by JoAnn Ross
“There’s a photograph, too.” He reached into the envelope again. “Linda Dale was a real pretty lady. You might find her a little familiar.”
The photograph had obviously been taken in New Orleans; Regan easily recognized the ornate cast-iron grillwork on the front of the red brick building. The woman was wearing a red, white, and blue Wonder Woman costume, suggesting the picture had been taken either at Halloween or during Mardi Gras. The color had faded over the years, but there was no mistaking the face smiling back at her.
Impossibly, although the hair was a bright, coppery red, not brunette, it was her mother’s face. It was also much the same face Regan had seen every morning in her bathroom mirror, until plastic surgeons had dug out the bits of metal that had torn apart her skin and sculpted her features into as close an approximation as possible to what she’d been before that fateful night she’d driven her patrol car into a trap meant to be a literal dead end.
There was another, more important difference between her face and the one in the photograph. Regan didn’t think she’d ever experienced the depth of emotion glowing in Linda Dale’s light brown eyes. It was obvious that the woman was madly, passionately, in love with whoever was holding the camera.
Regan felt Nate looking at her, waiting for some response that she refused to give him. “Interesting.” Not wanting him to think she was afraid to look him in the eye, she lifted her gaze. “But it doesn’t prove anything.”
“She looks quite a bit like you.”
“Somewhat like me,” she corrected. “Her nose tilts up more than mine does, and her jawline’s softer.” Hers was more angular, her manufactured cheekbones sharper. “And her hair’s a different color.”
“Women have been known to dye their hair. It’s still a pretty close resemblance.”
“Even if we looked like twins separated at birth, it wouldn’t prove anything. They say everyone has a double; in fact, there’s a night bartender at the Code Ten who’s a dead ringer for Julia Roberts.” She did not reveal that this unknown woman could be a dead ringer for Karen Hart, since that would only reinforce his ridiculous argument.
“The evidence folder says she’s Linda Dale. Karen Hart’s twin sister,” he stressed.
“That still doesn’t necessarily prove your point. If there weren’t all sorts of ways to interpret evidence, court dockets wouldn’t be so crowded.”
“Good point.” He tilted his head and studied her. Quietly. Thoughtfully. “Trust doesn’t come real easy to Finn, either.”
If he was telling the truth, the woman in the photograph was dead. But Regan felt a familiar, palpable emotional pull. While she was not a fanciful person, Regan knew that it was, indeed, possible for people to speak beyond the grave. She’d experienced it before, when the unseeing eyes of a murder victim seemed to be imploring her to find the killer who’d ended her life.
“Let me put it this way, Mr. Callahan: just weeks ago I sat next to a Christmas tree in the living room of a house that looked like a place the Beav might have grown up in, and listened to a woman insist that the last she’d seen of her four-year-old daughter was when she’d lost her at the mall on a visit to see Santa Claus.
“Two days later, I arrested her drug-dealing boyfriend for being a coconspirator in the mother’s plot to kill the little girl for a thousand-dollar insurance policy. A third friend, whom we also indicted, had taken her from the mall and out into the desert, where he’d shot her in the head. She never did get to sit on Santa’s lap. And it might have taken us years to get justice for her, if some teenagers hadn’t been riding their new ATVs out on those dunes and came across her body.
“I’ve had to step over the body of a woman whose husband shot her while holding a knife at the throat of their toddler son. When we showed up in response to a neighbor’s nine-one-one call, he hadn’t even bothered to change his bloody clothes, but still swore he was innocent and insisted on lawyering up.
“I’ve seen children shot while playing hoops on a public playground, for no other reason than some other kid needed to kill a stranger to make it through some gang initiation. And I worked with your brother for twenty-four hour days during one of the city’s worst heat waves, trying to nail a sicko pervert who got his kicks torturing young women. No, Mr. Callahan, I do not trust easily.”
He tipped his head again. The California sun, buttery bright even on this winter day, glinted on his short, spiky hair and turned the tips to a gleaming gold that not even the most acclaimed Beverly Hills colorist could have pulled off. Regan found it strange that she, who’d worked years to perfect her intimidating cop look, could be made to feel so uneasy by his silent scrutiny.
“You’ve definitely got a cop’s brain inside your pretty head, Detective Chère.”
She bit into a salty French fry. “And you’ve obviously got a chauvinist’s brain inside your head, Mayor Callahan.”
“For noticin’ that you’re a good-looking woman? It’s a man’s right to look at pretty things.” He slid an appreciative glance over her. The light sparkling in his eyes could have been the lowering sun glancing off the water, but Regan didn’t think so. “Doesn’t necessarily mean he intends to do anything more without permission.”
While she might not be Nicole Kidman, Regan had had men look at her before. Even after her cruiser had been turned into a shooting gallery. But somehow she’d gotten to be thirty-three years old without ever feeling in danger of melting. When his gaze lingered momentarily on her legs, she wished she’d worn her usual pantsuit rather than a skirt to court today. Which in turn made her furious at herself for responding like a giddy high school girl talking with the quarterback.
“A word of advice: don’t hold your breath.” Emotional need always made her defensive, which led directly to the safer emotion of anger. She crushed the burger bag. “Now if that’s all the evidence you have to show me—”
“Dieu, are you always in such a hurry? Didn’t anyone ever tell you that rushing around is bad on a person’s system?” He shook his head as he took some more papers from the envelope. “These stock certificates would make Regan Dale a rich woman.”
“They could also make you a rich man, since they appear to be bearer certificates.”
“They don’t belong to me.” He looked affronted that she’d even suggest cashing them in. “I’m pretty sure they’re yours.”
As he held them toward her, Regan reminded herself that the devil didn’t come slithering up to you with horns and a tail and reeking of brimstone; he came courting with engaging manners and a smooth, seductive smile.
“So you say. I still say you’re wrong.”
“Why don’t you take them anyway? Do a little detecting. You might find something that’ll make you feel different.”
Regan knew otherwise, but there was no way she was going to let him accuse her of having a closed mind. “We’d better get you to the airport before you miss your flight.”
His smile was slow, delicious, and in its own charming way, dangerous. “There’s still time.”
“It’s obvious you don’t know LAX. It was bad enough before the heightened security measures. Now it’s a nightmare.” She tossed the bag into a trash barrel.
“You know, the Pacific’s even nicer than I’ve heard,” he said as they walked back to the parking lot. “I appreciate you bringin’ me here.”
“Like you said, I had to eat.”
Regan had no idea what those papers he’d shown her meant, but she was certain they didn’t have anything to do with her. But still, the cop in her couldn’t quite stop mulling over the what-ifs.
Nate Callahan seemed to have an instinct for knowing how far to press his case. He didn’t bring the subject up again as she drove to the airport, but instead waxed enthusiastic about his south Louisiana home.
“Well, I can certainly see why you were elected mayor,” she allowed as she pulled up to the curb designated for departing passengers. “You’re quite an ambassador for the place.”
�
��It’s a nice little town.” He unfastened his seat belt, reached into the backseat, and retrieved his overnight bag. “Pretty as a picture on a travel poster and real peaceful.” He paused before opening the passenger door and gave her another of those slow perusals. Unlike the earlier ones, this didn’t seem to have any sexual intent. “We jus’ happen to be looking for a new sheriff. If you ever get tired of life in the fast lane, you might want to give us a try.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m quite happy right where I am.” That might not be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but she saw no reason to share her private feelings with a total stranger she’d never see again.
Once again he surprised her with his speed, reaching out and slipping her shades off her face before she could react. “I’m not one to argue with a belle femme.” Before she could back away, the roughened pad of his thumb brushed against the skin below her eyes. “But you look like you could use a little bit of R&R, Detective Chère.”
“Dammit, Callahan—”
“Jus’ making a little observation.” He ducked away before she could push him out of the car. He was standing on the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to the driver who was leaning on his horn behind them, urging Regan to move on so he could claim the spot. He reached back into the car, handing her the sunglasses and a white leather book he’d taken from his jacket pocket.
“What’s this?”
“Linda Dale’s journal. I thought you might like to read it. The details are a little sketchy—she wasn’t a real regular writer—but it does mention her baby. And her sister, Karen Hart. I put my phone number on a piece of paper inside the front cover, just in case you want to call and compare notes once you’re finished reading.” He turned and walked away into the terminal.
The horn behind her sounded again, a long, strident demand. A uniformed cop standing on the curb blew his whistle and began heading toward her.
“All right, dammit.” Resisting the urge to ticket the other driver for disturbing the peace—unfortunately, Nate Callahan had already succeeded in doing that—Regan shifted the car into gear and pulled out into traffic.
7
So,” Jack asked, “how did it go?”
After arriving in Blue Bayou, Nate had driven out to Beau Soleil, the antebellum home Jack was in the process of restoring. Nate was the contractor, and so far the work had been going on close to two years; he figured it could easily take a lifetime to restore it to its former glory, but fortunately neither Jack nor Dani—whose family had owned the plantation house for generations before Jack had bought it—seemed to mind living in a construction zone. Somehow his brother’s wife had created a warm and cozy atmosphere out of what could have easily been chaos.
The kids were upstairs doing homework, and Dani was sitting over in the corner of the former library, knitting. Or, as she’d explained to Nate, attempting to learn to knit, which wasn’t nearly as easy as it had appeared in that big yellow Knitting for Dummies book she’d brought home from Blue Bayou’s library.
“Not as bad as it could have.” He bent over the custom-made green-felt-topped pool table, broke the balls, sunk two in a corner pocket, and called for stripes. “Not as good as it might have.”
Jack leaned against the wall, paneled in a gleaming burled bird’s-eye maple, and chalked his cue. “What’s she like?”
“Smart.” The ten ball disappeared into a side pocket. “And real pretty, though outwardly tough as nails, which I suppose a cop’s gotta be.” He banked a red-striped ball against the side and sent it spinning into the far corner. “She reminded me a lot of Finn. Before he fell for Julia.”
“That grim, huh?”
“Not grim, exactly.” He thought about that as he moved around the table. “She’s like our big brother in that she obviously believes in truth, justice, and the American way. And she’s definitely not like any of our bayou belles.”
Jack laughed at that. “What’s the matter, baby brother? Did the old Nate Callahan charm finally fail you?”
“I got her to hear me out.” Memories of the unwilling flash of emotion he’d seen in her gaze when he’d touched that shadowed skin beneath her eyes had him, not for the first time, imagining touching her all over. Momentarily distracted, he missed the shot. “She also took the envelope we found in the evidence room.”
“What did she have to say about the autopsy report?”
“Nothing, ’cause at the last minute I decided not to give it to her. She’d had a rough day in court, and I was already dumping enough on her, so I figured that could wait until she called.”
“She might not be real happy with you, holding back that way.”
“Then I’ll just have to smooth things over.”
“If she’s as much like Finn as you say, I’m goin’ to enjoy watching that.”
Having spent a lot more years of his youth in bars and pool halls than Nate had, Jack went to work, sending three balls in quick succession thumping into holes.
Across the room, Danielle Dupree Callahan cussed as she dropped another stitch. She’d told Nate that the buttery yellow yarn was going to end up a baby sweater. But he sure hadn’t been able to picture it from what she’d managed to knit so far.
“Think she’ll actually call?” Jack asked. The solid three ball clicked off Nate’s fourteen and sent the seven into the far corner pocket
“Yeah.” Balls were disappearing from the table like crawfish at an all-you-can-eat buffet. “She’s a detective, she. She’ll be curious enough to call.” He watched as Jack used the ball he’d missed to sink the eight ball. “You know, it gets old, having my hustler brother all the time beating the pants off me.”
Jack’s smile flashed. “Jus’ one of the benefits of a misspent youth.” He held out his hand. “You owe me twenty bucks, cher.”
As he dug into his pocket for the money, Nate glanced up at the wall clock, calculated that it’d be about eight o’clock in Los Angeles, and wondered if Regan had gotten through the journal yet.
She had. As Nate Callahan had said, the journal entries were sporadic, occurring weeks, months, sometimes even years apart. After leaving home at seventeen to become the girl singer in a country band, Linda Dale had bounced from town to town, singing gig to singing gig, man to man, for seven years. She hadn’t seemed to mind the nomadic life. Most of the men she’d gotten involved with were musicians, and while she appeared to set limits—bailing on relationships the moment they turned abusive—Regan began to detect a pattern. It appeared the woman was part free spirit, intent on enjoying life to the fullest, and part nurturer, needing to rescue lost souls (even those who might not want to be rescued) and take care of everyone around her.
The entries, Regan noticed as she ate her way through a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream, seemed to come at the beginnings and ends of her romances, which gave the impression that when she was actually in a relationship, she was too busy living life to comment on it.
None of the men had been the prince in shining armor Dale professed to dream of; quite a few had been toads. But she’d remained upbeat, positive that somewhere out there in the world her true soul mate was waiting for her.
After a gap of nearly two years, an infant girl she named Regan came into the picture. And then things became really personal. Regan put her head back against her headboard, closed her eyes, and took a long deep breath.
The woman in her sympathized with the single mother trying to balance a singing career and a young daughter. The detective needed more. She turned to the next page and began to read again.
January 1. J surprised me by slipping away from the gala. The champagne he brought with him to toast a new year in my dressing room was ridiculously expensive. It tasted like sunshine, all bright and sparkly, but didn’t go to my head nearly as much as his promise: that this year we’d finally be able to live together openly. Our lovemaking, while necessarily quick and silent, was still every bit as thrilling as it had been that first time in New Or
leans after he’d walked into the Camellia Club and changed my life.
January 15. I think Regan has picked up on my excitement. Sometimes I wonder if I made the wrong decision, choosing to raise her alone, to risk her growing up without the stabilizing influence of both a father and mother.
Of course Karen, for whom Regan has always been a sore subject, scoffed at me when I suggested that on the phone the other day and said something I couldn’t quite understand about women needing men like fish needed a bicycle, which I took to mean that I was foolish to enjoy having a man in my life. In Regan’s life. Then again, Karen has always been the most independent person I’ve ever known. My legal eagle sister makes the Rock of Gibraltar look like a tower of sand by comparison.
It was such a delight watching Regan spin around the room like a small dervish. She’s such a sunny child. I like to think she’s inherited my talent, but she already has so much more confidence than I did at her age. Sometimes more than I do now, I think. And while I know all mothers think their children beautiful and talented, I truly believe she could be a star someday. When I told her that soon she’ll be dancing at our wedding with her new daddy, she giggled, flung her arms around me, and gave me a huge smack of a kiss. I can’t remember being happier.
February 14. Valentine’s Day. J and I managed to slip away to be together at lunch. We went out to our secret place and made love, and afterward he surprised me with a stunning heart-shaped ruby pendant. He said I’d had his heart from the day we met. As he’s had mine. And always will. He fretted when I wept, but I assured him that they were tears of joy, not sorrow.
February 25. It’s the waiting that’s so hard. I understand, as I always have, that J’s position is not an easy one, and I must remain patient. He came into the lounge with friends tonight, and just seeing him without being able to touch him—and be touched—is so impossibly hard. Soon, he tells me. Soon.
March 4. Regan’s second birthday. J showed up this evening with a stuffed elephant. It’s a silly, fanciful thing, covered with green, purple, and gold polka dots and wearing a Mardi Gras crown and beads. Regan loves it.
