Bayou Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  She was about to shuck her slicker and head for the bar when movement in the corner to her left caught her attention. A waitress stood at the table, her lime-green T-shirt practically glowing in the dim light, a tray in one hand, the other on her hip, but she didn’t interest Alia. Her customer did.

  It was easier to step outside again, one large step onto the battered sidewalk, then stride to the last set of doors propped open for fresh and cooling air. She took the overhigh step up again, then slid into the nearest chair, pulled her arms from the waterproof jacket and welcomed the breeze washing over her skin.

  Landry looked up at her, his eyes fatigued, beard stubble dark on his jaw. He looked much the same as the first time she’d seen him, motionless and alert in his sister’s sunroom, wearing an aloha shirt and shorts, this time with much-abused tennis shoes. Except for his face. Weariness was etched in deep lines alongside his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, and his lips were set in so thin a line that they practically disappeared. She couldn’t tell if he was happy, annoyed or unconcerned to see her here.

  “How is Mary Ellen?” she asked.

  “Sedated. The hospital’s keeping her for a couple of days.” His voice was little more than a rasp. Had he talked too much, explaining the surprises of the funeral to too many people? Or had that rawness come from tears? He may have hated his father, but there’d been softer emotions between him and Camilla. It wouldn’t surprise anyone to find he’d shed tears for her.

  She waited a moment as a group of young women splashed by loudly on the sidewalk, shrieking, their accents nasal and hard on the ear. When they were out of earshot, she asked, “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.” He shrugged. “I’ve been worse, too.”

  The waitress held up a beer bottle as she passed, but Alia shook her head and asked for water.

  What qualified for worse? she wondered as the woman brought a local brand of water. What was worse than your father’s violent murder, your surrogate grandmother’s killing and the discovery of your mother’s gruesome death all in five days? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She didn’t need those thoughts in her head.

  Landry was drinking but not bothering with a glass. A bottle of tequila, the good stuff, sat in the middle of the table, and he lifted it to take a cautious swallow. Nearly half of the bottle was gone, but she couldn’t see its effects on him. No slurring, no shakes, no hysterics.

  As he set it down, his fingers gave the etched bottle a lingering caress. “The people I work with don’t waste their money on flowers. They let aged liquor do their speaking for them.”

  “Good people. I’m not sure the ones I work with have ever bought me more than a Coke.”

  “That’s because your people are out to save the world, not meet its sinners halfway.” He paused, his lean fingers twined around the base of the tequila bottle. “Have you heard anything from the coroner?”

  “Jimmy just called.” He’d offered to break the news to Landry, but Alia had volunteered. Her house was near; she needed to get out. Jimmy had scoffed, not impressed by either reason. He’s not half as handsome as I am, and I’m not wearing a hands-off sign. Playing with me won’t get a slap on the wrist in your jacket for inappropriate conduct.

  But her ex had made his argument and left it at that. Rules weren’t sacred to Jimmy but were more like suggestions. In his world, the good guys took advantage of the rules that helped them get what they needed and ignored the ones that didn’t. It was one reason he’d had such a good solve rate in his career.

  Alia drew a deep breath and locked gazes with Landry. “DNA will take a while, but the dental records are a match. The body was definitely your mother’s.”

  The color didn’t drain from his face. The only color he’d got back after they’d spoken at the cemetery was the flush in his cheeks that came from the liquor. Something appeared in his eyes, though—shock, sick to his soul, unable to grasp the insanity that would make a person do this thing to another person.

  “How long had she been...?”

  “Best guess is three to four weeks.”

  “So she didn’t take off to visit relatives like the old man claimed. She was dead the whole time he was lying about her.”

  “Very likely.”

  Alia and Jimmy had debated it earlier. What had Jackson known and when had he known it? Had he been the one to kill Camilla? Had he discovered that she was having an affair and intended to leave him? Had he killed her, then disposed of her body where she would be trapped with the Jacksons forever? Or had she refused to leave her husband, so her lover had entombed her in the family crypt?

  “Was she—?”

  Alia could guess the question from the reluctance suddenly radiating from him and the certainty, sharp and electric, that he didn’t want to know, but she figured he had to ask. No matter how he hated it, how totally comfortably he could live the rest of his life without hearing the answer, he forced the words out.

  “Was she alive when she was put there?” The last few words stuck in his throat, and he swallowed hard, as if they’d created a huge blockage nothing more than air could get around.

  She answered, her voice only a little louder than the rain plopping outside the door. “Yes.” Please don’t ask how we know, she prayed. Please don’t make me tell you that her fingernails were broken and bloodied from trying to claw her way out. She didn’t want those nightmares in her head, and she damn sure didn’t want to put them in his.

  His mouth fixed again in a narrow line, he stood, his chair scraping loudly, handed the tequila off to the waitress and headed out the door. Alia swung her jacket on as she followed. Instead of turning left, toward the entrance to his apartment, he went right, and she matched pace with him, grateful she’d chosen sturdy sandals that would dry in an hour, with thick straps that kept them from slipping and sliding on her feet.

  Halfway down the block, he glanced at her. Rain dripped from his hair, forcing it flat against his head, catching on his lashes, leaving him to squint to bring her into focus. “So this is the career you’ve chosen for yourself.”

  She pushed her hands into her pockets, the bulges of her badge, her weapon and her Taser pressing back comfortably. If not for those items, she’d be in shirtsleeves, like him, and enjoying the rain more. “The job’s not all about making notifications.”

  “Or seeing dead bodies. Or interviewing people who do awful things to other people because they can. But that’s a lot of it.”

  She gave him the answer that, right out of college, she had given her mother. “As long as there are criminals in the world, there’s got to be someone to catch them.”

  And he responded with her mother’s retort. “Why does that someone have to be you?”

  Smiling thinly, she swiped a stream of water from her face. “I love my job. It gives me a sense of satisfaction. I know I do something that matters.”

  “It doesn’t give you nightmares?”

  “On occasion. But so does late-night TV.”

  “Do you ever turn it off?”

  They stopped at a corner to let a cab pass. The rain formed halos around the streetlights ahead, muted the music and conversation coming through open doors and turned the few people other than tourists on the street into huddling, hustling figures, keeping to the building sides in an effort to minimize the soaking. Even the tourists hurried, dashing and laughing from one bar to the next. Only she and Landry took their time.

  “I have a life outside of work,” she said evenly.

  “Though present circumstances might argue the opposite. Your day should have ended three or four hours ago, and yet here you are.”

  It was the perfect statement to ignore. That was her intention, but all on its own, her mouth opened and words she shouldn’t be thinking, much less speaking aloud, found their way out. “Work was just the excuse. I
wondered how you were doing.”

  He looked at her—just that—and heat began rising from deep inside. If she were in the habit of lying to herself, she would have said it was due to the slicker, too heavy and too waterproof for a warm wet night. But she didn’t lie to herself. Though the slicker was uncomfortable, it wasn’t responsible for her increasing temperature.

  After a long time, he looked away, as physical a feeling as removing his hand from hers would have been, and they began walking again. “It’s been a tough five days.” He gazed ahead as if the drenched scene bore watching.

  Recalling his words in the bar—I’ve been better. I’ve been worse, too—she said, “Please don’t say you’ve had worse.”

  The bit of his mouth she could see curved up in a sardonic smile. “No, of course not. What could be worse?”

  Scowling, she bumped her shoulder against his. “Now I know you’re lying, and I’ll have to wonder—”

  “Don’t.” His voice was barely audible, his gaze narrowed, his mouth thinned again. It was the last he spoke for more than a block.

  Lies and secrets. A hell of a legacy for Jeremiah and Camilla Jackson to have left their children, compared to Alia’s own parents, who’d wanted nothing more than for her to be happy, healthy and loved. If she were an overly emotional person, the difference would make her misty-eyed. She would hurt for the children Landry and Mary Ellen had been, for the people they had become, for the people they would be once all this ugliness was sorted out.

  In an effort to lighten the mood, she said, “Your nieces are cute.”

  That earned her more of a smile, lacking the sardonic curl. “They’re angels when they want to be.”

  “How often is that?”

  “Not as often as it should be. They hate to upset their mother, but sometimes the opportunity to be bad is just too good to pass up.”

  “Hell, I’m thirty, and I still occasionally find myself in those situations. My theory is you have to be bad once in a while to appreciate the good.”

  He gave her a sidelong look. “What does Special Agent/Admiral’s Daughter Kingsley do to appreciate the good?”

  The fact that no answer popped instantly into her mind made her mouth quirk. Obviously, she was never really bad, or she wouldn’t have to think to find a response. She shrugged. “Once a month, my friends and I go out and put the loud, tipsy, flingy tourists to shame.” Except that her last fling had been so long ago, she couldn’t have remembered it even if she hadn’t been tipsy at the time, though she did have this vague recollection of fumbling in the dark to step into indecently high heels, having to balance herself against a hotel room door and spending the time it took her to escape the hotel trying to remember if her car was nearby or at home.

  Now, it was mostly her responsibility to get all her friends back home again when the evening was over.

  “Wow,” he said, unimpressed. “You’re going to hell for that.”

  She laughed. “Okay, so I’m not wild, wicked or reckless.”

  “Being wild, wicked and reckless is overrated anyway.”

  “Spoken from experience?”

  * * *

  Landry had had a lot of experiences, including some he’d rather never think about again. Thanks to those experiences, he’d also missed out on others that he was pretty sure would surprise Alia. “You think I’m wild, wicked or reckless because I tend bar on Bourbon Street?”

  “No. Because you look like every woman’s fantasy of the quintessential bad boy.”

  Did every woman include her? he wondered, because he had to admit, he wouldn’t mind being her fantasy, at least for a while. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not wild or wicked or reckless. I didn’t have much choice about being responsible, not if I wanted to stay off the streets.” Miss Viola had helped him financially in the beginning and would have continued to do so much longer, but he’d wanted independence. He’d wanted to prove to himself and to Jeremiah, even if the old man never actually knew, that he could take care of himself, that he didn’t need anybody.

  At the end of the block, they turned right, heading toward the Mississippi River a few streets ahead. There were fewer people, less traffic, more homes than businesses and no signs of life besides the television blaring from an open window and a cat picking its way along the top of an eight-foot-high cinder-block wall, tail curled over its back, unmindful of the rain. A sideways look showed Alia keeping a wary gaze on it until they passed the property.

  “Don’t like cats?” He kept his grin from fully forming but couldn’t stop the amusement audible in his voice.

  “Don’t trust them.” Her own tone was suspicious. “They always seem to be plotting something.”

  “Our neighbors had one when Mary Ellen and I were kids.” Its name was Ginger, and he hadn’t thought about it in at least fifteen years. “It used to come through the bars of the wrought iron fence and use the flower beds as a litter box. It drove the gardener crazy.”

  Mention of the gardener made him think of Constance Marks. He was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t spared any thought for the others who had died along with the admiral. He’d never met Jeremiah’s housekeeper and had run into Constance only a time or two on visits to Miss Viola’s. She’d been pleasant, friendly and happy with her work...and she’d died because of Jeremiah. As if he hadn’t ruined enough lives already.

  Alia must have gotten distracted by the same thing because her next question was on that subject. “I can’t remember if I’ve asked... Did you know Constance Marks?”

  Delaying, he made a show of checking his watch. “I was wondering how long it would be until you got back to the case.”

  “No, you weren’t.” When he merely lifted one brow in question, she scowled. Would she be flattered if he told her she looked cute when she did that: forehead wrinkled, mouth thinned, eyelashes glistening with raindrops? Probably not. He suspected she wanted to be perceived as tough and capable and kick-ass. Hell, as far as he’d seen, she was tough and capable and kick-ass.

  “Okay,” she challenged. “How long was it?”

  “Uh...sorry, I don’t do math in my head.”

  “You can’t answer because you didn’t get a starting time.” Giving him a chastising look, she waited a beat, then asked, “So, did you? Know Constance, I mean.”

  Landry sighed. “Never to say more than hi-how-are-you. She was picking up new clients and working long hours. Miss Viola regretted that Constance didn’t have time to chat much anymore. Have you talked to her family and friends?”

  “No, but some of our team have. She was single, loved her work and being her own boss. She dated but never exclusively. She could be a bitch at times but had a knack for dealing with difficult people. Her career goals were princess or lawn service entrepreneur, her brother said, but since there weren’t many princes seeking wives, she’d opted for the lawn service. Her five-year plan included franchises within the state; in ten years, she intended to have them everywhere.”

  But then she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. End of hopes and goals and plans.

  “Is it possible your mother could have been having an affair?” Of course once the subject had been reopened, Alia had thought of another question. No matter what she said about having a life outside of work, he’d bet this was the norm for her: focusing intently on the mystery in front of her, searching and probing until she resolved it.

  Music drifting on the sodden air drew his gaze to a restaurant half a block down the street on Decatur. The blues guitar came from there, the band set up underneath the canopy that sheltered the restaurant’s patio dining area.

  “I’m hungry,” he said and realized it was true. Though there had been enough food at Mary Ellen’s to feed half the city, he’d got out of there as quickly as he could, without tasting even one oyster on the half shell. “Are you?”<
br />
  “I can always eat.”

  They stopped, waiting for the light to turn green, and crossed the street, then he steered Alia toward the music as he finally responded to her question. “I wonder what it’s like to have a normal family, where you don’t get asked questions like, ‘Who would want your father dead?’ or ‘Was your mother sleeping with anyone other than your father?’”

  “Sorry.”

  She probably was, he acknowledged. But she had a job to do, and he’d already seen that she didn’t shy away from the tough parts.

  They reached the brighter lights of the restaurant and within minutes were seated at a table on the patio as the band launched into an old Bobby Bland tune. There was a slight slope to the bricks that made up the patio, not even noticeable if not for thin streams of rain running toward the curb.

  He ordered a shrimp po’ boy and beer; she got a shrimp cocktail, oysters and tea, and finally he returned to her question. “You’re asking a pretty personal thing about someone I only see—” Pain sliced through him, and he corrected himself. “Someone I only saw twice a year for a few hours. Anything’s possible. I’d like to think maybe she was, just to have the satisfaction of knowing she’d betrayed the old man. It would be nice to believe that, at least for a while, she’d had some guy in her life who actually gave a damn about her. But anything I say would only be a guess. I have no more idea about Camilla’s faithfulness than I’d have about yours when you were married.”

  There was an extra napkin on the table. She used it to pat her face, then combed back her hair so it dripped down her back. “I had to be faithful enough for both Jimmy and me. Who would your mother have confided in?”

  It took a moment for her first statement to sink in, thrown out there so casually as if it was something everyone knew or was so insignificant that she didn’t care who knew it. “Wait. Say that again?”

  She pulled off her slicker, exposing her long bare arms, lacking the impressive muscles of her legs but none too shabby, either. Once she hung the jacket over the back of her chair, she tugged her tank top down, paying particular attention to the part covering the weapons he’d grown accustomed to, and then her dark gaze locked with his. “Your response indicates that you heard it perfectly well the first time.”