“Give me a second.” She shut her eyes, thinking. “I did the sketch of Jake with Richie two weeks ago. I sketched Jake by himself the following Thursday, again at Crescent Park. I’m pretty certain I saw Jake last Sunday.”
“Where?”
“Armstrong Park. It was relatively early. Maybe eleven. I was walking there to see if it would be quiet enough for me. It wasn’t. So I just walked through and left. But I saw him strolling along the pond, near the statue of Louis Armstrong. Jake was playing his harmonica. Last time I saw him was this past Monday, in Crescent Park. Around four thirty in the evening. I was packing up for the evening. He was heading downriver.”
“No one saw Jake after this past Wednesday. He was supposed to meet up with Banjo Richie on Thursday evening, and he didn’t. And I wouldn’t believe any of it, but Richie isn’t the only one talking about this. Others are, as well.”
“So Jake has been missing since Wednesday?”
Pic leaned into her. “Don’t jump to that conclusion. Get that look out of your eyes.”
She swallowed. “What look?”
“That scared look. Like really bad shit is happening. Right now.”
Gabe let his gaze linger on her face for a couple of seconds. Pic was right. That look. Like that subhuman devil who tortured you has come back to life. And you’re too afraid to move.
Forcing herself to breathe evenly, she nodded. “I’m fine, Pic.”
Come on, kid. Shut the hell up. She’s had enough.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” He coughed, then gave her a slight smile. “It’s probably nothing. For all anybody knows, Jake decided to go home. His real home, wherever that might be. Maybe Jake didn’t want to tell anybody he decided to leave. Going home is viewed as a cop-out, you know? Anyway, it’s probably urban legend bullshit. Banjo Richie gets stoned. A lot. He could’ve seen Jake yesterday and not remembered today. You know nine out of ten people who live on the streets are bat-shit crazy, don’t you?” Pic gave Andi a full, teasing smile.
Some of the terror slipped from her eyes. “Everyone’s a little bit crazy, Pic. Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t listen—”
“Yeah, but we need to filter out the noise from the music. Let’s just say after a few hours at the Mission this morning, my head’s swimming with a whole lotta noise. Time for me to make some music and settle into town the right way.” He stood, lifting his guitar case and backpack. “Thanks for lunch. See you tomorrow. Really. In Crescent Park? You’ll be there?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Cool. You’ll get to tell me all about your opening tonight—”
She gasped. “How’d you know about that?”
He chuckled. “Like I said, I spent a couple of hours at the Mission this morning. Street people know everything going on in the Quarter, so they know about your opening, they know that it’s benefitting Hope House, and they know you’re my friend, so I got a great big earful. They watch you as much as you watch them. They’re pulling for you to be a huge success, almost as much as me. See you tomorrow, Andi?”
She nodded, clearly speechless that he’d known about the opening.
“You gotta say it, Andi.”
“See you tomorrow, Pic.”
On his way past Gabe, Pic gave him a lingering glance. The corner of his lips lifted in a smirk. Not quite a ‘we’re friends’ smile, but definitely warmer than the sneer that had accompanied their sidewalk conversation.
“Well,” Gabe said, sliding into the chair next to her, drawing Andi’s attention from Pic’s back as he opened the door to the restaurant. “Does that settle the question of whether you’re going tonight?”
She gave a quick nod, as though the gallery opening was the least of her problems. Eyes intently on him, with none of the irritation she usually shot in his direction, none of the on-guard filter that was normally there, she asked, “What did you think of Pic? No jokes. Nothing glib. I want your honest assessment.”
Gabe reached for the guesthouse key, then slid it across the table, closer to her, and dropped his hands to his side as he thought through things he should tell her from the security perspective. All the reasons why she shouldn’t enmesh herself with people like Pic and his friends, like pregnant Monica. He should tell her the type of security check that Black Raven needed to do before Pic and his friend could move into the guesthouse, which opened onto her rear courtyard. But as he looked into her eyes, he couldn’t tell her any of those things. One word overshadowed all the rest, minimizing all the bullshit, lame-ass excuses that would keep him on a steady path past need and desperation.
“Heartbreaking.” As her eyes welled with tears, his next statement—so goddamn honest and sincere, he couldn’t imagine the kind of man he’d be if he didn’t feel it in every molecule of his body—tumbled from his mouth. “I have to help him.”
Eyes immediately awash with warmth, gratitude, and determination, her focused gaze carried a sudden connection between the two of them that took his breath away. It was as though she was suddenly seeing him for the first time. “You mean that. You totally get it, don’t you? You really do.”
As she whispered, swiping at her eyes with her fingers, he muted the audio on his comm system by touching his watch. Her heartache over Pic was palpable. He was privileged she was sharing it. It wasn’t anyone else’s business. “I’ve dropped the other agents. These mics pick up every word. Other agents don’t need to hear this. But yes,” he said, leaning forward, both elbows on the table. Close enough to smell her lavender-scented perfume. “I get it. I’ll help you help him.”
“Thank you,” she smiled through her tears, “Gabe.”
“Whoa,” he said, as his heartbeat accelerated hearing her voice his name. “What did you just say?”
She chuckled, swiped at her eyes again, and leaned a bit towards him. “You earned it.”
“Say it one more time.”
“Gabe.”
“Amazing to hear it from you.” More amazing, though, is the way your eyes look at me when you say it. Steady. Thoughtful. A little more light in there than normal.
Should I use your first name? Nah—not even going to ask that question. It’s much more fun to make up names for you.
“Your name’s beautiful. Michael Gabriel Hernandez.”
“Mom had a thing for angels.”
“Had?”
“She died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It was hard when we lost her. Still is. And I know you know how that feels. Dad died when I was ten.” He cleared his throat. Debated whether to tell her what that meant to him. What the hell? She used my name. By her rules for dealing with agents, that officially means we’re now on a different playing field. Right? “My dad’s death was sudden. It tore us all apart. Mom. Zeus, my brother. Me.”
“How did he die?”
He had planned to omit that fact. The serious look in her eyes told him not to soft pedal the truth. “He was murdered.”
She drew a deep breath. “That’s brutal.”
“Yeah. But my family situation makes me think about Pic. You see, my brother was sixteen when dad died. Zeus took on the responsibility of being the man of the house. Worked his ass off so I’d have a normal childhood. That’s when I learned how important it is to smile, because Mom used to say my smile was often the only thing that brightened her day. Most importantly, Mom and Zeus were there for me—when I got in trouble at school, got caught smoking, got caught drinking, had my first crush on a girl and was too embarrassed to talk about it, when I made the basketball team. You name it. Whenever, and for whatever. My brother—who pushed me to be better—is still my best friend. I thank Zeus almost every day for all the things he did for me. Which gets me back to Pic.”
Her eyes turned serious. “Pic didn’t have a Zeus to help him when the bad stuff—whatever it was—happened.”
Gabe nodded. “Yeah. That’s exactly right. And he’s obviously not figuring things out on his own.”
“I’m going to be real honest here—he’s one of the most important people in my life.”
And I sure wish you’d tell me why. Because I know Pic saved your life, and it would be damn helpful if you told me that yourself, rather than me knowing because I overstepped and read your journals.
“But I haven’t been able to help him,” she continued, skipping right over the ‘why’ of it. “It kills me to see him on the streets. Temperature’s dropping to the forties here tonight. That’s cold for New Orleans. He might make it into a shelter, but chances are, he won’t. And it isn’t just tonight. It’s the big picture,” she continued. “The older he gets, the more the problems compound. He’s painting himself into a corner.”
“Any idea why he left home in the first place?”
“No. He’s never talked about what happened.” She shuddered. “I hate to imagine—”
“Don’t.” He wanted to take her hand, the one that was shaking now as she held onto the key. Yet he didn’t. If ever he was going to touch her in a way that had nothing to do with the job for which he was hired, she was going to have to make the first move.
She nodded. “I try not to. Mostly because all the speculation in the world doesn’t give me answers. I don’t even know his real name.”
“I can find out.”
She shook her head. “I promised I wouldn’t ask questions.”
I didn’t make that promise.
As he hesitated, she frowned. “Don’t.”
“He won’t know.”
“But if you start looking, your searches might alert others as to where he is. He’s on the streets for a reason. I don’t know the reason, but one thing is dead certain—he doesn’t want to be found.”
“It can take some doing, but Black Raven has the capability. If I know just a few things about him, I can find out more. And if I can identify the root of the problem, we can work forward from there.”
“I’m not sure…” A line appeared between her eyebrows. The line he longed to touch and smooth out, while telling her he’d find a way. “I don’t think so.”
“Let me think about what I can do.” He glanced at his watch, as he considered his options and made a mental checklist of Pic-related things. One of which included finding a way to get eyes on the kid when he made it to the corner of Chartres and Conti, so that Gabe could find him later. “It’s three-thirty. What do you say we return to your house? I’ll run you through a workout, and then you can get ready for the opening.”
She shook her head. “No.” She put the key back in her pocket. “I can work out after the opening. I’ll need the stress release. For the next two hours, I know a couple of places where I might find Banjo Richie. I want to see what he has to say about Jake.”
“Is Jake called Harmonica Jake?”
“No,” Andi said, “I think he’s just called Jake. He’s a cute kid, Gabe. Looks even younger than Pic.”
“You don’t know Jake’s real name, or where he’s from?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, even if I asked.”
“So, Jake’s got a tattoo of a dove on his neck. He roams the streets of the French Quarter playing a harmonica. And he looks even younger than Pic?”
She nodded.
“Well, even if Jake isn’t missing from the streets,” Gabe said, “there’s something wrong with all of this. Because like Pic, Jake is damn well missing from somewhere, and—” He stared at the door through which Pic had just walked out of the restaurant. “—someone should be looking out for these kids.”
Chapter Nineteen
Andi
Sunday, February 14, 6:45 p.m.
God, please let this go by quickly.
A chilly, damp breeze blew along Royal Street as Andi walked towards the gallery. In the distance large Bevolo lanterns, with flickering gas lights, flanked the gallery’s doorway. Gabe walked in stride with her, on her right. Not Agent One, Agent-Whatever-the-Hell, or even Agent Hernandez. Gabe.
Wearing a black sports coat over a white shirt and black pants, he looked more like a well-heeled date than a security guard. Agent Four, the bald agent, was dressed the same, except his sports coat was navy blue. Weapons were discretely hidden. Their comm devices, for the moment, were pocketed. Though the earpieces were virtually invisible, Andi had requested they not wear them at all. The other two agents were already at the gallery.
Focus on the warm, beckoning flames of the gas lanterns. The same lights that have lit the way along Royal Street, for years.
Earlier, as they’d walked to places where Andi thought they might find Richie, who’d been nowhere in sight, she’d appreciated Gabe’s steady presence. His intuitive ability to know what was capturing her attention, what could be cause for alarm. His nearness, his close attention to her, didn’t bother her. Nor did it irritate her. It felt…right. If she was honest with herself, having him near her felt more than right.
He’s positively irresistible. And I need to…go with it. But I have to remember, it’s momentary. Fleeting. He’ll be gone soon enough. One thing is certain—I wouldn’t be walking down this street, going to my first art opening, without him.
As was the norm on Sunday evenings, Royal Street was closed to vehicles. The street and its wide sidewalks were crowded with people making their way in and out of antique stores, art galleries, restaurants, and bars. A sheen of dampness, the result of heavy humidity, slickened the grayish-green flagstone, making walking through the crowd in heels more treacherous than usual. She was out of high-heel practice, and her Christian Louboutin peep-toe, black suede pumps were brand new and too smooth on their red bottom to have a good grip on the flagstone.
Wistful notes from a violinist, the hired musician for the evening’s event, reached the street. She alternated her focus on the gallery doors, only ten yards or so away, and the uneven sidewalk as she pulled her terra cotta colored shoulder wrap closer. With a deep breath, she mentally thanked Taylor, who’d brought the cashmere wrap for her to wear, along with the pumps, the form-fitting, black Donna Karan dress, and the Chanel clutch purse.
Andi hadn’t dressed for a night out since before the kidnapping. But putting on the new designer shoes and beautiful cocktail dress didn’t make her feel more like her old self. It made her feel like an imposter. Her attire for the night no longer mattered, though, because she couldn’t do this.
“You okay?” Gabe’s voice was both reassuring and concerned.
She glanced up, into his eyes, where concern matched the twinge of worry in his voice. “Fine.”
“You sure?” Just a few inches away, he seemed solid, reliable, expectant. “Because you’re not walking.”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
He cocked his head in the direction of the gallery. “Then shall we continue? Or would you prefer not to do this, after all? Up to you.”
Her peep-toe pumps felt like they were made of lead. Though she was willing her feet to move in the direction of the gallery, she couldn’t. “I’ve made a mistake. I have to go ho—”
Her words trailed as he leaned in close, his face just a few inches from hers.
“Lots of noise out here. You’re whispering. Can’t hear you.” The evening’s humidity carried his warmth and the aroma of freshly-showered, spicy-soapy scented skin as he turned his ear to her.
When she didn’t say anything, he looked at her. Catching a glimpse of something in his eyes as his gaze lingered on her lips, her cheekbones, she was momentarily at a loss.
She’d seen enough slow, lingering gazes in her life to know what they meant. But then again, he was being paid to guard her, and his lingering regard indicated he was trying to do just that. He was anticipating that she was about to turn and bolt, and that’s exactly what she felt like doing. She wanted to get her ass out of there, as fast as a jackrabbit in a field overrun with hunters and dogs.
“Decision’s yours. We can turn and leave, or we can go in. But,” he said, holding her gaze and giving her a slow nod, “you can do this.”<
br />
She felt her doubts eroding as she stared into his eyes. His gaze had a power that infused her with the strength and optimism he conveyed, dispelling her worries with just a glance, a word, a smile.
She didn’t want to have to tell Pic that she’d had an anxiety attack and couldn’t attend. “I think I can handle twenty minutes. Tops. No more. If I can just make myself walk there.”
“Want me to carry you?”
“Not funny.”
“So you say, but you smiled. I saw it. At the idea of me carrying you into the gallery, I saw a tiny smile, at the corners of your—”
“Stop teasing me.”
He alternated his gaze between his watch and her eyes, then gave her an encouraging nod. “Think in minute-by-minute increments, starting now. We’ll walk in, then step to the left. Brandon and Taylor will be in a receiving line with us. Signal me when you decide to leave, and we’re out of there. All you have to do is nod hello to the people who approach. Between Taylor and me, no one will notice if you’re not talking. We’ll do enough chatting for you—”
“But you don’t even know these people.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Captain, I received more than my share of the gift of gab. Shall we go in?”
She drew a deep breath and managed to take a step in the direction of the gallery. “I can do this.”
“Yes. You can.” His full smile carried a million watts of warmth. Enough to enable her to step toward the gallery doors.
One step, two steps, three. Almost there.
On her left, the first of the gallery’s plate glass windows revealed a crowd. The hum of multiple conversations spilled from the open doorway. The violinist’s music stopped for a few seconds, then resumed. There were more people than she’d imagined, even though Taylor had called to report that the gallery was full. Andi paused in mid-stride, trying to collect herself before taking the final few steps.
“There she is,” someone said. “What do you know? Taylor said she wo—”
“You sure? She never wore her hair that short. She doesn’t look at all like she used to. Poor thing.”
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