Authors: Marilyn Pappano
He just didn’t want to interact with them.
A left turn took him through the sunroom, then he headed outside. He didn’t stay in the back—too many windows offering full views—but circled the house and found a quiet place on the front veranda, on the opposite side from the room the Jacksons and Landrys occupied. The seldom-used steps creaked under his weight, but none of the suits gathered around the door seemed to notice him.
Sliding out of his jacket, he hung it on the back of the nearest wrought iron chair. Before he’d managed to return to the railing to gaze off down the street, a dry voice spoke.
“The porch furniture is cleaner than the tables and chairs inside my house.”
Alia Kingsley stood six feet away. Her hair was neatly contained on the back of her head, leaving her neck bare to catch the occasional breeze, but that was the only concession she’d made to the heat. She wore pants and a jacket in a delicate shade of gray with a white shirt. Her shoes were gray, too, ugly, with a low heel. Even her jewelry was subdued: a sterling watch on her left wrist, a sterling disk with a white pearl on a chain around her neck.
“Yours would be spotless, too, if you had staff.”
She came a few steps closer, into the shade cast by a nearby tree. “We had staff a few times when I was growing up, thanks to my father’s job. My mother hated it. I wouldn’t mind a little part-time help myself.” She removed her sunglasses and dangled them by the earpieces. “We look like we shopped at the same store.”
He gave her another once-over, not noticing the clothes so much as the way they fit her. The shirt clung to her breasts, lying snug against her midriff, and the pants hugged her flat belly. The fabric flared with the curve of her hips before falling in a long, straight expanse over muscled thighs and lean calves to partially cover the ugly shoes. “Nah. They didn’t have anything in my store that would do you justice.”
But that was a lie. The shirt he was wearing would look damn good on her, especially if she had nothing else on. The stark white would enhance the olive shade of her skin, and with enough buttons left undone, the shirt would reveal the long line of her throat, the curve of her breasts, the hollow between them.
He drew a breath to clear the thoughts from his mind. All he needed now was to imagine her with her hair down, tumbling loose around her shoulders, and he’d have to put his jacket back on. It was too damn hot for that.
“What does your father do?”
She blinked, apparently needing a moment to remember that she’d mentioned her father’s job. “He’s retired now.”
“What did he do before he retired?”
She did a cute little thing with her mouth, kind of pursing it, before looking away, then finally back. “He was in the navy. He was a rear admiral.”
Landry couldn’t say why that surprised him, maybe because people tended to remark on things they shared in common with someone else. And there had to be restrictions on how many admirals the navy had at any given time. A person didn’t run into those admirals’ grown children every day.
But he hadn’t
run into
Alia. She was trying to find out who killed Jeremiah, whether Landry was the guilty party. Hardly the situation to say,
Hey, your father’s an admiral? Guess what? So is mine.
“The same as Jeremiah?” he asked.
“Not entirely. My father retired a rear admiral, lower half—a one-star admiral. Your father was upper half with two stars.”
He smiled thinly. What were the odds that an admiral’s daughter would be considering another admiral’s son a possible murderer? “So you went through the whole navy brat experience.”
She shrugged. “Like you, my father didn’t tolerate brattiness, but I did get to do all the moving around. The upside is I can adapt to anything. The downside is I don’t have that roots-heart-and-home attachment anywhere.”
For years Landry had thought that kind of detachment sounded pretty damn appealing, but he never could have abandoned Mary Ellen completely or cut off contact with Miss Viola. He had to admit, he would miss New Orleans, too—the people, the music, the food, the life, the history, the strength, even the weather. And, yeah, that roots-heart-and-home thing.
“Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?” Louis Armstrong had sung. Landry didn’t know personally because every time he’d gone away, he’d always come back a week or two later. More than that, he didn’t want to know. He didn’t have a whole lot in his life, thanks to Jeremiah.
And he wasn’t about to give up anything he did have.
She gestured to his throat. “Have I missed the new trend in neckwear?”
He looked down, from his perspective, seeing only bits of the “scarf” Mariela had wrapped around him, and smiled. “Apparently, my seven-year-old niece is no more knowledgeable about tying ties than I am.”
“May I?” After his nod, she caught the end of the tie, pulled it free and draped it around her own neck. “I only know how to do it when I’m wearing it. Mom has pretied Dad’s ties for him their whole marriage. I was her backup for emergencies when she was out of town.”
He watched as her thin fingers pulled fabric here, slid it through there, tugged it back over here. The black-silver-and-red-striped pattern went with her clothes as well as his own, and there was something about a woman in a tie pulled loose, loose...
“Here you go.” She tugged the tie over her head, stepped closer and lowered it over his head. It took her seconds to straighten, snug, slide, and then she stepped away again.
But he still smelled her. No longer than the tie had been around her neck, no more than it had touched her bare skin, it had picked up traces of her perfume, rich and sexy and intimate.
He hoped it stayed with him through the rest of the day.
* * *
By two thirty-seven that afternoon, Alia was officially pooped. First, it was about a hundred and ninety degrees outside, and the accompanying humidity hovered somewhere around “that’s impossible.” Second, even low heels that weren’t supposed to torture her feet did torture them after three hours constantly moving at the Davison home, the church and the cemetery. Third, dehydration had kicked in because she got minimal bathroom breaks, which prevented her from drinking anywhere near the amount of water she needed to stave off the heat and sweat.
“Thank God it’s almost over.” Jimmy swiped a handkerchief across his forehead before returning it to his pocket. He’d just returned from checking in with everybody around the perimeter of the cemetery.
Alia hadn’t counted how many NCIS agents and police officers were there. The admirals who’d traveled in from various commands, their white dress uniforms a splendid contrast to the many dark outfits, had brought their own security details with them. But those agents’ focus was on protecting their own flag officer, not assisting in the surveillance.
Thanks to digital photography, Alia and Jimmy would have snapshots of every single person in attendance, of who was talking to whom, who prayed fervently and who didn’t pray at all, who seemed particularly grief-stricken, resigned, sad or, more importantly, unconcerned or even satisfied.
Odds were good they would get a shot of the killer. The investigative team just had to recognize it.
Though the casket had been open at the church—the admiral visible from the middle up, his expression stern, his dress white coat covered with row after row of medals—there had been no reception line. After the final prayer, the casket had been secured, and the pallbearers, half navy, half civilian, had carried the casket outside and to the hearse.
So the mourners had formed a ragged reception line here in the cemetery, near the vehicles, with live oaks for shade, a good distance from the family crypts. Endless handshakes, hugs, words of regret. Did it mean anything to them? Alia wondered. Mary Ellen seemed the type to find comfort in so many people saying good things about her father. Landry looked like walking home barefoot on sunbaked pavement sounded more enticing than hearing a second’s more praise about Jeremiah.
“As soon as the others leave, the cemetery workers will open the crypt.” Jimmy gestured toward the structure twenty feet away that reminded her of a small marble temple with elaborate carvings on the outside. “They’ll slide him inside, then seal it up until the next family member croaks. If it’s less than a year and a day, the next one will have to go into another crypt. That’s why so many families have more than one.”
Alia blocked a bead of sweat before it reached the corner of her eye, then wrinkled her nose in a sniff. “The flowers are going bad.”
Jimmy laughed. “Haven’t you ever smelled decomp? Bodies stink, sweet pea, and nothing out here seals totally airtight. A little stench escapes in all cemeteries.”
“I try not to hang out in cemeteries,” she retorted.
With the number of mourners dwindling, the cemetery workers who would finish the burial moved to the Jackson crypt, one carrying a wide broom with a long handle, just like the one her dad used for sweeping out his garage. It brought her a shudder.
While they went to work, she deliberately shifted her attention to the small group of people still talking under the trees. Mary Ellen and Scott, their daughters’ hands gripped between them. Two older couples, husbands and wives: Miss Viola’s children and their spouses, Jimmy had said. Landry, a few feet off to the side, his back to her, hands in his pockets, looking at something she couldn’t identify.
She’d watched him off and on through the service, as circumstances allowed. A lot of mourners had greeted him with hugs and kisses on his cheek—female mourners, most old enough to be his parents’ friends, the others young enough to be the friends’ daughters, girls he had grown up with. Everyone from the navy side of the house had shaken hands with him, but at least some of the civilians in outrageously expensive custom suits—Jeremiah’s friends, best bet—had hardly acknowledged that he was there.
Interesting.
Hot, tired, anxious to get out of the sun, she was thinking an early dinner would be nice, comfort food that she could take home, curl up on her couch and make happy with, when the sky darkened and a breeze stirred her clothes. It was damp and smelled of rain, sweet scents that teased heartlessly through the summer days, occasionally delivering, just as often scudding away without spilling more than a few drops. A thunderstorm sounded so appealing—would make her comfort food that much more comforting and be the perfect ending to this sucky day.
The next gust of breeze was harder, flapping the open edges of her jacket back enough to reveal her badge, pistol and Taser. It pulled a few strands of hair loose from its chignon and whipped her bangs to the side.
A few creaks and low conversation came from the area of the crypt. Alia stayed back far enough to get the general idea—there were some sort of fastenings holding the front plate to the marble that they had to undo—but she had no desire to match the imaginings in her head with what a real crypt looked like inside. She gazed at the family, then at the rows of tombs across the grass, some built of brick, some of concrete, most of marble, and she wondered how a cemetery had grown to encompass so much land in a neighborhood where small lots sold for six figures. Wealthy people, wanting the best address in life, apparently needed it in death, as well.
“Another minute,” Jimmy said, and without thinking, she moved her gaze back to the crypt. The front panel was loose at the top, but the workers were having trouble with the bottom right corner. After a moment, one of the men jerked it to the sound of tearing fabric. They lifted it out of place, then it clattered to the ground, banging marble on the way down.
The two men spoke at the same time, one muttering, “Holy Mother of God!” while the other shrieked a profane version of the same words. Alia remained frozen for an instant, then caught up to Jimmy’s long strides. He was speaking into his radio, calling the remaining team members to the crypt.
Abruptly he stopped, and she automatically sidestepped before pulling up short herself.
A form lay at the bottom of the crypt, dragged halfway out by the front that had snagged on fabric. It was curled into the fetal position and looked—God help her, she couldn’t let herself focus on how it looked unless she wanted grotesque nightmares for the rest of her life. Holding her hand to her nose and mouth, she focused on the clothing: shades of pink and white, a jacket, a solid pink skirt. The shoes that no longer fit the decaying feet were pink, too, finely made, Louboutin, she thought. Alia’s mother’s only vice, her father often said, was those pricy red-soled shoes she loved so much.
“I guess the mystery regarding Camilla Jackson’s whereabouts is solved.” Jimmy sounded queasy, grim. He gestured the cemetery workers to wait near a crypt off in the distance, then said sourly, “Landry and his brother-in-law are on their way over here. I’ll take care of this. You keep them away.”
“I owe you, Jimmy.” She took long strides, happy to find the air quality clearing significantly the farther she went. Catching Landry’s arm, then Scott’s with enough strength to turn them around, she said, “You can’t go over there. In fact, it’s best if you guys go home now.” Miss Viola’s family, she saw, were driving away without a clue that something had happened. Only Mary Ellen and the two girls waited next to the family car while the driver sat on a bench thirty feet away.
“What’s going on?” Landry demanded, trying to pull free of her, twisting to look over his shoulder. She didn’t let go, didn’t slow her steps but continued to force them along with her. “What happened?”
At last, he dug in his heels, turning around, blocking her way with his body, making her stop or plow into him. His eyes dark and stormy, he stared at her, silently demanding an answer. She gave it quietly.
“It appears we’ve found your mother.”
Chapter 6
L
andry stared at her, the words echoing in his head, needing a minute to grasp their meaning. He looked at the crypt, at the bundle lying half in, half out. It didn’t belong there, some part of his rational brain thought. When a crypt was opened, the remains of the last person buried were swept to the back, into a sort of well. There shouldn’t be anything that close to the door, close enough to fall out.
Then that same part of his brain noticed the blond hair and the pink material—clothing—and remembered that his mother loved pink before it shut down. Blankness spread through him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, couldn’t shrug off Alia’s hold and move closer.
It appears we’ve found your mother.
His stomach roiled, bile rising into his throat. He jerked his gaze back to Alia, searching her face for some sign that he’d misunderstood her words, but her features were solemn, sympathetic.
It appears we’ve found your mother.
Beside him, Scott murmured something—
Oh, dear God
—then a delicate hand gripped Landry’s left arm. Not Alia’s. He could still feel it, the pressure of her fingers, the warmth of her touch, on his right arm. He looked at Mary Ellen, whose pale face was marked with five days of heartbreaking grief, whose eyes were so wide that they looked as if they might pop right out of her head.
“Landry, she said— What about Mama? What did she—” Her gaze slid from him to Alia, then to the activity at the crypt. Other cops had joined DiBiase there, blocking the body from sight. But Mary Ellen didn’t need to see more. Her fingers bit into his arm, tears welled in her eyes and an unholy scream echoed off the nearest tombs, scraping his skin raw, making him wince and, for an instant, try to move away.
The wail ended abruptly as Mary Ellen sagged to the ground. Landry grabbed her right arm, Scott her left. Landry swung her into his arms—she hardly weighed more than the girls—and started toward the car. As they drew close, the driver hustled over to open the rear door. Faith and Mariela were crying, Scott clutching Mary Ellen’s limp hand, and the sky chose that moment to let the rain fall down.
After settling his sister on the wide rear seat, he straightened. “Take her to the hospital,” he said quietly to Scott. She’d been taking sedatives all week; he was afraid this was one shock too many for those to manage.
“What about you and the girls?” Scott asked, even as he slid into the car.
“We’ll get a ride home.”
“My parents can take care of them. I’ll call as soon as...”
Landry nodded, then lifted the girls into his arms, their thin little arms clenching his neck tightly. They watched solemnly as the limo pulled away.
“What’s wrong with Mama?” Faith whispered.
“She’s just sad and tired. She’ll be fine after she’s rested awhile.” He hoped she was fine. She’d never been the strongest person around...but she’d survived hell before. This time she had her girls and Scott to help her.
Wearily he looked at Alia. “Can someone give us a ride?”
“I will. My car’s the gray one right there.” She beeped open the doors on a midsize sedan down the block. “Just give me a minute.”
He took the girls to the car, fastening their seat belts, giving them reassuring smiles. “Everything’s gonna be all right,” he said, forcing a smile. “Your mama and daddy will be home as soon as possible, and Nana and Papa are at the house waiting for you.” The elder Davisons had driven down from Baton Rouge for the funeral. They were as well entrenched in Baton Rouge society as the Jacksons were in New Orleans, but that was where the similarities ended. Mr. and Mrs. Davison were honorable, loving, decent people, who treasured their family and most other people.
“Will they take us for ice cream after dinner if we’ve been good?” Mariela’s voice trembled, and a fat tear was caught in her long lashes.
Landry brushed away the tear. “Don’t they always take you for ice cream?”
“Yep, except once when I punched Faith and she looked like a purple-eyed monster. They took her but made me stay home with Mama, and they didn’t bring me nothing, neither.”
Landry managed a grin. “Did you learn your lesson about punching people colors they aren’t supposed to be?”
“Yeah.” She didn’t sound particularly convincing. After a moment, she added in a whisper, “Mama turned white. She looked like a ghost.”
Or as if she’d seen one.
He responded absently, then closed the door and waited near the front of the car. The trees that lined the street provided protection from the rain; only the occasional drop made it through to splatter him. Not so for the detectives and NCIS agents out in the open of the cemetery. They looked as if they’d had to swim upriver in the Mississippi to get to the tombs. They would be there awhile, gathering whatever evidence remained from the taking of Camilla’s life and stuffing her body into a mostly airtight chamber, and they’d pulled out tarps and slickers to protect both them and the crime scene.
Crime scene.
First the site of his father’s death, now that of his mother’s.
Despite her suit—gray seemed to be the color of the day—it was easy to pick out Alia. There were other women, but she was the tallest, the leanest, and she held herself with the most confidence. After a moment, she finished her conversation with DiBiase, then jogged to the car, her heels and the rapidly softening ground providing no obstacle. He suspected she was the sort of woman who could run in sky-high heels—or barefoot across glass—if the situation required it.
Raindrops glistened in her hair and on her face as she looked at him over the roof of the car, waiting for his questions, but he had only one.
“Are you sure?”
She didn’t dodge his gaze, didn’t try to put him off. “As sure as we can be without the coroner signing off on it.”
Of course they were sure. Camilla was missing, and there was an extra body in the Jackson crypt that fitted her description. Who else could it be?
As the leaves overhead grew more sodden, more rain slipped through. He ignored it, though, staring at Alia, aware of the activity in the distance but unwilling to break his gaze and look that way. “I thought...I thought maybe she’d finally found the courage to leave Jeremiah, or that the old man had committed her somewhere for her drinking. But I never thought...”
...that someone had hated her enough to want her dead. Had despised her enough to leave her body inside the family crypt—
A chill passed through him, knotting in his gut. What if she hadn’t been dead when she was put inside? Dear God, what if she had been buried alive? She’d apparently been huddled next to the door. Banging on it? Screaming for help? Trying to claw her way free? Knowing she was going to die, suffering from dehydration, sweltering in the heat and humidity, horrified by what was happening with no way to prevent it or hasten it.
His stomach heaved, and he clamped one hand over his mouth.
Wishing the numbness would return, Landry got into the car. Alia did the same, starting the engine, buckling her seat belt. It took only a few minutes to reach Mary Ellen and Scott’s house, where she took advantage of an empty space in the driveway. Guests were visible through the open windows and gathered in small groups on the veranda. No doubt they had wondered what had taken so long for the immediate family to return, and now, seeing only him and the girls, they began stepping outside, staring, speaking in low voices to one another. The only face he was happy to see was Miss Geneva’s. As he freed the girls from the backseat, he instructed them to go straight to the housekeeper and tell her he’d talk to her in a minute.
Mariela and Faith knew when to press their luck. Ordinarily, they would have stopped at each group of people who called their names, but this time they did exactly as he requested, not talking to anyone until they reached Geneva.
Landry walked around to the driver’s door, and Alia rolled down the window. There were about a dozen things he could say, but not one of them could make its way past the shock keeping him stiff and cold. He settled on the easiest. “Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re welcome. Let me know how Mary Ellen is.” She offered him a business card, identical to the one he’d left in the backyard on Monday, and their fingers touched when he took it. It was the same contact he made every day, passing drinks to customers, taking credit cards, returning change, impersonal, over and done with in seconds.
Except this time. It felt anything but impersonal: sympathetic, reassuring, just plain...nice. He looked at the cell number, an easy one to recall, and slid it into his coat pocket.
“When you find out something about Camilla...”
“I’ll let you know.”
The coroner could tell them a few interesting facts—how Camilla died, when—but would he be able to answer the important stuff, like how she had wound up inside a sealed tomb? Had she gone willingly with the person who locked her inside or been forced by someone armed, someone dangerous? Had she been conscious and alert or drugged only to awaken alone in the dark? Would the coroner have an explanation for what kind of sick person chose a nightmare like this to kill?
Someone called his name from the steps—a cousin on the Landry side of the family, he thought—and he glanced that way before looking back at Alia. He didn’t have anything else to say, though. She smiled faintly, waited for him to step back, then pulled out of the driveway.
Hands in his pockets, he climbed the porch steps where all the little knots of people were consolidating into one large crowd. Ignoring their looks, he wrapped his arm around Geneva’s shoulders and walked inside with her and the girls, located Scott’s parents and went onto the sunporch to break the news.
* * *
Nothing spoke to Alia’s soul like the blues on a rainy New Orleans evening.
She stood just inside the doors of Blue Orleans, listening to the mournful wail of a solitary saxophone, its notes high and clear, sending a wave of melancholy and pleasure and pure emotion through to her bones.
The bar was crowded, every table occupied, customers three-deep at the bar. Given the rain that flowed in small rivers down the street, she would bet most of the customers were tourists, unwilling to let a little bad weather interfere with their limited time in the Big Easy. Umbrellas lay scattered beneath tables, and cheap ponchos dangled from chair backs, their advertising visible only in folds. Raucous laughter echoed off the high ceiling, bounced off the brick walls and drifted out the four sets of open double doors, the best kind of advertising:
fun being had here
.
According to her notes, Landry had an apartment in the building, somewhere through the locked gate around to the right. She could have called him—could have waited until working hours on Monday—but she’d been in a mood to get out, to remind herself that the city was still filled with polite, funny, rude, arrogant, living people, that not everything right now was about death.
She was about to shuck her slicker and head for the bar when movement in the corner to her left caught her attention. A waitress stood at the table, her lime-green T-shirt practically glowing in the dim light, a tray in one hand, the other on her hip, but she didn’t interest Alia. Her customer did.
It was easier to step outside again, one large step onto the battered sidewalk, then stride to the last set of doors propped open for fresh and cooling air. She took the overhigh step up again, then slid into the nearest chair, pulled her arms from the waterproof jacket and welcomed the breeze washing over her skin.
Landry looked up at her, his eyes fatigued, beard stubble dark on his jaw. He looked much the same as the first time she’d seen him, motionless and alert in his sister’s sunroom, wearing an aloha shirt and shorts, this time with much-abused tennis shoes. Except for his face. Weariness was etched in deep lines alongside his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, and his lips were set in so thin a line that they practically disappeared. She couldn’t tell if he was happy, annoyed or unconcerned to see her here.
“How is Mary Ellen?” she asked.
“Sedated. The hospital’s keeping her for a couple of days.” His voice was little more than a rasp. Had he talked too much, explaining the surprises of the funeral to too many people? Or had that rawness come from tears? He may have hated his father, but there’d been softer emotions between him and Camilla. It wouldn’t surprise anyone to find he’d shed tears for her.
She waited a moment as a group of young women splashed by loudly on the sidewalk, shrieking, their accents nasal and hard on the ear. When they were out of earshot, she asked, “How are you?”
“I’ve been better.” He shrugged. “I’ve been worse, too.”
The waitress held up a beer bottle as she passed, but Alia shook her head and asked for water.
What qualified for worse? she wondered as the woman brought a local brand of water. What was worse than your father’s violent murder, your surrogate grandmother’s killing and the discovery of your mother’s gruesome death all in five days? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She didn’t need those thoughts in her head.
Landry was drinking but not bothering with a glass. A bottle of tequila, the good stuff, sat in the middle of the table, and he lifted it to take a cautious swallow. Nearly half of the bottle was gone, but she couldn’t see its effects on him. No slurring, no shakes, no hysterics.
As he set it down, his fingers gave the etched bottle a lingering caress. “The people I work with don’t waste their money on flowers. They let aged liquor do their speaking for them.”
“Good people. I’m not sure the ones I work with have ever bought me more than a Coke.”
“That’s because your people are out to save the world, not meet its sinners halfway.” He paused, his lean fingers twined around the base of the tequila bottle. “Have you heard anything from the coroner?”
“Jimmy just called.” He’d offered to break the news to Landry, but Alia had volunteered. Her house was near; she needed to get out. Jimmy had scoffed, not impressed by either reason.
He’s not half as handsome as I am, and I’m not wearing a hands-off sign. Playing with me won’t get a slap on the wrist in your jacket for inappropriate conduct.