Authors: Kathy Ivan
Finally only he and Alyssa stood in the hallway. He reached up and cupped her face, slid his thumb tenderly across her cheekbone, loving the softness of her skin. For just a second she relaxed into his touch, leaning into his hand, eyes closed.
With a muffled curse, she stepped back. Holding her against him had felt right. He'd wanted the connection with her he'd always felt when she was in his arms.
“Bye, Connor. I'll see you later.”
“Are you gonna be okay, Lyssa?” He whispered the words, watching her eyes.
“I'll be fine. I've got some calls to make to Whispering Pines. The administrator needs to be told so the family can be notified. I . . . I've got to go.”
“Okay.” Connor took a step back, giving her space and she spun around, heading for her room.
“Lyssa?”
“Yeah?” She stopped but didn't turn around.
“Call me if you need anything. I'm here for you.”
She stood frozen for several seconds. “Thanks, Connor.” With a quick insertion of her keycard, she opened her door and stepped through, closing it quietly with a gentle click. The snick of the dead bolt being turned echoed through the hall.
The hell with it
. Sticking his hands in his jeans pockets, Connor turned and headed toward the bar next door. He didn't give a damn that it was barely eleven o'clock in the morning. It was five o'clock somewhere and he had an ex-wife to drink out of his system.
Chapter Five
Thursday
D
etective David Taglier plopped his feet up on his beat-up old metal desk piled high with files and empty wrappers from fast food meals.
The driver of the charter bus remained laid up in the hospital. The old folks from the accident spent the previous night and part of today at their town's sorry excuse for a luxury hotel.
Something wasn't adding up for him about this case. Instinct told him the death of the elderly woman, one Mrs. Abigail Spencer, had more going on under the surface than met the eye. His gut instincts rarely failed him. They'd served him well enough to make detective at an age when most cops were still walking a beat.
He and Esposito had canvassed the scene and called their forensics guy and the forensic team came and collected evidence. While this was going on, he and Esposito took witness statements.
Leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed, he remembered the pretty dark-haired activities person with the group. Alyssa Scott. He hadn't minded interviewing her one little bit. She'd been sweet, concerned about all the elderly folks. Made sure they were taken care of. Professional yet caring. Compassion for others was something he didn't see a lot of in his line of work.
Obviously shaken up by finding the body of someone in her care, her quiet voice had answered all his questions without any evasion and he'd watched for any subterfuge.
Everybody lies.
A truism he'd learned during his years as a beat cop—when given the choice to tell the truth or lie, most people lied.
Her ex being on the trip was interesting. Wonder how that's working out, he pondered. Protective and possessive, the ex-husband hadn't interfered but he'd watched everything. Tension thick enough to cut with a butter knife as his momma always said. Made him curious just how “ex” he actually was.
Taglier chuckled. It had been a hoot yanking the tail of that particular tiger, watching him transition from concerned bystander to knight in shining armor, all to protect his ex-wife.
Leaning forward, Taglier pulled his keyboard tray closer, called up the search engine on his computer screen and typed in the ex's name. It was a fairly common name and hundreds of thousands of hits came up. He needed to narrow the parameters. Flipped through his notes. Typed New Orleans into the field. Still hundreds of hits, but one entry in particular caught his attention and he sat up straighter in his chair.
Well now, isn't this interesting.
An article from a large New Orleans newspaper showed a front page spread with a photo of Connor Scott prominently displayed shaking hands with the Chief of Police, the Mayor standing alongside them, all smiling for the camera.
LOCAL FIREFIGHTER CAPTURES SUSPECTED SERIAL KILLER
in boldface type displayed dominantly over the photo. The article outlined how Scott while off duty had captured the suspected serial killer in the act of torturing his latest victim. It detailed how he'd been injured during a struggle and was currently on medical leave from the fire station where he worked.
Guess that explains him being on the trip with the pretty ex-Mrs. Scott.
Grabbing the phone, he hit the speed dial button for the medical examiner's office. Something felt off about this case, he just wasn't sure what. Damn that gut feeling.
“Hey, Saul. It's Taglier. You get called in on the death over at the hotel last night?”
“Yep, I'm on it. Just finished taking x-rays, running blood tests. Probably get started with the autopsy in a couple hours.” A loud yawn followed by a mumbled apology came through and Taglier bit back a chuckle.
“Let me know if you find anything, okay?”
“I thought this was just an old lady who hit her head? You thinking there's more to it than that?”
Saul's question had David hastily replying, “I'm—not sure. Something feels off, though. Hell, maybe I'm just working too hard.” He leaned back in his worn office chair, braced his feet on the open drawer beside him, closed his eyes and pictured the scene at the hotel in his mind. Something itched at the back of his mind, a missing piece of the puzzle.
Sighing, he continued. “Anyway, the senior center contacted our office this morning. They need to make arrangements to get the woman's body back to Florida ASAP, so I'm trying to expedite things on my end.”
Yeah, no reason to raise suspicions when all he had was a gut feeling, cop's instinct
.
“You got it.”
“Thanks. Owe you one.”
Chapter Six
Thursday
“L
ook's like we're going on a road trip, Eli.”
Bethany Banks's voice echoed through the break room of the Baton Rouge television station. Pausing for less than a blink, Eli kept stirring the cup of sludge that passed for coffee in the dingy cramped excuse of an employee lounge. He watched her sashay through the open doorway and plop down on the bright orange vinyl chair, the one with all the silver duct tape across the top in a vain effort to contain the batting. Sliding into the seat opposite hers, he blew on his coffee before taking a slow sip. He grimaced as he swallowed.
This swill gets worse every bloody day. Doesn't anybody ever clean that pot?
“Road trip?”
He watched her reach forward and brush the fall of long blonde hair over her right shoulder. She curled her index finger, motioning for him to lean in. Mentally sighing, he obliged her.
“The story we're supposed to cover up in Shreveport? The one with the old people?” He watched her shudder before continuing. “I got a call from my contact in the group. Apparently they're going to be late. There was some sort of accident. The driver hit some ice and skidded off the road. Nobody was too badly hurt. But get this . . .”
When she paused for effect, he could almost see her counting the beats off in her head before she continued with, “The next morning one of the passengers died.”
“How exactly is this news, Beth?” Eli fiddled with the camera in his lap, barely lifting his head at her gleeful tone.
“Don't call me that,” she snapped. The look she shot him would have left bloody gouges across his balls, if she'd had a real knife. Or maybe she'd just sharpen her nails—that'd do the trick.
“The death wasn't caused by the accident. Apparently there are 'suspicious circumstances' surrounding it. My friend says they've been staying at some two-bit dump since the accident until the coach rental company sends a new bus and a new driver. Anyway, this morning, one of the passengers didn't show for breakfast, and when they checked on her, she was dead.”
“I repeat,
Bethany
, exactly what makes this television newsworthy?”
“We're assigned to do some crappy human interest piece on this group. They do this stupid drive from Boca Raton, Florida to a casino every year. Alternates between Atlantic City and New Orleans. They've done it every single year for the past five years. Other than the annual pilgrimage they make for their little gambling jaunt, it's a fluff piece. But add in an accident with the driver badly injured, plus a death under suspicious circumstances, and we can take this little story from human interest to major break. If we handle it right, put the right spin on it, this could be huge.”
Eli shook his head. He'd been in this business a lot of years, had seen a lot of lackluster talent like Bethany come and go at the TV station in Baton Rouge. They all thought they'd be discovered; the next great investigative reporter, breaking the story of the century. The only story they ever broke was the fact their boss was an asshole who slept with any female reporter stupid enough to buy his load of BS that he'd further their careers. Bethany wasn't the first and she wouldn't be the last.
“I know I'm just the camera guy, but this isn't much of a story.”
Bethany stood, staring down her pert little nose at him, displeasure clearly written on her scowling face. “My gut says there's more going on than meets the eye here, Eli. Casey agrees with me.”
“Does he?” Eli didn't try to hide cynicism from his tone.
Bethany balled her hands into fists, as though readying for a smack down. Let her try. He'd have no problem popping her one in the kisser. In fact, he'd enjoy the hell out of it. She was such a prima donna bitch.
# # # # #
Bethany turned and strode purposefully out of the break room, allowing the grin to finally break free. Eli was such a fool sometimes, she thought. She could smell there was a story here, something below the surface. Molly Scott called earlier to apologize and explain about the delay and change in plans. Bethany commiserated with her on the unfortunate and unexpected death of one of their passengers. But for the entire call Bethany's mind whirled, contemplating every angle, figuring the best impact for her story.
Molly told her they'd be staying in Alabama for at least another day or two while they waited on transportation and to deal with the local police.
Bethany had balked when she'd first been assigned this fluff piece, Bethany balked, not wanting to fill her three minutes with mindless prattle. Manufacture an interesting story about a bunch of old people coming to gamble in Louisiana? Big fat deal. That happened every single day. Where the hell was the story? Casey, the station manager, constantly assigned her the crappola jobs because she wouldn't spread her legs for him any more or give him blow jobs in his office.
A shudder ran down her spine at the thought of his sweaty, grabby hands. Sometimes she'd take two or three showers a day, trying to wash the feel of the sleazebag off her skin. It was a necessary evil in this business, and one she'd continue putting up with until she achieved her final goal. She wouldn’t always be stuck in Baton Rouge. She needed one big break and she'd be back on top—where she deserved to be—and nothing and nobody was going to stop her. The thought added a bouncy spring in her step.
On her way down the hallway she paused at the mirror hanging on the wall by the entrance door. Turning, she stared at her reflection, running her pinky finger around her lips, making sure her lipstick was perfect. The rest of her hair and makeup remained impeccable, too. After all, she reminded herself, image is everything in this business.
With a wink, she blew her reflection a kiss and stepped through the doors into the bright sunshine.
Chapter Seven
Thursday
C
onnor sat in a corner booth, nursing his scotch and half-listening to the country music playing on the jukebox. The bar or lounge or whatever the hell you'd call it next door to the hotel was just as rundown and seedy as the hotel. Well, at least they didn't water down the booze.
He'd been sitting in the same damned uncomfortable booth for the past several hours feeling sorry for himself. He was a damn fool, wishing for something he’d never have again. Mooning like a lovesick schoolboy over his lost crush.
The waitress convinced him to order a burger a couple of hours ago and he'd managed to choke down almost half of it, before giving up the struggle. It just wasn't worth the effort.
He'd stopped after two drinks, mindlessly watching the television in the corner, not comprehending a damn thing he'd seen. All he pictured was Alyssa's face when she'd left him standing in the hallway. It took every ounce of strength he had to let her walk away.
So here he was, wallowing in self-pity and mooning over a woman who didn't trust him enough to fight for their love.
He took another sip and remembered Alyssa's face. The little gasp when she'd walked in to find him over the body. Damn, he hadn't wanted her to see that. He'd known something was wrong the second his hand turned the knob of the hotel room door, just as he'd known she wouldn't wait in the hall. It wasn't in her makeup to stand aside and let others shoulder the load. Alyssa was a fixer. If something or someone was broken, her tender heart couldn't—no wouldn't—stop until she'd done everything she could to make it right.
Except for their marriage. She hadn't tried to fix that. When the distrust and anger started, she left. Walked away from their marriage—and from him.
“She doesn't need you. Get over it.”
He ordered another drink. Tossing back another slug of his whiskey, he felt the burn as it went down, then stared at the bottom of his empty glass. He motioned to the bartender for another shot. Leaning his head back, he rested against the tufted vinyl back of the bench seat, scrubbing his hands over his face.