“Miss Viola’s kids won’t mind if they find us here.”
Alia walked through the gate he held open. “Even if they did, you’d be surprised how much influence a badge carries.”
He gave her a narrow look. “I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life. Nothing about that would surprise me.”
The garden was still lush and growing, though everything seemed parched, diminished by the absence of Miss Viola. He stopped near the house to turn on the hose, then watched as soaker hoses buried beneath mulch sent tiny sprays of water bubbling to the top.
After circling the garden to make sure the system was working, he sat down on the bench in the corner, the seat cool and shaded by tall shrubs.
Alia leaned against the post that supported the front corner of the pergola, hands folded together. “I’m guessing you want to talk.”
“Not particularly.” But...justice for Miss Viola, he reminded himself. Protection for Mary Ellen.
Making the decision to tell Alia what she wanted to know had been hard enough. Knowing how to begin...that was a lot tougher. He’d only ever told two people: Miss Viola and Dr. Granville. Miss Viola had cornered him when he was weak, his defenses down and his panic way up. She’d coaxed him into telling her everything, had held him in her arms and dried his tears and promised to take care of things. Dr. Granville had told him, “Just spit it out.” At two hundred and fifty of Miss Viola’s dollars an hour for her services, he’d done just that.
But Miss Viola had been his surrogate grandmother and godmother all in one, and Dr. Granville was a shrink. He’d been guaranteed some sort of privacy with them both, and he hadn’t had to tell anyone else’s stories that they didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t want told.
Anything he told Alia would be passed on to everyone involved in the case, including DiBiase. It could make it into the media, maybe the courts. Public record for any and all. The others would hate him, would probably deny it, and he’d be considered some kind of freak.
Miss Viola wouldn’t ask him to talk. She hadn’t saved his life to have it destroyed over her death. And Mary Ellen...he would make sure Scott kept a close watch on her, beefed up security, maybe even hired a bodyguard.
“What do you think the Fulsom kids will do with their mother’s garden?”
Alia’s voice was conversational, her question unexpected. He’d guess her motto was When in doubt, discuss food.
“The market on Serenity would love to have produce like this,” she went on. “Because they keep prices so low, some of the neighbors plant big gardens to share with them. I tried a couple times, but it just proved Mom was right—it really does help to have a clue what you’re doing.”
“I’ll mention it to my cousins.”
He sounded stiff and wooden, even to himself. Apparently, not telling wasn’t going to be any easier than telling.
* * *
After shifting her weight a few times and feeling the third trickle of sweat coursing from her nape all the way down to her panties, Alia joined Landry on the bench. It was big enough for two in today’s supersized world, so they fit comfortably with room for one or two of Murphy’s kids between them.
“Murphy’s interviewing the older two Wallace kids this afternoon,” she began quietly. “Mrs. Wallace didn’t even acknowledge a son. Maybe he died after you last saw him.”
As she hoped, Landry felt obligated to answer. “Maybe. But who knows how many times Jeremiah answered the kids question with, ‘Yes, my daughter’s the light of my life’ and forgetting that I existed?”
At least once, Alia acknowledged, according to her own father.
“We know the admiral and Brad Wallace had three other good friends. Did you know them?”
Landry dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it pointing every which way. With the dark skin and casual clothes and careless style, he could pass for a beach bum if he could just get rid of the ghosts in his eyes.
“Yeah, I knew them. The families hung out a lot. The men had a name for themselves, for their little merry band of drunks and reprobates, but it was secret. No one knew but the five of them, not even the wives.”
Drunks and reprobates. It sounded a fitting description. The bar in the Jackson house had been extraordinarily well stocked, both in the main parlor and in his study. And he was the type to carry a huge sense of entitlement. Between his position in the admiralty and his background and family wealth, he’d probably been able to do anything and get away with it. Not all flag officers took advantage of that ability—her father certainly hadn’t—but Jeremiah Jackson seemed a prime candidate to do so.
“The admiral knew them a long time.”
“Their whole lives. They all lived within a six-block radius. Same schools, same church, same interests.”
“What sort of interests?” Alia asked.
Landry breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring. “The usual, to start. Sports. Drinking. Mischief.” He gave her a sidelong look. “That was what the parents and the police called it then. Today, it would be auto theft, vandalism, DUI, assault.” He reflected for a moment, a cynical smile quirking his mouth. “Or maybe not. Family name and money still go a long way in New Orleans covering up crime.”
Alia could easily imagine Jeremiah and his friends—spoiled, indulged, handsome, irresponsible—being rowdy and wild with no one to answer to but the parents who’d done the spoiling and indulging. Then the irrepressible Jeremiah had sought a commission in the US Navy, and suddenly he’d had a reason to behave. Family reputation might have protected him from consequences in the real world, but it hadn’t carried any weight in the navy. He’d found himself in a position where he’d had to work and accept responsibility, where he’d been judged on all aspects of his life, except family name, and he’d had to straighten up.
If he’d stayed in the civilian world, would life have been easier for Landry? Instead of being rigid and unforgiving, would Jeremiah have allowed his son the same carefree life he’d lived?
“To start, you said. They’d had the usual interests to start. What did those interests become?”
He studied his hands a long time, and she lowered her gaze to them, too. His hands were large, his fingers long, the nails trimmed short. There were a few ragged cuticles, a few calluses, a scar that was several shades lighter than the surrounding skin. They were good hands that could give pleasure and soothe sorrow and cradle his young nieces and make a woman feel safe. Like any hands, they could cause pain, too, but she was sure they didn’t.
And although she took care of her own safety, she could use some pleasure and soothing and cradling.
She suspected he could, too, especially once this conversation was over.
“Like I said, they had a name for themselves, like they were some sort of covert society. Over time, that was what they became. I don’t know when it started, only when they dragged me into it. I had just turned eleven.”
An initiation? Had the men brought their sons into the group to tutor them on their way to becoming drunken reprobates? What would such an initiation entail? Alcohol, certainly. Sex, most likely. A prostitute, bought and paid for, happy birthday to you.
“The old man took me to a run-down place they’d rented at the end of the street in a run-down neighborhood. There was a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and the rest of the rooms were bedrooms barely big enough for a bed. There were bars on the windows and heavy-duty locks on the doors.”
A bad feeling twinged in Alia’s stomach. Maybe the admiral hadn’t wanted a prostitute to initiate his son into sex. Maybe he’d chosen someone closer to Landry’s age, someone a boy might pick for himself, a pretty girl, a virgin herself, who wouldn’t go along willingly.
The men’s mischief had included assault, he’d said. Maybe rape, too? Kidnapping?
She was regretting all the lemon cookies,
rumbling quietly in her stomach as she waited for Landry to go on. One glance showed his stomach was just as unsettled; his face was pale, his eyes stony, and his hands were trying to curl into knots. Only his strength of will kept them flat against the bench.
Experience told Alia to remain quiet and let Landry continue at his own pace. The woman inside wanted to encourage him, to clasp his hand in hers, to show the sympathy and anger rising inside, to give him a safe place while he related an ugly experience.
She didn’t do any of that. She clenched her own hands together, and she waited, time crawling like tiny unseen bugs over her skin.
Clouds passed over the sun, bringing an added layer of shade, at the same time the breeze picked up. She would like to think a shower was coming, long enough to lower the temperature but brief enough not to interrupt the day. Hardly a breath later, though, the clouds moved on and the sun shone hotter than ever.
Finally she spoke. “I could call Jimmy if you’d feel more comfortable.”
“God, no. This is hard enough without adding someone else to the audience.” He exhaled loudly. “Okay. Jeffrey Wallace and I called them drunken pervs. They met every Saturday night that all five were in town. It was a night for revelry, they said. In the beginning, they brought food, booze and girls. Women. Hookers, I guess. A few times I saw Wallace give them money when the night was over. But not the first night. The first night...”
This time his fingers did curl into fists, bent so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“All five families were so damn important. They took what they wanted, and to hell with anyone who interfered. It didn’t matter whether they wanted property or a position or money or someone else’s girlfriend or sex with each other’s—”
The words damming, he got abruptly to his feet and walked away. Alia sat motionless.
Oh. God.
She bent forward at the waist, breathing deeply, of damp earth and maturing vegetables and faint scents of fertilizer. She inhaled good stuff, exhaled bad. Inhaled the smell of cucumbers on the vine and breathed out the filth that just kept growing inside her.
When she was sure she could stand without puking, she did so. With one arm, she swiped sweat from her face, tightened her shoulders and stiffened her spine, then went in search of Landry.
She found him kneeling between rows of tomatoes, plucking weeds, pushing back leaves, searching out fruits. He laid a couple of large green tomatoes in a dusty basket he’d picked up somewhere, then added a handful of grape tomatoes.
“Miss Viola always had trouble estimating how many plants to buy. If one tomato plant was good, then weren’t ten ten times better? She used to send Mary Ellen and me home with bags stuffed with corn on the cob, beefsteak tomatoes, cucumbers as big as our arms and enough strawberries to stain every piece of clothing we owned. I asked her once why she planted so much, and she said, ‘I just don’t know when to stop.’”
“She never stopped looking out for you, did she?” Obviously, it was Miss Viola who helped him out of the nightmare Jeremiah the self-centered pervert had put him in. All the love and support, emotional and financial, she’d given him...
“No, she didn’t.” He pulled out a few more weeds, wiped off the mud on his shorts, then plopped on his butt on the mulched path.
“Like I said, I don’t know how it started or how long it had been going on. Two of the men—Steven Anderson and Gary Grayson—are cousins, and word was, they’d been messing with their younger cousins for years.”
Alia forced a breath, forced her emotions back and drew on the analytical part of herself she relied on. Though Alia-the-woman was still there, still reeling, Alia-the-investigator was taking charge.
“What is the gender breakdown of boys to girls among the five families?”
“Mary Ellen and me. Jeffrey has two sisters. Anderson had one daughter, and Grayson had two. Marco Gaudette had three girls and one boy.”
Poor kids, betrayed by the people they should have trusted most. If that was the reason for the murders, and she felt sure it was, how many potential suspects were there? Three remaining pervs, four wives, twelve victims and anyone they’d confided in. Boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, counselors, cops, priests or ministers. Even friends had been known to seek vengeance before.
“What about the wives? What did they know?” Alia lowered her voice. “What did Camilla know?”
Landry rested his wrists on his knees and held her gaze. “I don’t know. But as far as I can recall, her fondness for mainlining gin started about the time of that birthday. We never talked about it. When I could pretend it never happened, I did. The closest we came to discussing it was when I asked her to leave him. He’d just left town, and I thought we could disappear while he was gone. All she had to say was yes, but instead she poured another drink.”
It had been a hell of a life: abuse, pain, disillusionment and a mother who did nothing to help.
Alia wasn’t an overly emotional person. She always related to her victims’ suffering, but in a cool, detached manner. Right now, just for an instant, she wanted to put her head down and cry. She wanted to wrap her arms around her mom and dad and thank them profusely for being such great parents. More than that, she wanted to wrap her arms around Landry and hold him until everything was all right.
Things might never be all right again for him and the other kids involved.
God, she felt naive. She knew it happened. Her first juvenile sex crimes case had been one too many. She knew sometimes fathers did horrible things and sometimes mothers let them. Hell, she knew sometimes those roles were reversed.
But God in heaven, she didn’t, couldn’t, understand it. Any person standing by when a child was abused boggled her mind. A parent, the person who gave that child life, whose blood ran through his veins, knowing and doing nothing...
Camilla Jackson had got no more than she deserved.
And Alia wished she could be naive again.
“How old was Mary Ellen when she was included?” she asked when she was sure her voice would be steady.
“Ten. They had standards, you know.” He spit out the word.
“Does she remember?”
Her question surprised him, his eyes widening slightly. After a moment, he shrugged. “I don’t know. I always thought so. I mean, how do you forget something like that? But we’ve never talked about it, ever. Not even before I moved out.”
Kids could forget something like that. They could push it into the back of their minds, bury it deep beneath trauma and fear and pain and denial. They could go on with life, function normally, appear to have a loving relationship with their abuser. As emotionally fragile as Mary Ellen was, Alia was pretty sure that was exactly what she’d done. It had been her only way to survive.
“What about the other kids? Do you know what happened to any of them?”
He scrubbed his jaw with one hand. The muscles there had tightened before the conversation began and weren’t showing signs of relaxing anytime soon. “One of the Wallace daughters is married. The other’s been divorced a few times. Anderson’s daughter killed herself when she was eighteen. Mary Ellen had just come back from boarding school, and it hit her really hard. Surprising, given that outside the family things, they hadn’t been friends. Mary Ellen started boarding school when she was thirteen, stayed until graduation.”
More of Miss Viola’s doing, Alia supposed. She couldn’t have helped Landry escape and left Mary Ellen to endure alone.
Maybe Mary Ellen had related to the girl’s decision. Maybe she’d found herself contemplating the same decision.
“I’ve heard that some of the kids were in and out of jail. The rest...” Landry shrugged.
Suicide, drugs, criminal activity and serial marriage. Alia was sure there were even more interesting problems hiding in their backgrounds.
Abruptly h
e stood, brushed the seat of his shorts, then extended his hand to her. He pulled with more force than she expected, and she stumbled to avoid stepping on the basket of fruit. She was just inches from him. It was the kind of closeness a woman should take advantage of when it presented itself, and if she didn’t, the man should. But she didn’t, and neither did he, except for continuing to hold on to her hand while his gaze searched hers. He looked hard, intent, seeking—she wasn’t sure what. Pity? Compassion? Revulsion?
Did he think that admitting he’d been raped would affect the way she felt about him?
It did, but not the way he might expect. It stirred up all kinds of emotion—anger, sadness, a fierce need to protect him. Compassion, admiration. She respected the way he’d lived his life, not letting his bastard father destroy it, being who he needed to be, doing what had needed doing. Jeremiah Jackson III had basically told Jeremiah Jackson the demon to go to hell, and she was proud of him for it.
Whatever he saw or didn’t see apparently satisfied him. He let go, picked up the tomatoes and handed them to her, then said, “If you’re lucky, I’ll find some ripe corn and fix you my special grilled dinner.”
“With fried green tomatoes?” she asked hopefully, relieved to set the seriousness aside for a moment.
“When I grill, I grill everything.” He elbowed her. “Don’t pout. They’re even better that way. We’ll have to stop at the store and get a few things.”
“Hey, I’ll happily do all the shopping for a man who cooks. Just lead the way to the corn.”
Chapter 10
After a stop at the market, Landry took Alia back to his apartment, where they had about a minute’s debate to decide to cook dinner at her house. She had a great grill, she said, used only during her parents’ visits, and since he wasn’t sure when he’d last washed dishes or cleaned the apartment, he was happy to go elsewhere.
The cottage didn’t have a back porch, just a broad set of steps that led to a yard with grass and a small clump of crape myrtles to one side. The grill was off to the side, too, where Landry left it for the time being. He was sprawled on the steps with a cold beer in hand, eyes closed, and letting the breeze rustle across his skin.
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