Bayou Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Your sister’s pretty shaken up.”

  The muscles in Landry’s neck tensed. “She’s got a soft heart. She cries over roadkill.”

  DiBiase chuckled, then turned serious in the space of a heartbeat. “I asked her for a list of your parents’ friends. We’d like the same from you.”

  Landry filled an order for another waitress, who also smiled coyly at the cop while she waited, then traded full bottles of Corona for empties for the two guys sitting at the opposite end of the bar. When he returned to DiBiase, he said levelly, “I haven’t been part of the family for a long time. I don’t really remember any names.”

  Except for Jeremiah’s special friends. He could recite those names in his sleep: a lawyer, the head of New Orleans’s largest advertising firm, a university dean, an adviser to a governor. People hidden deep in memory, frequently appearing in bad dreams.

  Maybe the dreams would stop when they were all dead, too.

  “See what you can come up with,” DiBiase said. Rising from the stool, he drained the last of the water, then headed out the door.

  Or maybe the dreams wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

  * * *

  With notes scattered around her, her laptop and tablet both on the coffee table and a bowl of buttered popcorn next to her, Alia looked up to give her eyes a break. The ceiling fan swirled slowly, enough to cool, not enough to mess up her piles, and an impossibly thin woman on the television talked in an impossibly cheery voice about the miracle bra she held in her hands.

  A glance at the clock showed it was nine, which made it seven in Coronado, California, where her parents lived. She called them most Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, except when social plans interfered—her parents’, not hers. She went on dates occasionally and had a girls’ night out once a month. Otherwise, it was pretty much work all the time.

  How am I going to get grandchildren at this rate? her mother good-naturedly complained.

  Better adopt them, was Alia’s usual response. It was her job to protect kids when she could, to get justice for them when she couldn’t. Let someone else have them. Hell, she didn’t even want a pet.

  Wriggling out from under everything without upsetting it, she got to her feet and padded into the kitchen for a refill on her drink. Mornings, she mainlined coffee; during the day, she stuck with water; alone in the evenings, she drank Kool-Aid. Jimmy had given her a hard time about it until she’d put him in a wrist lock and brought him to his knees.

  He’d learned not to get between a girl and her Kool-Aid.

  With her glass in one hand, she grabbed a half dozen bite-size candy bars from the dish on the counter and headed back to the living room, where she traded the candy for her cell phone. Her mother answered after only two rings.

  “Hey, mamacita.”

  Her mother sniffed. “That’s mẹ to you, chica. Hold on. Your father’s trying to take the phone away from me.” There was an admonishment, then the sound of a door closing before her mom said, “I’m back.”

  “I take it Dad’s seen the news.”

  “The news, the internet, his old navy shipmates’ gossip loop. We saw you just for a few seconds on the national news. You looked thin.”

  “I am thin, Mom.”

  “Are you sleeping well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eating well?”

  Alia looked at the empty wrappers on the coffee table: one hamburger, superlarge fries and two tacos, along with butter-stained napkins from the popcorn. “Yep.” Was it her fault if her mother defined eating well as a balanced meal while Alia took it to refer to quantity?

  Mom sniffed again. “We also saw Jimmy on that news clip. You keep your distance from him.”

  “Kind of hard, Mom. We’re working the case together.”

  There was a moment of silence before Lisa sighed. “I don’t know whether to be more worried about the ugly things you see or that you’re looking for a crazed killer or that you’re spending time with Jimmy DiBiase.”

  Knowing she couldn’t reassure her mom about the first two—Lien Hieu Kingsley would never believe her daughter was grown enough to see ugly things or deal with ugly people—Alia said lightly, “I’m immune to Jimmy now.”

  “You loved him so much.”

  “I did. Until I didn’t.” It hadn’t been easy, especially when she’d thought he meant the vows he’d taken, but trust and love could survive only so many betrayals. One too many, and her love had stopped. One moment it was there. The next it was gone, never to return.

  “Uh-oh. Your father found me. You be careful, sweetie.”

  “I will, Mom.”

  Again, there was the soft sound of conversation before her father came on the line. “How are you, scooter?”

  “Never gonna live down that name, am I?”

  “Aw, but you were so cute with that toy scooter. You rode it everywhere you went, to meet me at the door, to the dining room, to the potty.”

  “I tell people you call me that because I ate scooter pies after every meal for years.”

  “Well, there is that.” His chuckle was followed by a hesitation, then... “Are you assigned to the case?”

  “Yes, sir.” He’d never made her call him sir. There had been Daddy, then Dad and the occasional rank. But when it came to work, well, she was an NCIS agent, and he was an admiral. Retired or not, it was hard to shake the sir.

  She would bet sir or rank had been the only titles Jeremiah Junior had accepted from Landry and Mary Ellen.

  Finally she got to the point of tonight’s call. “Did you know him?”

  “There aren’t that many admirals. You can’t help but meet them all sooner or later.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Jerry was a good officer. Hard-nosed. Strict. By the book, but fair. He never asked more of the people under his command than he gave himself.”

  “Did you ever meet his wife?”

  “Hmm. Not that I can recall.”

  “She and the son and daughter didn’t accompany him to any of his duty stations, but I thought maybe she’d shown up for some official functions.”

  “I remember him talking about his daughter like she was the prettiest, smartest, best daughter in the world, which was ridiculous since everyone already knew that was you. But I never knew he had a son. Huh. I would have figured any son of Jeremiah Jackson would have wound up in the navy himself.”

  Just like any son of Charles Kingsley’s. Alia hadn’t been willing to go quite that far, but she couldn’t deny his approval had played a role in her application to NCIS.

  Though he would have loved her no matter what career path she’d chosen. Could Landry Jackson say that about his own father?

  She doubted it.

  “It’s gonna be one hell of a funeral,” Dad said.

  “I bet it will be.” It would have been a spectacle even if he’d died peacefully in his sleep, between all the senior-ranking officers and Pentagon officials, the upper crust of New Orleans society and the city’s love of a good funeral. But with the admiral brutally murdered, his daughter in shock, his son’s presence unwilling, his wife’s whereabouts unknown and law enforcement scrutinizing everyone in attendance, it just might be a circus.

  “If you weren’t working, I’d be tempted to come. Show my respects to Jerry. See New Orleans. See you. It’s been a long time.”

  Alia smiled. She’d flown to California for Christmas and stayed nearly two weeks. Still, it was nice to know he missed her. “I’ll let you know all the gaudy details. Maybe someone will collapse beside the casket and confess all.”

  “It would be convenient, wouldn’t it? You watch out for yourself, okay?”

  “I always do, Dad.” She hung up, then unwrapped a candy bar. She bit it in half and let the chocolate sl
owly dissolve in her mouth while thinking about what her father had said. Jerry was a good officer. How much had Jeremiah hated being called Jerry? Likely someone who outranked him had first called him that, and others had picked up on it.

  But the admiral hadn’t been murdered because he was a good officer. His death had had nothing to do with the navy and everything to do with being a privileged man who felt entitled to whatever he wanted.

  So what had he wanted that led to his death?

  * * *

  Alia was pulling out of her driveway Tuesday morning at a quarter to eight, with an oversize travel mug of coffee in the cup holder, a .40 caliber pistol and a Taser in their holsters, and a cream cheese–slathered bagel in her left hand. It was going to be another hot and muggy day, and she expected to spend little, if any, time in the office, so she’d dressed accordingly in a sleeveless blouse and skirt with a belt to hold her badge and weapons. A jacket, to cover the weapons, sat on the passenger seat.

  The neighborhood where she lived consisted of three main streets: Serenity, Divinity and Trinity. It had gone through several phases in its history, from upper middle class to mostly slum, then back to respectability. Though some houses remained shuttered and decaying, in the past ten years new owners had given most of them new life. The gangbangers had been forced out, the local church was flourishing, and the neighborhood had its own market, preschool and two restaurants. They hadn’t had a violent crime in their few blocks in three years.

  Alia had talked to Jimmy while dressing, arranging to meet midmorning to trade notes from yesterday. First, though, she was going to surprise Miss Viola and find out if the old lady was any more forthcoming about the Jackson family without a Jackson in the room.

  With the radio providing background noise, Alia took a bite of bagel, savored the oniony dough and the creamy cheese and wished she’d tossed a handful of candy bars into her bag. Breakfast, no matter what it was, was always more satisfying with chocolate.

  Her mind wandered as she drove, mostly to the whereabouts of Camilla Kingsley. Landry had said she’d had no choice when he’d left home. He never gave any of us a choice, he’d muttered. What about now? At her age, had she earned the right to make a few decisions for herself, such as this trip out of town? When she heard the news of her husband’s death, would she return home? Was she even alive to hear the news?

  Maybe Miss Viola would tell her more than she’d volunteered yesterday.

  The Fulsom home looked even statelier today. The white columns and siding gleamed in the morning sun. The dew-dampened grass seemed greener, the pastels of the flowers overflowing the beds softer. Alia parked in the driveway, in the dappled shade of an oak, got out and glanced around. A tall wrought iron fence circled the backyard, and the flowering vines that grew over it blocked even a glimpse inside while perfuming the air with their sweet jasmine.

  A dog barked across the street, and a lawn mower sounded nearby. A woman sat on a porch swing—mother or nanny—while a small girl played with dolls. Life as usual.

  Alia climbed the steps, weaving past a pair of antique rockers, bypassing a breakfast table and two chairs, reaching the door. She would bet every area of the house, inside and out, offered little seating areas for private conversations, both good and bad.

  At the door, she pressed the bell, listening to its deep tones echoing inside. She pressed her ear close to the wood of the door, straining for any answering response. No footsteps. No call for housekeeper Molly to answer the door with a plate of her famous desserts in hand.

  Alia moved to the right, sliding behind a settee to look inside the nearest window of the library. Fingers cupped to the glass to deflect reflections, she noted the old oak library table, the chair where she’d sat, the shelves she’d faced. Her gaze swept to the left, through the open doors into the entryway: elegant stairs sweeping to the second floor, a painting of a Fulsom ancestor on the wall above a demilune table, a priceless chandelier casting more shadows than it banished...and a small pink-clad shape on the floor.

  Her breath caught in her chest. The form was thin, tiny, the pink a robe, one slipper to match, mussed white hair. The body lay mostly on a rug at the foot of the stairs, but the pale, frail hands were on the polished floor, fingers spread wide, the ruby ring catching a ray of light.

  “Aw, Miss Viola,” she whispered. “Damn...”

  Turning her back on the window and retreating a few steps, she called Jimmy, then her supervisor. Maybe they would be lucky, and Miss Viola’s death would be accidental. The old lady was eighty-one. Maybe she’d fallen, her heart had stopped or she’d suffered a stroke. Maybe it had just been her time. Maybe it wasn’t related, just purely coincidental to the other murders.

  But if they weren’t lucky, the body count had just reached five. Were there more deaths to come?

  Letting the scene process in the back of her mind, Alia began a walk around the house, looking for any signs of forced entry. Locating an unsecured gate into the backyard, she went through it, cell phone in one hand, pistol in the other.

  She’d expected small elaborate gardens, an enormous swimming pool, a cabana or two, sprawling seating for fifty, a tiled or wood platform to support Miss Viola’s favorite string quartet or for speech-giving at political fund-raisers.

  The space was lovely, but beyond a modest red-brick patio down a few steps from the veranda, it was all garden: vegetable, shade, orchard and flowers. Standing on the patio, she identified tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, cantaloupes, herbs, lettuce, cabbage, an entire rainbow of bell peppers—enough produce to stock the market at the entrance to the Serenity neighborhood. What did an elderly woman want with such a large garden?

  One of the doors leading into the house abruptly opened, and she spun around, bringing up her pistol.

  “Don’t shoot.” Jimmy raised both hands in surrender. “I’ve got too much on my schedule to die today.”

  Grimacing, she holstered the pistol. She’d made it through their marriage without killing him, though he’d dearly deserved it on multiple occasions. Why do it now?

  He waited, holding the door open. As usual, he wore a white shirt, black trousers and black tie, and she knew from experience that the black suit coat was in the car.

  “Do you still own five white shirts, five black suits and five black ties?” she asked as she passed him, entering the coolness of the mudroom.

  “Do you remember the stuff you get into on this job? Besides, sometimes I’m tired—”

  “Or hung over.”

  “—and not really focused on choosing clothes. This way I always match.” His tone turned more serious as he closed and relocked the door. “You saw the old lady?”

  “Only from outside.”

  “Doesn’t look any better inside, but at least it’s not our concern.”

  Alia followed him through a kitchen she would sell Jimmy’s soul for, then into the broad hallway. Yesterday she had stood right where Miss Viola’s head rested,

  She look so small and helpless. It was hard to imagine that less than twenty-four hours ago, they’d sat in the library and talked, that Miss Viola had extended her hospitality for another visit. And now...

  Giving herself a shake, Alia took in the scene, so very similar to the day before. No sign of a break-in or a struggle, no sign of a burglary that had gone wrong. Like the admiral, there were too many valuable items just the right size for slipping into a pocket or a bag, including the huge ruby ring on Miss Viola’s left hand.

  Natural causes, she reminded herself. Not every death was a homicide, not all circumstances suspicious.

  The coroner’s assistant glanced up from his position next to the body. “Time of death was between midnight and 3:00 a.m. Head trauma. Apparently, she tripped coming down the steps. Lost her shoe there—” he pointed to the missing slipper lying crookedly halfway up the stairs “—got t
angled in her robe and took a tumble.”

  ...the interesting parts are upstairs, and I don’t go up there anymore. Broken hip. Last year. I haven’t been upstairs since.

  “No,” Alia murmured, then repeated in a stronger voice, “No. She didn’t fall down the stairs.”

  “Why do you say that?” Jimmy asked.

  “She broke her hip last year. Her kids fixed her a suite on this floor, at the back of the house. She didn’t go upstairs.”

  “Maybe she was home alone, needed something, thought one time wouldn’t hurt,” the coroner’s investigator suggested.

  “No,” Alia repeated. “She would have waited. If it was important, she would have called someone. She’s got family and friends everywhere. And she never would have tried it in those slippy little shoes and a robe that’s just waiting to trip her.”

  The men exchanged looks, then Jimmy asked the question that apparently they were all thinking. “Why would someone want to kill an eighty-year-old lady who lives in her house, grows her garden, goes to church and wouldn’t hurt a fly?”

  “This particular eighty-one-year-old lady is related by marriage to the Jackson family. She knew all of Camilla’s and Jeremiah’s history. Miss Viola probably knew everyone in the neighborhood, city, parish and state who had a feud with the admiral, when and what about. I’m guessing she knew the secrets people wanted to stay buried.”

  “Well, hell. So odds of this being coincidence...”

  “I thought you don’t believe in coincidence.”

  Scowling, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t. I believe God’s got a wicked sense of humor and Karma’s a fire-breathing bitch.”

  The men laughed. Alia patiently pointed out, “You’ve got to admit—you tested their patience.”

  “Maybe. A little.” Turning back to the other investigators, he shrugged. “Let’s treat this like a crime scene until we find out cause of death for sure.”

  Alia’s gaze went past him to the tall windows across the room that overlooked the driveway. The car parking next to hers was middle-of-the-road average, old enough to lay some claim on vintage and showing the scars and dings of a lot of miles. She’d ridden in it for a few minutes yesterday and had figured she would see it again. Just not here. Not now.