by DiAnn Mills
She reached up from the sofa and took his hand. “Promise me you’ll arrest his killer. Our boys deserve closure.” Tears streamed down her face. “They need protection from whatever the media claims. I want his murderer found.”
Alex believed in truth, and he’d find out what happened. “We’ll do our best.”
Once in Alex’s Jeep, they drove to the FBI office.
“I’m interested in checking the blood type on the motorcycle against Howe’s and the Lab’s. Dr. Broussard said she’d contact you about a microchip?” Ric said.
“Right. I doubt she’ll speak to me, but I’ll check with her later.”
“Be nice. I’m giving you a second chance. For whatever it’s worth, you had the right touch with Mrs. Howe.”
Adrenaline slowed, and he thought through the interview with Bekah Howe. “She has a tough road ahead unless we can provide her with a legitimate reason why her husband rode into a restricted area and was killed.”
“True. Most of what we need will take a few days—follow-up for neighbors’ insight, personnel interviews, hobbies, undocumented time, cell phone records, and anything else we can think of, including a talk with their rabbi.”
“Okay, so once we deliver the quadcopter to the techs, let’s check with known terror groups in our area. I don’t want to point fingers until I dig into surveillance reports.”
Dexter Rayken walked onto his patio, needing fresh air even if the heat stifled him. He closed the door to his home office, leaving the luxury of air-conditioning behind along with stacks of medical books and research material. The wife had given up on him long ago to organize his small domain. But the mess behind him wasn’t what plagued his mind.
The crimes near the airport had the FBI and HPD scrambling. Murder and domestic terrorism hit the media’s talking points and filled up media airspace. Alex worked that division, and he’d be knee-deep in the investigation.
For twelve years, Dexter had been a mentor to the young man. Well, Alex wasn’t so young, but early thirties sounded better than the back side of sixty. Dexter first met Alex years ago at a biological symposium for senior college students in Louisiana. Alex approached him afterward with tons of questions. He’d been interested in the newly formed Laboratory Response Network—LRN, an arm of the CDC whose objective was to improve a national network of laboratories in order to better respond to bioterrorism. Dexter saw right from the start that Alex’s love of investigation fit an active career, not one spent in a lab. Not long afterward, Alex’s parents died, and Dexter stepped in to help him with the grief. He and Eva loved on the boy as though he were their own. Through time spent together and e-mails, Dexter persuaded Alex to seek out the FBI. A wise decision on Alex’s part.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pressed in Alex’s number. Before the first ring concluded, he’d answered.
“Hey, Dexter. How’s your Saturday afternoon?”
“Likely more relaxing than yours. Working the suspected domestic terrorism case?”
“That’s what I do. Solving crime and saving the world.”
He chuckled. “Earth needs help when a Cajun takes on that role.”
“Ric will appreciate that.”
“Is he with you?”
“Yes. On our way back to the office.”
“I won’t keep you.”
“Actually, I could use some advice.”
“Today’s crimes?”
“Yes.”
“You messed up an investigation?”
“Very funny,” Alex said. “But you might be right.”
He relayed a botched interview with Dr. Broussard. Dexter had heard her name in the news. Laughter in the background must have been Ric. “Your communication skills with single women need a little help. I understand why.” The woman who’d broken Alex’s heart had nearly destroyed him and his career. “That woman lied to you and threatened your credibility as an agent. But you found out the truth and put her behind bars. Don’t forget that.”
“I’m trying, Dexter.”
“Don’t place a barrier in front of solving a murder or putting the brakes on a domestic terrorism case. If she’s innocent, she could need protection.”
“And I need evidence if she’s guilty.”
“What’s your gut tell you?”
“Not sure with my track record, but I’m concerned if she does have information, she’d not open up to me.”
“Then make a friend.”
Alex groaned. “I’d rather face a firing squad.”
“You’ll be a better man for it. The only way you’ll get past it and restore your confidence is to learn from your mistake and move on. Talk to you soon.”
SATURDAY EVENING, Stacy slowly stirred homemade chicken stock into the dark roux. She’d given it her undivided attention for forty-five minutes and added chopped onion, bell peppers, celery, and garlic. Browned andouille, bay leaves, and seasonings were ready. After an hour of low heat, she’d add smoked chicken to the roux and let it simmer for another hour. Mom had taught her well. Dinner wouldn’t be ready until nearly eight, but it couldn’t be helped if the taste she’d learned to appreciate was going to meet her expectations. Nothing like comfort food to ease the extreme stress. She’d much rather have spent the entire day in her boots and jeans racing Ginger.
A glance into the living room, where Xena rested on a dog bed, told her the animal fared well. Stacy couldn’t bear leaving her alone tonight at the clinic after the trauma of today, and here she seemed right at home.
Whitt showered at his house and would be back soon. Gumbo was his favorite, although she liked it a bit spicier than he did. Chances were he’d sleep on the couch next to Xena tonight. The boy chose every opportunity to avoid his house and often requested her couch. She welcomed his company. Having him near ensured his safety from parents who routinely abused him in one way or another. They lived across the street . . . when they were home.
Whitt had no idea she’d hired Leonard Nardell, an attorney who’d come highly recommended by her pastor. Obtaining custody was in the works after she learned the school had contacted social services about suspected abuse. Whitt’s social worker was aware of her role in his life and had already run a background check. Reference letters had been written on Stacy’s behalf, and all that remained was a judge’s signature. At the very least, she had the credentials to be his foster mother.
Whitt’s parents believed Stacy had made the call. They’d sign away their rights for fifty grand. More like fifty shades of greed.
The door opened, and Whitt stepped in wearing a grin and wet blond hair. “Miss Stacy, my stomach’s growling just smelling the gumbo.”
“Wonderful. ’Cause I’m making plenty.”
He dropped a bundle of clothes onto a chair and hurried to Xena’s side. “Do you mind if I sleep on your couch tonight? Xena might need me. We’ve an incredible rapport going.”
“Of course. But you can take the spare bed.”
“I’d rather sleep near her.”
“Suit yourself. Don’t forget we’re having community church in the clinic’s parking lot tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be up early.”
“Did you leave a note for your parents?”
“Sure. Haven’t seen either of them since around nine this morning.”
She internalized her frustration. A part of her wanted them to shape up, and another part didn’t care. “While dinner’s simmering, want to help me get things ready for tomorrow afternoon’s carnival?” She pointed to a box of quart-size baggies beside neat piles of pencils, erasers, brochures about the clinic, a child’s guide to pet care, and small bags of Skittles.
Whitt bent to Xena. “I’ll give you plenty of attention later. Right now I have work to do.”
Tomorrow afternoon’s festivities for their subdivision would be in the clinic’s parking lot after a community church service. Her job was to showcase her veterinary services and host animal owners in a petting zoo, providing their ani
mals loved kids. Barbecue and hot dogs, watermelon, cookies and pies, and a whole list of other food and games were free for the community event. In the late afternoon, a softball game between the men and women wound up the day. The losers would serve ice cream to the winners.
The two worked fast to stuff one hundred bags. Although she didn’t expect more than twenty-five families, sometimes friends and family members attended. She welcomed them.
Whitt was unusually quiet. She assumed he’d bring up her morning ride at the airport, but he seemed preoccupied.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ah, nothin’.”
“Nothing doesn’t put a frown on your face.”
He gave a halfhearted smile and sealed a bag. “Eviction notice.”
“When?”
“Monday. Dad told me he hadn’t paid the rent.”
“We’ve been down that road before. I’ll help you bring your stuff over here after the carnival and stash it in the spare bedroom.” She’d call her attorney Monday morning. This could be the deciding factor for custody.
“Thanks. Hope social services doesn’t hear about it.”
She kept her composure. Becoming an instant mother would be hard. But she was a grown woman, and she’d been parenting Whitt since he was a toddler playing in the street. Guilt riddled her for not acting on his behalf long before this. If social services yanked him from his parents before the custody hearing, would they allow her to be his foster mother? The judge might not view her as appropriate mother material or the case could take weeks to finalize. For certain Whitt would run. His emotions hadn’t caught up with his intelligence, and he feared social services’ intervention. He’d been in foster care a few years ago and had a bad experience. The agency had been monitoring his care through the school for the past several months, so the custody hearing needed to happen soon. All matters for her attorney on Monday morning. She loved Whitt, a trait his parents didn’t seem to have.
“I’m sorry. You’re bigger than your circumstances.”
“Wish I could live here permanently.” He bore his gray eyes into her face, but she wouldn’t tell him yet.
“We’re together when you’re not in school.” His slumped shoulders tore at her nurturing spirit and changed her mind. “I’ve filed for custody. The hearing will be soon. When I can give you positive news, I will.”
“I understand. No point being disappointed till I have something to be disappointed about.”
He was wiser than most adults, sometimes a disadvantage. “How’s the English lit report?”
“About there. I’ll have it ready for you to take a look at on Wednesday. Not due for a couple more weeks. It’s a comprehensive look at the poets who’ve won the Nobel Prize in Literature. I know I complained when you mentioned getting ahead with advance summer school classes, but the counselor told me on Friday that I can graduate at fourteen with college hours. What a concept—graduate from high school and matriculate into college before I can drive.”
She smiled and ruffled his hair. “I’m so proud of you. Hey—”
The doorbell rang. “I got it,” he said.
Lord, please not his parents. Selfish as it sounded. Most times when they stopped in, they were drunk or high and needed money from Whitt. She wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation. “Are you sure you should answer it?”
“I’m not too worried. My guess is the parents have been drinking for hours.”
“You could be right. Or it could be someone else. People have been dropping off items for the carnival since I got home.”
“We’ll get them loaded up. Bet I can do it myself.”
Her garage was a dispensary for a popcorn machine, dunking game, cases of soda, grills, folding chairs and tables, dozens of potato chip bags and hot dog buns, and that was just her last count. Expensive on her part, but the families living in her neighborhood needed a celebration and an opportunity to make friends with each other.
Definitely too many things bouncing off the sides of her brain.
Whitt opened the door as she sealed up another bag of giveaways.
“I’m Special Agent Alex LeBlanc with the FBI. Is Stacy Broussard here?”
ALEX STARED INTO THE FACE of a gray-eyed boy who stood in the doorway of Stacy Broussard’s residence. Her background hadn’t indicated a son, but this kid wasn’t budging. “I stopped at her clinic and saw it was locked up for the day.”
“Is this about her airport ranger work?” the boy said. “Or finding a dead man?”
“Both. Is she available that I can speak to her?”
“Do you have ID?”
Alex pulled out his creds and handed them to him. “Is Dr. Broussard here?”
He didn’t look up from examining Alex’s identification. “This looks in order.” He returned the ID. “She’s been through enough for one day. Try contacting her during business hours. The clinic’s website has her e-mail and phone number.”
Was this kid legit? He didn’t look over ten years old. “I understand your wanting to shelter Dr. Broussard from the trauma she experienced this morning, but my visit is important to solving a crime.”
The kid crossed his arms over his chest and took a bully pose, rather comical. “If you think for one minute I consider this a gregarious house call, you’ve misjudged me.”
Gregarious?
Stacy leaned in behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll talk to Agent LeBlanc. Today was tragic, and I need to help in any way I can.”
“Are you sure? Unless he has a warrant, you have rights.”
“I can handle it,” she said.
The kid backed away. Stacy’s slender figure now blocked the door, easier on the eyes than her self-proclaimed bodyguard. She wore clean jeans and boots—must be her standard attire. “Thank you,” Alex said. “I won’t take much of your time.” He’d get this done and head home. “I attempted to call you.”
“I turned my phone off.”
“That’s why I couldn’t get an answer. I owe you an apology.”
“You did so earlier today.” She studied him with eyes that seemed to smolder a darker blue in the shadows. Then a playful smile danced on her lips. “Is this apology for your blatant lack of professionalism in the interview, insulting the airport rangers, or not staying with an injured dog until I returned?”
He disagreed with two of her complaints. Babysitting a dog wasn’t in his job description, especially when he was staring down a murder and potential domestic terrorism. Neither did he believe in the airport ranger program.
“Which is it?” she said.
“All three. You could have been killed today, which would have meant two murders. And I’m sorry about abandoning the dog, but my partner and I were working the investigation.”
She sighed. “The incident’s over, and I accept your apologies. My pride and shock are a nasty mix. How is Mr. Howe’s widow?”
He paused. “Grieving. Her parents and rabbi are with her.”
She leaned against the doorframe. “The gripping reality of love is while the giver is free to embrace its joy, the chains of hurt bind tighter than any pain known to the soul.”
A poet? “It fits her. Who wrote that?”
“I did.”
A twinge of admiration swirled in him. She possessed a sensitivity not many women offered freely. “Well done. When I interview her rabbi, may I share those words?”
“That would be fine. If the situation is appropriate, I’d like to express my sympathy to Mrs. Howe, perhaps through her rabbi.”
“I’ll see what I can do and e-mail you with the response.” He peered behind her in an effort to avoid the strange feelings she brought out in him, a peculiar familiarity that drew him back to his roots. “How’s the dog?”
The kid snickered, breaking Alex’s scrutiny of the feelings he had around the woman. “We named her Xena, and she’s recuperating,” the boy said. “Doing well.”
He glanced at the yellow Lab with its bandaged
left front paw. The dog wagged its tail as if to show she was in a happy place. “How bad was she hurt?”
“Straight cut that required a few stitches. She’ll be fine.”
“Can I pet her?”
“Have her sniff your hands first,” Stacy said. “So far she’s been gentle, Agent LeBlanc.”
“Forget the formalities. I’m Alex.”
“And I’m Stacy. My partner’s name is Whitt McMann.”
The kid narrowed his gaze. “Miss Stacy is like my mom, so watch it.”
He hid a grin. “Yes, sir. My intentions are honorable.”
She stepped aside for Alex to enter her home, and they walked to where the dog lay. He knelt with an outstretched hand. When she nuzzled against him, he stroked her head. Despite the day’s ordeal, the dog seemed to be thriving in Stacy’s care.
“Does she belong to the man I found? A scan confirmed no microchip implant,” she said.
“No, and Mrs. Howe stated none of her neighbors own a dog matching Xena’s description.”
“Do you find it odd that the man holding her leash was riding a motorcycle?”
He caught her deep-blue gaze. “Yes, I do.”
“I’m sure you’ll get it all resolved. I can keep the Lab until her owner turns up. Can’t imagine anyone abandoning such a beautiful animal.” She bent beside Alex. “Looks like she’s forgiven you too.”
A timer went off and her attention flew to an open kitchen. “Whitt, would you stir the pot?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the kid said.
Alex’s stomach loudly protested its lack of lunch and dinner.
“Has it been a long day?” Her full lips curled into the same enticing smile. She’d probably offer him Kibbles ’n Bits.
“Yeah.”
“Leads or an arrest?”
“Gathering intel and asking questions.”
She laughed softly. “Your specialty.”
He ignored the barb and stroked Xena. Genuinely friendly. “Do I smell gumbo?”
“You do.”
“Scratch?”
“Is there any other way? I’d invite you for a bowl, but it has another hour to simmer.”
