“Poor Callie,” her mother said at last. “And poor Paulina. What a sad, sad coincidence.”
A lot of people didn’t believe in coincidence. They insisted there was a great plan, that everything happened as it must. Her mom wasn’t among them. She thought coincidence was a lovely wrinkle that delighted her more often than not.
Could it be coincidence? Martine really wanted to believe it. Life was dangerous. Some people were willing to kill for a pair of shoes, a handful of change or because they felt slighted. It could be just really bad luck that first Callie, then her old friend Paulina had become victims. Just because their lives had been connected didn’t mean that their deaths were.
But she couldn’t quite convince herself of that.
“Mom, I wanted to get in touch with Tallie and Robin to let them know about Paulina, but I don’t have any idea where they are. Do you have phone numbers or addresses for their parents?”
“I’m not sure, but I do know their mothers follow me on Facebook. I’ll look them up and email their info to you right away, okay?” There was a brief pause with the faint sound of typing in the background. “And Tine? Be careful, honey. It would rip my heart right out of my chest if anything happened to you. I love you more than my life.”
Martine swallowed hard. “I love you, too, Mama.”
After disconnecting the call, she gazed down at the courtyard again. The barren branches of the crape myrtles faded into the brick wall behind them. The fog lifted here, swirled there, but thanks to the protection of four walls, it mostly just hovered.
It made Martine feel cold and damp and heavy.
Her gaze went distant as her mind shifted back to the conversation. She’d never imagined she would be contacting Paulina’s or Callie’s parents. Never imagined she would be offering condolences on their daughters’ deaths. Never imagined two of her four former best friends would be murdered. Never imagined for even an instant that Tallie’s or Robin’s or her own life might be in danger.
Movement in the courtyard caught her attention, drawing her to her feet and closer to the window. Nothing was there, just the fog bumping into the walls that constricted it, then slowly settling back into its lazy ramble. Still, a shiver passed through her, leaving her ice cold as she sank back into the chair.
Danger or coincidence: Did it matter? Either way, it didn’t change what she had to do.
Resolutely she typed a message on her phone, drew a deep breath and hit Send.
Now all she could do was wait.
* * *
Jimmy had a hundred favorite hangouts in New Orleans. Today it was a bar on Bourbon Street, relatively small, with wood floors, tables closely spaced and tall French doors usually open to the sounds, sights and smells of the Quarter. Today the cold kept all but the main entry closed, but he didn’t mind. There was blues on the sound system, he had takeout from his favorite Cajun restaurant and his ex-wife was seated across from him.
Alia had provided the takeout, easily enough for four people and most of it for herself. She had a passion for food that few people he’d ever met could match. Luckily, she was also blessed with a passion for working out and a metabolism that favored her.
She buttered a piece of corn bread but paused before taking a bite. “So this new case of yours...the victim was a friend of Martine’s.”
“Yeah, best friend from high school.” He didn’t ask how she knew. She was a special agent with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. She was also friends with Evie and Jack, and her husband, Landry, was co-owner of the place and tending bar at the moment. She had a lot of sources.
“I bet she’s thrilled with you,” Alia said with a smirk.
“She likes to pretend I don’t exist.”
“A lot of people like to pretend you don’t exist, Jimmy.” There was no bitterness in Alia’s voice or her smile. She liked him a lot better now that she wasn’t married to him, which was only fair. He’d been a crappy husband. He just hadn’t...cared.
Oh, he’d loved her. He still did, in different ways. But he’d been younger, stupider, more reckless, less understanding. Marriage had been more about taking a chance than making a commitment. Practically everyone in his circle of friends had been married and divorced at least once; it was no big deal. You tried it; if it didn’t work out, you moved on.
Now he knew—years too late—how idiotic that attitude had been. He’d hurt Alia, hadn’t done himself any favors and had convinced a lot of people that he was a complete jackass.
Alia had gotten over him and was much happier with Landry than she ever would have been with him. Jimmy had gotten over himself, too. But a lot of people still thought he was a jackass.
He didn't often admit it, but on occasion he found himself wishing Martine wasn't among them. After the way things had ended between them before they'd even really started, he should have forgotten her—written her off as one of the few women he couldn't seduce. But she was a damn hard woman to forget.
“I also heard the killer removed her heart,” Alia went on. “Is that true?”
This time Jimmy scowled at her. “Did Evie tell you that?”
“Ew, Jack would never tell Evie anything that gross. Isn’t that a voodoo thing? The heart of your enemy makes you strong?”
“I think around here it’s more of a movie thing. I’d have to ask someone who knows more about voodoo than me.”
“Ooh, and Martine is just such a person.”
He scowled again. “Yeah, we’ll let Jack handle that. I’ll stick to digging through the victim’s life and finding out all her secrets.” That part of the job was both interesting and off-putting. Cops were curious; it was part of the job. But wasn’t Paulina Bradley entitled to a bit of privacy after her death? Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d died violently, alone and afraid? Did it have to come to light now that she was a lousy housekeeper, that she read porn, that she daydreamed about things she would never accomplish? Did it matter now that she kept chocolate stuffed in her underwear drawer, that she had a crush on her neighbor or that she drank too much when her husband was gone?
“It’s kind of like a car wreck,” Alia said sympathetically. “You know you should look away, but you have to see what happens. There’s so little dignity after a violent death.”
“I do my best.” His phone buzzed with an incoming text message, and he finished his last bite of gumbo before picking it up. “Crap. Jack’s out of town—”
“Since when?”
“Don’t know. He got me out of bed two hours early this morning to take this case, then he headed to the coroner’s while I interviewed the guy who called 911. Let’s see... Lincoln, Nebraska, PD picked up his double-homicide suspect that jumped bail last month, and he’s on his way to get him. And Martine’s decided to share some information with him that she didn’t give earlier.”
Alia grinned. “She’s going to be disappointed when you show up instead of Jack. Maybe you should politely remind her that the sooner she tells you everything, the sooner she’ll be rid of you.”
“Yeah. Though I don’t think she’s gonna fall for anything polite after I called her a liar a couple hours ago.” He stood and shrugged into his overcoat. He hated the coat; it was constrictive and awkward when he was running or needed to draw his pistol or Taser. He could dress down, like most of his fellow detectives, but he shared one quirk with Jack: work clothes meant shirt, coat and tie. Old-fashioned but respectful of the job and the victims and the families they dealt with.
“Aw, Jimmy.” Alia stood and straightened his collar for him. “I’d chastise you, but you’ve seen me do worse with an uncooperative witness. Just remember, she’s also our friend.”
Not his friend, he thought as he waved to Landry, then walked out onto the street. At the time they’d met and almost made it to bed together, he hadn’t cared about having female f
riends. But, like he said, he’d gotten over himself since then. He had more than a few female friends now. It said an awful lot for Alia that she was one of them.
When he reached Martine’s store, he wiggled and jiggled the swollen door to open it, stepped inside and reached back to close it. When his fingers wrapped around the knob, electricity jolted through them, minor, little more than static but enough to make him jerk his hand away and swear softly.
“What happened?”
He glanced from his hand to Anise, still looking as gloomy as the weather, even though a spark of interest lit her black-rimmed eyes. “I got shocked.”
“Hmm. That wasn’t the effect I was going for. I’ll have to try again.” Turning without a sound, she disappeared into the depths of the store as if he was no longer there. A lesson she’d learned from her boss, probably.
His nose wrinkling against the particularly strong odors of the incense on the shelf beside him, he headed for the central counter. The kid slumped over a textbook there straightened to his full height of six foot four, maybe five. He was thin, long-necked, long-armed, long-legged, long-haired and apparently short on words. No Can I help you? or How are you today? He just stood there, giving Jimmy a long steady owl-like gaze, and waited.
Jimmy showed the kid his badge. “Martine?”
The kid lifted his gaze to the ceiling, then accompanied it with one long thin finger pointing straight up.
“Niles, we’re not supposed to talk to that guy,” Anise called from the back. “Don’t tell him where Martine is.”
Niles, poor guy, turned red and very slowly folded that finger back down, then hid his hands behind his back for good measure.
Jimmy grinned at him and went back out the front door. Once again, when he touched the knob to close the door, a shock fired through his fingers. It might not be painful, but it was going to become annoying pretty damn quickly.
He stepped across from one stoop to the other and was about to ring the doorbell when the door opened with a haunted-house-worthy creak. The hair on his neck stood on end, and his hand was already sliding beneath his coat to the .40 holstered on his belt before the thought even crossed his mind. He stilled when a woman with wild hair and pink glasses popped out from behind the door.
“Did I startle you? I’m Ramona.” She squeezed by, then patted his arm. “Go on up, Detective Murphy. She’s waiting.”
She was definitely expecting Jack. Jimmy was going to piss her off this time just by walking into the room. But that was okay, because this time he wasn’t leaving without some answers.
Chapter 3
Customers sometimes thought that because Martine knew something about voodoo, she must know all the other woowoo stuff. They asked if she was a witch, a psychic, a medicine woman, if she could talk to the dead or read auras or throw the bones. She patiently explained that she had knowledge but no powers. She never knew who was calling before looking at caller ID. If she met a premonition, she wouldn’t recognize it, and all she ever knew about a person was what anyone else with eyes could see.
But as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs and turned automatically to the right, a shiver ran through her. She didn’t need supernatural powers to know that Jack had stood her up, the rat, and sent DiBiase in his place. Anyone who shared her dislike for the detective could have told the same thing just based on instinct, pheromones or the hairs dancing on their nape. There was nothing special about it.
Nothing special about instincts or hairs dancing on her nape. But pheromones, those man/woman chemicals that signaled interest and attraction and desire...those were pretty damn special.
But not in play here. Not between her and DiBiase.
He stopped in the workroom doorway, slid off his damp coat, looked around, then hung it on the corner of the door. His hair was damp, too, the bright overhead lights glinting off it. He raised both hands as if to stall whatever criticism she might offer. “Jack had to go out of town to pick up a prisoner.”
“A fact he failed to mention when he texted that he would be over soon.” But as she said the words, she acknowledged that wasn’t exactly what he’d said. She’d said she wanted to give him information about Paulina, and he’d sent back three words: Be there soon. He couldn’t be held responsible, he would argue, if she wrongly assumed he meant he would be there soon, could he?
Blowing out her breath, she gestured to the chair across from her. The plastic bin was out again, this time sitting on the seat beside her. She wished she’d thrown out this stuff years ago, that she’d run farther than New Orleans and changed her name and never, ever heard from her one-time friends again, because then maybe Callie and Paulina would be alive, and even if they weren’t, she wouldn’t know about it.
But maybe something in this bin or some bit of information in her memories would help lead the police to their killers...or killer. Maybe it would save Tallie and Robin from the same fate.
Maybe it would save Martine, and then she truly could bury the past.
DiBiase sat across from her and pulled a notebook, small and scruffy, from his jacket pocket. Silently she slid a paper across to him. “Those are the names of Paulina’s and my best friends when we were kids. I don’t know anything current about them, except that Tallie lives in London. The names underneath—that’s their mothers’ Facebook accounts. They follow my mother. Paulina had been looking for Robin and Tallie for a while, and she couldn’t find them, and Callie...”
“Callie?” DiBiase’s gaze was razor-sharp. She wasn’t the only one in the room with instincts, and she would wager his were far better developed than her own. He’d known from the start that she was holding something back. He hadn’t been happy then, and he would be even less so when she told him.
Sighing, she slid another piece of paper to him. It was a printout of Callie’s bare-bones obituary. “She was murdered three months ago in Seattle. Paulina told me about it.”
Hands trembling, she folded them together and waited for the explosion of anger that was sure to come. DiBiase read the obituary, his mouth thinning, his eyes going dark and hard. Taking out his cell phone, he placed a call, withdrew an ink pen from his pocket and began making notes in tiny neat lines on the paper. “Hey, this is Jimmy. I need the short version on a homicide in Seattle three months ago... Yeah, the eighteenth. Victim’s name was Callista Jane Winchester. Can I hold while you get it for me?”
His stern gaze cut back to Martine. “She went by Callie?”
She nodded, and he made a note on the obituary page. “And her sister. Tali...whatever?”
“Taliesin. It was the name of Frank Lloyd Wright’s house. Their father was an architect.” She caught herself before rambling further afield and mumbled, “We called her Tallie.”
He noted that, then a distant voice came from his phone. He started writing again, murmuring Okay at appropriate times. If Martine had to compare his writing with the fonts on her computer, she would guess his font size was slightly less than eight points, which was as small as her fonts went. From her vantage point, across the table and upside down, it looked like an incredibly detailed pattern rather than words.
Abruptly his pen stopped, and everything about him went cold. Martine shuddered, reached to pull a quilted throw from one of the shelves and wrapped it around herself. Obviously, he’d learned something that surprised or sickened or angered him. Please don’t let it be proof that Paulina and Callie were killed by the same guy.
His conversation lasted a few more minutes, and when he laid the phone aside, he sat back and looked at her. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him so serious. Despite his job, or maybe because of it, he was usually looking at the bright side of life, quick with a grin, a joke or, if there was an available woman, a pickup line. He didn’t take much seriously, she sometimes thought, beyond annoying her.
He was taking whatever informat
ion he’d just gotten very seriously. “What do you know about Callie’s death?” His accent was less noticeable when he was this intense. He sounded businesslike, no-nonsense. Life might be a joking matter to him, but death wasn’t.
“Just what’s there. I—I don’t even know if I believed Paulina when she told me. She was...melodramatic.”
He stared at her a long time, making her shift positions awkwardly, sending a rush of heat through her. She felt like the bug pinned underneath the microscope, and he was the scientist unsympathetic to her plight.
After a moment, he broke the eye contact. “Okay, let’s pick up where you started withholding information this morning. You met Paulina at the river. She’d been having a tough time, she was frightened, she thought someone was trying to kill her.”
A childhood memory flashed through her brain: her mom and dad sitting her down after some minor infraction at school. Always tell the truth, her father had said, and when she’d asked why, he’d explained: It’s easier than remembering a lie. Her mom had swatted him on the shoulder and corrected him: It’s the right thing to do.
She’d pretty much lived by that rule, for both reasons, but this afternoon, nothing was easy, and she wasn’t sure which actions were right. But she’d committed herself to telling everything, and although it irritated her that DiBiase thought her a liar, and embarrassed her that he had reason to think so, she was going to take the route that was neither easier nor guaranteed to be right.
“What was the first thing she said to you?”
“That she’d hoped she would never see me again.”
A slow blink was the only emotion he showed. Not quite what he’d expected, she guessed, given how close she and Paulina had once been. “And you said?”
“I offered to buy her some coffee, to get out of the cold. I thought she looked underfed.”
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