by Linda Howard
She felt almost incandescent with joy, so far her period was four days late. She was stunned by the possibility that she might have gotten pregnant so fast, but then Jack had certainly worked at his appointed duty. She had kept waiting for her period to start, but this morning hope had suddenly overwhelmed common sense and she was almost certain. When they left her mother’s, they were going to buy a pregnancy test kit. Tomorrow morning, they would know for sure.
She couldn’t decide which she wanted most, a son or a daughter. She thought of Jack throwing a football with a tough little guy, and her heart melted. Then she imagined a little girl, all dimples and ringlets, cradled in her daddy’s muscular arms, and she shivered with delight. No matter which she had, though, she’d ask Todd to help her decorate the nursery, because he had such wonderful taste in interior decorating. And she wanted to ask him if he would be the baby’s godfather, though she’d have to talk that over with Jack first because he might have another friend in mind.
Todd commented on the lace tablecloth, asking her mother if she knew how old it was. Daisy tilted her head, studying him. He was as neatly dressed as always, today wearing a white silk shirt and pleated forest green trousers with a narrow black belt cinched around his waist.
Under the table, Jack’s leg nudged hers, as if he couldn’t bear not touching her any longer. She ignored him, her gaze locked on Todd.
Jack realized whom she was watching, and he suddenly shifted restlessly. “Daisy—” he began, but he was too late. Her voice rang out, clear and crisp.
“Todd, do you know what color puce is?”
Caught off-guard, Todd turned to her with a startled look. “You’re making that up, right?” he blurted.
Glenn Sykes had been out of the hospital for almost a month when he drove up to Temple Nolan’s house, though the former mayor no longer lived there. He was out on bail and supposedly living in Scottsboro until his trial, but Sykes hadn’t made any effort to find out where. For now, he was just concentrating on being alive and getting his strength back.
He’d been in an odd mood since getting shot, though maybe it wasn’t so odd. Almost dying tended to change your outlook, at least temporarily. He still figured he’d handled things the best way possible for himself, even though it had gone bad there at the end, with Phillips showing up. He allowed himself a cold smile; he still enjoyed thinking about Russo’s well-placed shot.
There was one other person who probably enjoyed thinking about that shot just as much as he did, and that was why he was here.
He rang the doorbell and waited. He heard foot-steps; then Jennifer Nolan opened the door. She didn’t know him, though, so she didn’t unlatch the storm door. “Yes?”
She was a beautiful woman, he thought, more than merely pretty. He’d heard she had stopped drinking; maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t, but today her eyes were clear, if full of shadows.
“I’m Glenn Sykes,” he said.
She stared at him through the screen, and he knew what she was thinking. He had been in her husband’s employ, privy to all the dirty secrets; he probably knew about Temple giving her to Phillips.
“Go away,” she said, and started to shut the door.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly, and she froze, her hand still on the door.
“What. . . what doesn’t matter?” Her voice was low and strained.
“What Phillips did. It doesn’t matter. He didn’t touch you, just your body.”
She whirled, her eyes full of rage. “Yes, he did touch me! He killed part of me, so don’t come here telling me what he did or didn’t do.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “Are you going to let him win?”
“He didn’t win. I did. I’m here, and what’s left of him will go to prison, where I’m sure he’ll be very popular.”
“Are you going to let him win?” Sykes repeated, his cool gaze locked on hers, and she hesitated.
The moment drew out, as if she was helpless to dose the door and bring an end to it. Her breath came fast and shallow. “Why are you here?” she whispered.
“Because you need me,” he said, and Jennifer opened the door.
POCKET STAR BOOKS PROUDLY PRESENTS
KILL AND TELL
LINDA HOWARD
Now available in paperback
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Pocket Star Books
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Kill and Tell...
Karen felt the heat as soon as she stepped from the jet into the extended accordion of the jetway. The air was heavy with humidity, and sweat popped out on her forehead as she lugged her carry-on bag up the slight slope. She had dressed in a short-sleeved summer suit that felt too cool while she was on the plane, but now she was sweltering. Her legs were baking inside her panty hose, and sweat trickled down her back.
Detective Chastain had been right about the airlines; she had made one call, spoken to a sympathetic, calmly efficient reservations agent, and found herself scurrying in order to get packed and to the airport in time to catch the flight. She hadn’t had time to eat before getting on the plane, and her stomach had clenched in revolt at the thought of eating the turkey sandwich served during the flight. She disliked turkey anyway; there was no way she could eat it with her stomach tied in knots and her head throbbing with tension.
The headache was still with her. It throbbed in time with every step she took as she followed the signs to the baggage claim area. She had never felt the way she felt now, not even when her mother died. Her grief then had been sharp, overwhelming. She didn’t know what she felt now. If it was grief, then it was a different variety. She felt numbed, distant, oddly fragile, as if she had crystallized inside and the least bump would shatter her.
The weight of the bag pulled at her arm, making her shoulder ache. The air felt clammy even inside the terminal, as if the humidity seeped through the walls. She realized she hadn’t called ahead to reserve a room. She stood in front of the baggage carousel, watching it whirl around with everyone’s bags except hers, and wondered if she had the energy to move from the spot.
Finally, the conveyor spit out her bag. Keeping a tight grip on her carry-on, she leaned over to grab the other bag as it trundled past. A portly, balding man standing beside her said, “I’ll get it for you,” and deftly swung the bag off the belt.
“Thank you,” Karen said, her heartfelt gratitude evident in her voice as he set the bag at her feet.
“My pleasure, ma’am.” Nodding his head, he turned back to watch for his own bags.
She tried to remember the last time a stranger had been so courteous, but nothing came to mind. The small act of kindness almost broke through the numbness that encased her.
Her taxi driver was a lean young black man wearing dreadlocks and an infectious smile. “Where you goin’ this fine day?” he asked in a musical voice as he got behind the wheel after stowing her bags in the trunk.
Fine day? Ninety-eight degrees with a matching percentage of humidity was a fine day? Still, the sky was bright blue, unclouded, and even over the reek of exhaust in this island of concrete, she could catch the scent of vegetation, fresh and sweet.
“I don’t have a room yet,” she explained. “I need to go to the Eighth District police department on Royal Street”
“You don’t wanna be carryin’ your bags around in no police station,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s a bunch of hotels on Canal, just a few blocks from where you want to go. Why not check into one first, then walk on down to Royal? Or I can take you to a hotel right in the Quarter, but it might be hard to get a room there if you don’t have a reservation.”
“I don’t,” she said. Maybe all taxi drivers gave advice to weary travelers; she didn’t know, not having traveled much. But he was right; she didn’t want to lug her bags around.
“The bigger hotels, like the Sheraton or the Marriott, are more likely to have vacancies, but they’re gonna be more expensive.”
Karen was so exhausted that she cared
more about convenience than cost. “The Marriott,” she said. She could afford a few nights in a good hotel.
“That’s just two blocks from Royal. When you come out of the hotel, turn right. When you get to Royal, turn right again. The police department’s a few blocks down, you can’t miss it. Big yellowish place with white columns and all the patrol cars parked out by the fence. It’s in all the TV shows about New Orleans, looks like one of them old Southern mansions. I reckon cops still work there, since the cars are still there.”
She leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the flow of words wash over her. If she could make it through the next few hours, she would go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow she would feel normal again instead of so unnervingly fragile. She didn’t like the feeling. She was a healthy, energetic, calm, and competent young woman, known on the surgical floor for her level head. She was not an emotional basket case.
Within the hour, she was installed in a room with a huge king-size bed and a view of the Mississippi River and the French Quarter, which to her disappointment looked ramshackle, at least from the vantage point of fifteen floors up. She didn’t take the time to unpack but did splash cold water on her face and brush her hair. It must be fatigue making her so pale, she thought, staring at her reflection over the sink. Her dark brown eyes looked black in comparison with the pallor of her cheeks.
The taxi driver’s directions made it sound easy enough to get to the police station, no more than five or six blocks, too short a distance to bother with another taxi. The walk would help clear her head.
She almost changed her mind about walking when she stepped out into the heat. The afternoon sun burned her skin, and the thick air was difficult to breathe. She would have taken a taxi after all if the side-walks hadn’t been buzzing with people who didn’t seem to notice the heat. Usually, heat didn’t bother her this much, either, and the nineties weren’t uncommon in Ohio during late summer.
Her stomach roiled, and she fought back a rise of nausea. Maybe she was coming down with something, she thought. That would explain how awful she felt.
But even with all her present stress, practically from the very moment she turned right off Canal onto Royal Street, she felt the charm for which the French Quarter was famous. The streets were narrow, and Royal was clogged with cars parked on both sides. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, the buildings old and, for the most part, dilapidated. But the doors were painted with bright, festive colors, flowers bloomed in boxes, ferns and palms turned second and third-story balconies into gardens. Intricate wrought-iron railings and gates drew the eye, and alleys were lined with lush vegetation, hinting at the gardens beyond. She caught a variety of accents and languages as she passed other people. If the circumstances had been different, she would have loved to go into some of the exotic-looking shops.
But today she didn’t have the energy to do more than place one foot in front of the other and hope the police station wasn’t much farther down the street. Even on the shady side of the street, the sidewalks held the day’s heat, and it was burning through the soles of her shoes.
Finally, she saw several police cars parked in front of a stately mansion; when she got close enough, she saw the sign on one of the white columns: “New Orleans Police 8th District.” The building was a creamy shade that was too golden to be salmon and too pinkish to be tan. Black wrought-iron fencing surrounded the building and its immaculate landscaping. A genteel garden party wouldn’t have looked out of place there.
Karen went inside the open gates and up a couple of wide, shallow steps. A massive door opened into an enormous room with blue walls and a ceiling that looked at least fifty feet high. Globed lighting fixtures, pamphlets for tourist attractions, and the general air of a museum made her wonder if she was in the right place after all.
A female police officer was sitting behind a raised desk. She seemed to be the only other person there. Karen looked up at her. “Does a Detective Chastain work here?”
“Yes, ma’am, he does. I’ll call and see if he’s in. What’s your name?”
“Karen Whitlaw.”
The officer spoke quietly into the phone, then said to Karen, “He’s in, and he said to come to his office.” She pointed in the appropriate direction and recited instructions. “Take a right, and it’s the third door on the left.”
Ceiling fans whirled overhead as Karen followed directions; the stirring air raised chills on her arms after the furnace of the streets. She had never been in a police department before. She expected something approaching mayhem; what she found was ringing phones, people sprawled in chairs, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the odor of strong coffee. It could have been any busy, disorganized office, except for the fact that most of the people there were armed.
She found the appropriate door and knocked on it. That smooth, dark voice she remembered so well said, “Come in.”
She opened the door, and her stomach twisted again, this time with pure nervousness, as she looked at the man rising to his feet. Detective Chastain wasn’t what she had expected. He wasn’t middle-aged, pot-bellied, or balding. Mid-thirties, she guessed. He looked like a man who had seen too much ever to be surprised by anything again. Thick black hair was worn cropped close to his head, and he had thick eyebrows arching over narrow, glittering eyes. His skin was olive-toned, and his five o’clock shadow was heavy. A couple of inches over six feet, broad-shouldered, muscled forearms; he looked tough, maybe even mean. Something about him scared her, and she wanted to run. Only the years of discipline learned on the job kept her from doing so.
Marc stood as Karen Whitlaw stepped into his cramped office. He had the usual cop’s talent for sizing up people, and he used it now, studying her with eyes that gave nothing away while he noted every detail about her. If she was distressed in any way by her father’s death, she didn’t show it. Her expression said that she thought this was all bullshit, but she’d get through it and then get on with her life.
Pity, he thought, assessing her again, and this time with a man’s eye instead of a cop’s. He didn’t have much use for coldhearted people, but she was a pretty woman. Mid to late twenties, with a face that managed to be both exotic and all-American, clearly shaped but with a slant to her cheekbones, an intriguing sultriness to her dark, slightly deep-set eyes. Better than pretty, he thought, revising his opinion. She was understated, so her looks didn’t jump out at a man, but she was definitely worth a second look.
Nice shape, too; medium height, slim, with high round breasts that hadn’t jiggled at all when she walked. That meant they were either very firm or she wore a killer bra. On a purely physical level, he would like to find out which it was. Steadily increasing pressure in his groin told him he would like that very much. He gave a mental shrug. It happened sometimes; he’d have a strong sexual reaction to a woman he didn’t even like. Mostly he ignored the urge, because the payoff wasn’t worth the cost.
He held out his hand to her. “I’m Detective Chastain.”
“Karen Whitlaw.” Her voice was a little throaty but as composed as her face. Her fingers were cool, her hand delicate in his, her handshake brief and firm. She had beautiful hands, he noticed, with long tapered fingers and short, unpolished, oval-shaped nails. No rings. No jewelry at all except for a serviceable wristwatch and a pair of small gold balls stuck in her earlobes. Miss Whitlaw obviously didn’t believe in gilding the lily, but then she really didn’t have to.
Her hair was as dark as her eyes, brushed back simply from her face. It hit her shoulders with a slight undercurl. She was neat. Businesslike. Unemotional.
It was the unemotional part he didn’t like. He hadn’t expected her to be sobbing, but people usually exhibited some sign of grief or shock, however controlled, at the death of a family member, estranged or not. Regret usually caused a few tears even if there was no genuine grief. He couldn’t see either in this self-possessed woman.
“Sit down, please.” He indicated a chair, the only chair in the
tiny office other than his. It was straight-backed and didn’t invite people to relax and linger.
She sat, her skirt positioned to fall at the middle of her knee. She kept both feet on the floor. She was so still she reminded him of a porcelain doll. “You said on the phone that my father’s death appeared to be the result of random street violence.”
“Not random,” he corrected, sitting down and closing a file that had been open in front of him. “Whoever killed him meant to do it. But the reason—” He shrugged. The reason could be anything, from drugs to a dispute over a cardboard box. With no witnesses, no murder weapon, no leads of any kind, the case was dead, and no one was going to put out any more effort on it.
She sat in silence for a moment. Though he would have respected at least some show of emotion or remorse, at least she wasn’t yelling at him, demanding that he find her father’s killer, as if she really cared what had happened to him. Marc toyed with the idea of finding out if by chance she had taken out a large insurance policy on her father. The possibility wasn’t remote; money was at the bottom of a lot of murders, though it could just as easily be over something as mundane as how a steak was cooked.
“How long has it been since you saw your father or heard from him?”
“Years.” She looked as if she were about to say something else, but instead, she pressed her lips firmly together and let the single word stand.
“Are there any life insurance policies on him?”
“Not that I know of.” Shocked, she realized what he was thinking.
