Bayou Hero (11 page)

She pulled off her slicker, exposing her long bare arms, lacking the impressive muscles of her legs but none too shabby, either. Once she hung the jacket over the back of her chair, she tugged her tank top down, paying particular attention to the part covering the weapons he’d grown accustomed to, and then her dark gaze locked with his. “Your response indicates that you heard it perfectly well the first time.”

“And you let him live?”

She smiled. “Divorce was a lot easier than going to prison.”

What had been going through DiBiase’s mind, having a woman like this to go home to and looking elsewhere? The guy was crazy. But she seemed all right with it, now, at least. There wasn’t any hurt in her expression, no anger or regret. No leftover love, no broken heart. He’d been a fool, but she’d moved on.

Did DiBiase have regrets? When he looked at her, worked a case with her, shared a meal with her, did he wish they were still together?

The waitress set their food in front of them, and Alia removed the silverware from her napkin before shaking out the linen and laying it across her lap. Wasting no time, she peeled a jumbo shrimp, coated it liberally with cocktail sauce and took a bite before closing her eyes and sighing. “Mmm. Ketchup, of course. Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, horseradish and...” She dipped the shrimp again, took another bite, her brow wrinkling. “There’s something else...”

Landry leaned across to pick up the glass. One sniff, and he answered for her. “Gin.” At her glance, he shrugged. “When you spend eight to ten hours a day pouring booze, you get familiar with the smells.”

They both fell silent, switching their attention to their food. It had taken only a few bites of po’ boy to settle the pangs in his stomach, but he forced a few more. It had been a tough few days, he’d told Alia earlier, but the truth was, the bad days, they were still coming, with Miss Viola’s funeral scheduled for tomorrow and, soon as the coroner released Camilla’s body, hers to arrange and get through.

Seemed like a hell of a good time to take a vacation. Someplace tropical, maybe, with salt-rimmed margaritas, good food and fine-sand beaches, lying in a hammock and letting the pounding waves lull him into a state where nothing mattered but that minute, that drink, that nap, that meal.

He was feeling a little lulled right now: the hammock turning into a chair, the margarita looking and tasting more like a beer, rain pounding instead of waves, good food and definitely good company.

Alia had finished the shrimp and was squeezing lemon over the oysters, nestled in their shells on a bed of ice. Apparently having taken the edge off her hunger, she dried her hands fastidiously on her napkin, then fixed her gaze on him. “Want an oyster?”

“No, thanks.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “We were talking about who Camilla would have told about an affair.”

“It never would have been me or Mary Ellen. You’d do better asking her who Camilla’s friends were once she’s feeling better.”

“Maybe Miss Viola?”

He appreciated the chance to smile, however ruefully. “Oh, hell, no. Miss Viola didn’t tolerate adulterers. Her father ran around on her mother every chance he got, and the word
discreetly
wasn’t in his vocabulary. Her mother just shrugged and said that’s the way men are. He topped it all off by dying in a hotel room with a prostitute half his age.” He shook his head, remembering when the old lady had told him the story. She’d meant it as a teachable moment, but he’d been old enough to figure out fidelity, commitment and honor on his own. “Much as she despised Jeremiah, Miss Viola never would have forgiven Camilla for breaking her marriage vows.”

Alia sprinkled a tiny bit of salt, no more than five or six grains, on an oyster, lifted the shell and tilted it into her mouth. The look on her face was one of sheer pleasure. Food, it seemed, made her very happy.

He liked a woman who appreciated the simple things in life.

Swiping her mouth with a napkin, she took a drink, then frowned. “Well, that rules out that theory. We thought Camilla might have been killed by a spurned lover, who then killed the admiral for standing in the way of his happiness, and because Miss Viola was aware of the affair, he had to silence her, as well. But if Miss Viola didn’t know...”

Then why was she killed? Landry supposed it was possible that there could have been two murderers, two motives, but he didn’t buy it for a moment. Jeremiah’s and Miss Viola’s deaths had to be connected. They’d lived in the same city, the same neighborhood, known the same people, had gone to the same parties, had the same kind of influence. But the only connection of any substance between them was Camilla, Mary Ellen and the girls and, more distantly, Landry. No reason there for murder.

“Could have been a family dispute of some sort,” Alia said in a dubious voice that suggested she was thinking aloud rather than putting forth a real theory.

“Except they weren’t family.”

“Yeah, there is that.” She turned her chair to face him, then drew her feet into the seat. To go with the white tank, she wore denim shorts, snug-fitting and showing a lot of shapely brown leg, and sandals. She looked younger than he felt, energy humming just below the surface but lacking any nervous habits to dispel any of it. She was still and thoughtful and prettier than he’d thought the first time he’d seen her.

...You look like every woman’s fantasy of the quintessential bad boy.

If the opportunity to be bad—with her—presented itself, he just might have to take it. She was a pretty damn good fantasy, too.

With a one-track mind.

“Your mother’s death was awful,” she began again. “Your father’s was vicious. There was no effort to make them look like anything but what they were—the acts of a very angry person. Miss Viola’s, though, was meant to look like an accident. It could have so easily slipped past us.”

“So what does that mean?” Landry was aware there were various successful television series, to say nothing of countless books and websites, dealing with crimes and investigations, but he’d had enough ugliness in his life. He wasn’t particularly interested in the medical, legal, technical or psychological aspects of law and order.

“The obvious, of course—that the killer was more pissed off with Jeremiah and Camilla than with Miss Viola. He felt more...well, not kindly but less angry with her.” Her lips pursed, pretty and pink though any lipstick she’d put on had long since worn off. “It just doesn’t seem her and Jeremiah’s paths crossed very often, not recently and certainly not in a way that would lead to their deaths.”

For a time she focused on the band, keeping time with the music with her entire body. He wondered if she’d ever studied ballet or gymnastics, if she liked to dance, not just to hook up with some guy in a club but because the music touched her, drew the movement from her.

There was room between the tables. What if he helped her to her feet, pushed their chairs aside and took her in his arms? Would she remember too quickly that she was investigating three crimes and that he was an unwilling subject caught in the aftermath? Or would she shut off the questions and the theories and striving to solve the puzzle and just dance with him?

There was only one way to find out, but he didn’t do it—didn’t pull her from the chair, wrap his arms around her, draw her near and wait for her response. Maybe sometime he would, if he saw her again on a night like tonight. Maybe when the murders weren’t between them.

When he’d finally brought his own secrets out of the dark.

Chapter 7

S
aturday was the kind of day that, no matter where she lived, would always make Alia think of New Orleans: the sun burning hot in a sky of thin, pale blue, the air so muggy that it shimmered and danced, blinding the eye when it happened upon a shiny surface. It was the sort of day for sitting on a broad shaded porch, paddle fan turning overhead, a pitcher of iced tea sweating on the table, wicker creaking, cushions shifting, bees buzzing in the flowers nearby. Laziness would float on the air, along with Eric Clapton, B. B. King or Louis Armstrong himself, while kids played in sprinklers and dogs hunkered in the cool damp earth beneath an azalea bush.

It was a day only a true Southerner could enjoy, a day for making outsiders think about returning to wherever they came from.

A day for laying to rest a woman who had thrived through thousands of such days.

Alia stood in the shade of a tree she didn’t recognize—much to her mother’s dismay when it came weeding time in the garden, she’d never been interested in flora and fauna—and watched as mourners filed from the church. Some stood and talked, some left and others went to their cars, starting the engines, rolling down windows and turning the air-conditioning to high while they waited for the procession to the cemetery to begin. She’d seen a lot of the same faces yesterday, genuine regret replacing yesterday’s curiosity and obligation. No doubt, Miss Viola was a much easier person to mourn than Jeremiah.

Landry’s gaze sought hers as he came out of the church and started down the wide brick steps. She’d seen him arrive, alone, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Miss Viola’s daughter had greeted him at the door with a hug and an affectionate squeeze on the arm before walking inside with him. Lucky for Landry, she seemed well aware of her mother’s fondness for him and his for her.

He came to stand beside her, hands in his pockets. He was dressed more casually than yesterday, in dark gray trousers and a dress shirt of a paler shade. Gray was such an inoffensive color, somber, suitable for everyone, but with the shirt collar undone and the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, he still pulled off an effortless sense of elegance and grace.

“Are you allowed to speak to the suspects while you’re surveilling them?” he asked, gazing at the mourners instead of her.

Following his lead, she kept her own gaze directed elsewhere. “Only when I interrogate them.”

He remained silent for so long that she slanted a look his way. “That was meant to be humorous.”

“You have an odd sense of humor.”

“I work with dead people and the criminals who made them that way.” Almost immediately, she winced. “I shouldn’t be flippant.”

His shoulders shifted in the slightest of accepting shrugs. “If you can’t laugh, you have to drink until you cry.”

A moment passed, fewer people trailing out of the church. She, Jimmy and the rest of the squad would be studying their photographs later, looking for a person who might have pushed a frail eighty-one-year-old lady down the stairs. Landry was right. If she couldn’t laugh, booze would be a tempting alternative.

“How is your sister?”

“The doctor released her today. She wanted to come, but...” His tone turned dark, laced with pain. “She couldn’t stop shaking long enough to get dressed. Scott said the doctor sent a medicine cabinet full of sedatives, sleeping pills and antianxiety drugs with her.”

Like Miss Viola—even more than Miss Viola—Mary Ellen was frail. Given the past week, even the strongest woman Alia knew would have taken to her bed with a handful of pills.

“I’m really sorry about Miss Viola,” she said at last.

Finally he looked at her. Shadows smudged across his cheeks, making his eyes seem even darker, and lines etched outward from the corners of his eyes and his mouth. “Thank you.”

“Are you going to the cemetery?”

“Are there any other missing people who might fall out of the crypt when they open it?”

“None that I know of. We’ll cross our fingers.” She raised her left hand, showing her index and middle fingers twined together.

Again, silence settled between them, but it was comfortable, not the kind she felt the urge to fill with chatter. A good thing, since she’d never had much talent for chatter.

Finally the church doors were propped open wide, and the funeral director led six young men bearing the casket down the steps and to the hearse. Jimmy had identified them before the service: three grandsons and three grandsons-in-law. They carried out this last task they could do for the old lady stoically, though tears streaked silently down the face of the youngest.

“I’ve never had to bury anyone I loved,” she murmured.

“Not even a dog?”

“The only pet we ever had is my mother’s Chihuahua. He’s too mean to die. Every time I see him, he snaps and snarls like I’m some stray trying to steal the juicy T-bone he’s got his eye on.”

Unexpectedly, Landry grinned. “Aw, come on, admit it—you’d steal a T-bone from him if he had one, wouldn’t you?”

She allowed a slow smile in response. “On the eighth day, God created steak, cooked it rare and it was good.”

“Eat it raw, baby,” he murmured with a chuckle.

From the far side of the church doors, Jimmy signaled, and she nodded. “Time to move out.” She would bring up the rear of the procession today, giving her a little more time in the air-conditioned comfort of her vehicle, time to rejuvenate before getting out into the heat to wilt all over again.

She and Landry headed in different directions. The inside of her car was a pretty good approximation of hell itself, at least until she’d lowered all four windows and turned the AC on arctic blast. The breeze lifted damp tendrils of hair from her forehead and stirred the heavier braided strands on her neck. She’d worn a skirt today, linen in the same shade of khaki as the navy uniforms she saw at work every day, with a matching jacket and a sleeveless white blouse. She’d thought bare legs would be a little cooler, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

After the last car had joined the procession, she pulled into line, followed only by the police escort bringing up the rear. There were enough cars that she imagined the first had arrived at the cemetery by the time she’d left the church. Lucky for her, she didn’t have to worry about parking violations, or she would have been hiking five or six blocks back to the cemetery. Instead, she double-parked beside Jimmy’s car, leaving just enough room for traffic to go around, and went in search of him.

She found him walking the southeast side of the graveyard. His face was flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead, his sunglasses pressing into the bridge of his nose. Fortunately,
hot and sweaty
was a good look for him. In the few moments it took her to catch up to him, she’d noticed a number of women, one from her own office, watching him with great appreciation.

Only Jimmy could hook up in the middle of a funeral. She shook her head with vague amusement.

“You look pretty, sweet pea,” he drawled. “How ’bout you and I go out for a little dinner and dancing when this mess is over?”

Only Jimmy would ask for a date in the middle of a funeral.

“Nice turnout.”

“Better than Jackson’s.” Jimmy laughed. “These folks are giving their funeral best a workout. They’ll be back out here in a few days for Camilla’s burial. Definitely no open casket for that one.”

Alia’s jaw tightened. What she’d seen of Camilla Jackson yesterday had topped her list of freakiest things ever and, please, God, would never be outdone.

“Does the coroner have a cause of death on Camilla?” she asked, wiggling her shoulders to loosen her sweat-soaked shirt from her back.

“It would be easier to figure out if he’d gotten the body before it turned to soup.” Jimmy raised one hand to ward off a chastisement. “His words, not mine. Probably all he’ll be able to offer on cause of death is an educated guess. Dehydration, maybe.”

“Maybe she was literally scared to death.” Alia rather liked small spaces herself, but finding herself in a crypt would certainly stop her heart.

“How’s the daughter?”

“Out of the hospital and medicated out of her senses.”

“How’s the son?”

There was a slyness to his tone that made her turn her narrowed gaze on Jimmy. His features were almost expressionless, but there was a hint, just a hint, of a grin trying to break free. Haughtily, she said, “He’s coping.”

The grin succeeded. “You appear to be helping him with that.” When she didn’t respond, he went on. “Word is, you two took a long walk in the rain, then had dinner last night.”

“You have him under surveillance?” The fine hairs on the back of her neck bristled. That was something she should have expected—and not a decision left to Jimmy alone. He wasn’t the primary on the case; they shared those responsibilities. He should have discussed—

“Nah. I was going down to see Nina before she went to work and saw you at the restaurant. You both looked like you got dunked in the Mississippi, so I made a guess about the walk.” He leered at her, but it was hard to take offense at it, what with him being Jimmy. “Besides, I remember that you used to like walking in the rain.”

Alia forced a deep, calming breath. “I told him a positive ID had been made on Camilla and checked on Mary Ellen.”

“So it was just business.”

“Yeah.” She breathed again. “Pretty much. Mostly.” Something akin to relief at acknowledging her attraction to Landry seeped through her, easing the taut muscles in her neck. It wasn’t really something she could discuss with either of her parents or anyone she worked with, and her ex excelled at keeping confidences, even though he was constitutionally incapable of fidelity. Maybe
because
he was constitutionally incapable of fidelity.

“You gone and gotten interested in some guy who isn’t me?” He gave her a wounded look. “You’re heartless, you know that? How we ever gonna work things out if you’re seeing someone else?”

She met his gaze, hers level and unimpressed. “Jimmy, if we ever work things out, do me a favor and shoot me.” Before he could respond, she changed the subject. “Who is Nina? Your girlfriend of the week?”

“Aw, we’ve been together way longer than that. At least two weeks.” As they passed one of his fellow detectives, he nodded to the man, shoved his hands into his pockets, then slanted a look at her. “She’s a nice woman. You’d like her.”

“Really,” she said drolly. “Because I don’t remember liking
any
of your girlfriends when we were married. Where did you meet her?”

“Where she works. Down on Bourbon Street.”

His face turned a deeper shade of crimson, the change having nothing to do with the heat, and it made Alia choke back a laugh. “You’re dating a stripper, aren’t you?” God, he was so predictable. “On second thought, if we ever work things out...” She gave him the same sort of sly look he’d passed her way earlier.

“I’ll just shoot myself.”

* * *

God love Saturday nights, it didn’t matter how hot, humid, chilly or dreary they were, people still flooded the Quarter in general and Blue Orleans in particular. Landry had this one off, though, so he wasn’t behind the bar, filling orders, visiting with friends or engaging in a little harmless flirtation with pretty tourists. He didn’t feel like staying in the apartment, either, watching crap on TV and listening to the drone of the window air conditioner, so he’d headed out soon after the sun went down, aimlessly wandering the streets.

Now he was seated on the steps across from Jackson Square, listening to a lone saxophone down the street, punctuated by an occasional ship’s whistle from the river. People thronged the sidewalks, drifting from restaurant to bar and out again, lining up for carriage rides, laughing, letting the good times roll. That was what New Orleans was known for, right?
Laissez les bons temps rouler.

Miss Viola had been a good one for celebrating. She’d ridden Mardi Gras floats, dined at the finest restaurants and danced in the streets. Now she was gone. He’d seen her in her casket, had listened to the prayers said for her eternal soul, had watched her children and grandchildren cry, and still none of it seemed real. She’d been in his life forever, the one person he could always count on, and it was too damn wrong that he would never see her again.

“Hey.”

It took him a moment to realize the voice was addressing him. He shifted his gaze from the Saint Louis Cathedral on the far side of the square to the woman—no, girl—standing a few steps down from the one he sat on. She was blond, slight, smiling at him the way the Kingsley family’s Chihuahua likely eyed the T-bones Alia had talked about. He nodded in greeting, hoping she would go away, knowing she would...eventually.

The girl cast a look over her shoulder, and he followed her glance to the three girls watching a few yards away, all of them blond and slight and enjoying their night in the Big Easy. They were dressed for the weather and for fun, their four dresses combined falling short of enough fabric to make a decent tablecloth.

Not that he had anything against skimpy.

The nearest blonde smiled again, and the tiny stud in her nose flashed in the light. “My friends and I thought you looked lonely.”

“You did, huh.”

“We did.” She tugged her tight blue dress down an inch or so before seating herself on the warm concrete beside him. Expensive perfume and cheap beer caught on the air for a moment, too much of both. “We thought you might like a little company.”

He gave her a long look. If she and her friends showed up in his bar, he’d definitely card them and, depending on the quality of their fake IDs, probably wouldn’t serve them. Obviously, not all bartenders had his high standards, he thought sardonically. “I appreciate the invitation, but—”

A flash of long legs in killer heels caught his attention. The newcomer stopped a few feet from the other girls and said in her dry, steady voice, “Whoa, catch and release, Landry.”

Slowly he looked upward over lean calves, muscular thighs and a white dress as short and snug as any of the girls’ to Alia’s face, her smug smile, her black hair done up in some style that bared her neck. Oh, hell, yeah, he appreciated skimpy, even more on a woman who did it such justice.