream. Sunburned across his nose and chin, clothes slightly wrinkled, as if he’d gotten his black Tulane T-shirt and athletic shorts out of the laundry basket for early a.m. desk duty and would smell male and musky if one ventured too close and acted cute and/or charming.
“Well, hello, there, gorgeous little lady,” he said, Mr. Suave as Hell, leaning a palm on the counter and looking her up and down out of keenly appraising dark eyes that made her feel dirty. “How can I help you? Countless ways, I hope.”
