Bayou Hero (19 page)

Alia was an equal-opportunity assigner of guilt: if one parent hurt a child and the other didn’t stop him/her, they both failed the minimum standards of decent parenting. But there was still something inside her, old-fashioned maybe, that felt the mother was a little more to blame. Camilla had carried Landry for nine months; she had incredibly intimate contact with him every day for forty weeks. She’d nourished him, diapered him, sat up nights with him. She’d had a mother’s obligation, a connection that even a father couldn’t match in the most primal of ways.

And yet she’d forfeited her responsibility. She’d turned that monster of a father loose on her children and closed her eyes while he and his bastard friends hurt them. Raped them.

She should have drowned in that gin bottle. But that would have been too easy a passing. She would be punished in the hereafter, but it gave Alia some warped satisfaction to know she’d suffered in this life, too.

Chapter 11

T
he supervisory special agent in charge of the NCIS office was a formidable woman. Slender and able to intimidate agents far more experienced than Alia, Sheila Martinez listened to Alia’s request to give up the multiple homicide. Now she sat, studying Alia, her expression giving away nothing of her thoughts.

Alia was doing her best to appear just as impassive. She didn’t think she was anywhere near succeeding.

After an eternity, Sheila broke her silence. “You want to be excused from a major investigation because you’re involved with one of the subjects—the admiral’s son, in fact.”

“I’m not—” Alia broke off.
Involved
didn’t always include sex. There was no way she could deny emotional involvement with Landry. Hell, she couldn’t even deny the hope that it did include sex. Soon. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How far has it gone?”

“Nothing physical.”
Yet.

“Yet.” Sheila spoke the word Alia had only thought. “And his alibi is reliable?”

“For the first murders.”

“How sure are you that the murders are all connected?”

“I’m convinced of it.”

After another long silence, Sheila grudgingly said, “Make sure DiBiase has your notes and tell him he’ll be working with Zoe—” Her dark gaze narrowed. “Make that Marcus Trent.”

Oh, so you’ve met Jimmy
, Alia wanted to say, hiding a grin at the change from pretty blue-eyed Zoe to grumpy loner Marcus.

“I’ll do that this morning, ma’am.” Alia rose, wiping her palms on her pants under the guise of smoothing the fabric. She was halfway to the door when Sheila spoke again.

“We do an important job here, Alia. It’s not like handing off an account at an insurance agency or assigning a teacher to a different classroom. We need continuity in our cases. We can’t have agents deciding their cases interfere with what they really want to do.”

Feeling about ten years old again, Alia was searching for an apology when Sheila went on.

“The job demands a lot. It can be hard to find the right balance between it and your personal life. Some people are cut out for it, especially,” she added with a rueful smile, “if you’re ambitious and determined to be not only the first black but also the first female NCIS director.

“But that kind of single-mindedness can be awfully lonely at times.” Sheila saw Alia’s gaze flicker to the photos on her desk. “Nieces and nephews. I never married. I’m not one of them who found the right balance.”

Unsure what to say, Alia remained silent.

“I hope the young Mr. Jackson is everything you want and more.” Sheila turned stern again. “Because you don’t get a second chance like this. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

Turning on her heel, Alia swiftly left the office. Within half an hour, she was at the police station, seated at a conference table just down the hall from the office Jimmy and Murphy shared with a half dozen other detectives.

“Well?” Jimmy prodded after a moment.

The sick feeling was back, tying her stomach in knots. Even when Murphy slid over a zippered bag of lemon cookies, a gift from Evie, she couldn’t have forced even one bite. She’d known this would be hard. She just hadn’t known how hard.

With a deep breath, she forced out the words. “I think I know why our victims were killed.” Willing her voice to remain empty of emotion, she told them everything Landry had told her. She barely slowed even when the men spoke—
Aw, jeez
, Jimmy said while Murphy muttered,
Damn
. She didn’t stop until the story was done.

Silence echoed in the room for a moment, then Jimmy sighed. “It’s a hell of a motive. I’d’ve killed the bastards myself if I’d known.”

Murphy agreed. “Puts a whole new slant on the questions I’ll be asking the Wallace daughters this afternoon.”

“Narrows the suspect list, too.”

“Speaking of that...” Alia pulled out the notes she’d made last evening and slid the wrinkled paper across the table.

Jimmy scowled at it. “What? You thought you’d scribble a few lines in your spare time?” In an aside to Murphy, he complained, “She used to give me lists like that to do the shopping, then get pissed because I couldn’t figure out what the hell she wanted.”

Murphy took the paper and snorted. “Perfectly legible to me.” He read off a few bits of info to prove he could, then shrugged. “You want to come with me to interview the daughters?”

Yes.
She’d never been taken off a case before, voluntarily or otherwise—had never had to let go and be cut out of the loop. Most of her cases, she was proud to say, she’d closed. A few had been consigned to the cold case file, though she still looked them over from time to time.

But this one was now officially out of her hands. The acknowledgment came with both relief and regret. “No, actually, I’m no longer assigned to this investigation.”

Jimmy stared at her, but Murphy didn’t appear surprised. Maybe he’d seen more than she’d realized yesterday, or maybe it just took a hell of a lot to surprise someone who’d been a cop as long as he had.

“Martinez yanked you off?” Jimmy demanded.

“No. I asked to be reassigned.”

“Why?”

“Conflict of interest and all that,” she said blithely.

“Oh, hell, what you’re doing with Jackson doesn’t have a damn thing to do with how you’re working the case.”

The disgust in Jimmy’s voice sent warm affection through her. “I’m glad you have faith in my ability to separate the personal from the professional.”

He flushed faintly. “I always thought you were a hell of a cop, Alia. Besides, damn, who among us hasn’t slept with someone involved in a case?”

She was the only one to raise her hand. But she hoped to remedy that soon.

Gathering her stuff, she stood. “By the way, Jimmy, SSA Martinez assigned another agent from the team to work with you.”

His eyes brightened. “Zoe?”

“Marcus Trent.” She couldn’t help but laugh at his disappointment. “Good luck, guys. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

As she walked down the hall, she pulled a cookie from the bag and bit into it. Damn, it was even better than the half dozen she’d eaten yesterday. Maybe she would beg Evie for the recipe and learn to make them.

Better yet, she’d beg Evie for the recipe and persuade Landry to make them.

Though the temperature was hovering somewhere around
broil
when she stepped out of the building, the mere thought of how she might
persuade
Landry was enough to make her shiver.

* * *

Mondays were slow nights in the bar, though
slow
was a matter of perception. If it was located anywhere besides Bourbon Street, Landry would say they had a good crowd. Given that they were on Bourbon, it was slow.

It was nearly seven o’clock, not even halfway through his shift, when Alia walked in the door. He wasn’t the only one who noticed her, glancing about as a dozen male heads swiveled in her direction. They watched her stride across the room, admired her as she easily slid onto a stool, then went back to whatever had occupied them before.

Except him. He leaned on the bar in front of her, separated from her by her purse—tiny—and a plastic bag—huge. He didn’t need the whiff of warm bread, spicy meats and olives to know the bag contained food.

Folding her hands together, she smiled. The strength of it hit him in the midsection like a fist. “Hi.”

“Hey. Is that smile for me or the food?”

“It’s a toss-up. I’ve got muffalettas from Frank’s. Plus potato salad, tabouli and extra olive salad.”

“That’s worth smiling about.” He popped the top from an icy beer and set the bottle in front of her. “You look like you had a good day.”

“It had its moments. How was yours?”

He shrugged. “I went back to visit the Cadillac man. Camilla’s service is set for Thursday.”

Though he’d expected her smile to fade, he was sorry when it did. She was beautiful no matter what her expression, but she actually glowed when she smiled, as if life couldn’t possibly get any better.

He wasn’t sure when or if he’d ever smiled like that.

“I saw Mary Ellen and the kids afterward. She’s doing better.”

“Good. Great. I can only imagine how hard this is for her.”

It was the same for him. Somehow, after everything, Mary Ellen had stayed close to their parents. She had truly loved them, and now she truly mourned them, while Landry couldn’t summon any grief. Only regret.

“Did you talk to DiBiase and Murphy?” He didn’t want to ask the question, didn’t want to know the answer. Admitting that he’d been a victim was hard enough. Admitting that he’d been a victim of rape... His face flushed hot with shame. Men rarely reported sexual assaults, Dr. Granville had told him, just for that reason, because they found it humiliating, emasculating. It was neither, she’d insisted. He’d been a child, a victim, in no way responsible for what had happened to him. He’d had nothing to be ashamed of.

After a long time, he’d learned to believe her. But sometimes old habits were easy to slip back into.

Though he was avoiding looking at Alia, he sensed when she moved, laying her hand over his. “I told them everything. They’ll handle it with all the sensitivity it calls for.”

He snorted. “Sensitivity? DiBiase?”

“Jimmy used to be a sex crimes detective. His cases were primarily rapes, and he was very, very good with the victims.” Her voice lightened a fraction. “I know, I know. Surprised the hell out of me, too.”

Landry studied her hand on top of his, her fingers bare of jewelry, her nails neatly curved and painted with pale pink tips. Her watch emphasized the delicacy of her wrist, its gold gleaming against her brown skin.

He’d done a lot of hand-holding in his life, first with Camilla, then with Mary Ellen. He liked that Alia was strong enough to not need it, strong enough to offer it to others, yet soft enough to accept it if she’d wanted it.

He had to pull away to wait on a customer. When he returned, he asked, “Are you just going to let your sandwich sit there and get cold?”

She glanced at the bag, and that familiar gleam came into her eyes. “I was hoping you’d get a dinner break at a decent hour. I brought plenty to share.”

He didn’t normally eat dinner until closer to ten...but normally he didn’t have a muffaletta and Alia waiting for him. Catching the attention of the other bartender, he said, “I’m taking my break. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Circling the bar, he picked up the food, gave Alia a hand down from the stool, then led her outside and through the gate into the courtyard. Her flip-flops punctuated their steps as they climbed the stairs.

“I envy your commute.”

“It comes in handy, but it limits the excuses when you’re late to work.”

“Ah, yes, no matter where I live, I can always claim traffic as an excuse. Well, unless they send me to a ship.”

Landry looked at her over his shoulder while he unlocked the door. “Is that possible—being sent to a ship?”

“You think crimes don’t occur on board ships?” She shrugged, a lazy sensual movement that came totally naturally to her. Granted, he found pretty much everything about her sensual. “Sailors and marines are people like everyone else. They commit crimes and are the victims of them. Of course, for a shipboard crime, you have the advantage of a limited suspect pool.”

He opened the door and stepped back to let her enter first. As she looked around, he tried to imagine the apartment through her eyes. It was a little over seven hundred square feet, two-thirds of it devoted to living room, dining room and kitchen, the remaining third a bedroom and bathroom. The floors were wood, the windows facing the courtyard were floor-to-ceiling and two paddle fans swirled the warm air.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked as she took the plastic bag from him.

“Ten years? Twelve? I don’t remember.”

She nodded knowingly. “Nice job of decorating.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t—” Breaking off, he laughed. “Be happy it has furniture. I wouldn’t have bothered with more than a mattress on the floor if Miss Viola and Mary Ellen hadn’t nagged so much.”

She set her beer on the coffee table, then began unpacking the food bag. She pulled out the small containers of side dishes, held up a bag of Evie Murphy’s lemon cookies with a grin, then removed the sandwiches. She’d hadn’t bothered with the quarter or half-sized sandwiches, a meal all in themselves, but had gone for the full ones, each about the size of a dinner plate, loaded with meats, cheeses and that incredible olive salad. They’d been toasted so that everything was warm and melty and the edges were crispy, and they reminded him how long it had been since lunch.

He got plates, silverware and a long wicked-sharp knife, plus a pop for himself, then joined her on the couch. “You said your day had its moments,” he reminded her as he cut a wedge from the sandwich she’d handed him. “What were the good moments?”

She had already taken a bite of her sandwich and now edged a chunk of olive from her lip into her mouth. After chewing slowly with her usual look of food-orgasm, she shrugged again. “It’s kind of hard to tell the good ones from the bad. I met with my boss, and that was kind of tough but good, and I met with Jimmy and Murphy, and that was kind of tough, too, but also good.”

Landry talked with his boss every day, but he imagined meeting with the special agent in charge of a whole field office was different in a lot of ways. His boss, Maxine, held a lot less power over his life than Alia’s boss did over hers. The worst Maxine could do was fire him, and he could have a new job by closing time. Alia didn’t have a
job
. She had a
career
.

He wondered when her career would take her from New Orleans. Wondered how lonely he would be when she was gone.

They’d met under damnable circumstances. By rights, they should never have crossed paths, never have talked beyond the first or second interview. He shouldn’t know anything about her, shouldn’t feel anything for her.

But he did.

She scooped portions of each side dish onto her plate, heaped more olive salad onto the next bite of her sandwich, then casually said, “I asked my boss to remove me from this investigation.”