Forbidden Fruit (44 page)

S
even hours later, Santos and Jackson pulled up in front of Chop Robichaux's club on Bourbon. Not even 10:00 a.m., the street was nearly deserted. They had it on good authority that they would find Chop there, all but alone. Just the way they wanted him. The game they were about to play was far enough outside the law, they didn't want any witnesses.

Jackson turned to Santos. “We're clear on our plan?”

“Yeah. We go in and convince him that Queen St. Germaine turned over on him. We convince him that he's going to fry because of it.”

“Piece of cake.” Jackson smiled grimly. “We appeal to his immoral, paranoiac, criminal side.”

Santos glanced at the club's entrance, unsettled. He and Jackson had performed these dog and pony shows before. Hundreds of times. But he had never had so much resting on the outcome of one. This time, it was his life on the line.

He looked back at his friend. “This might not work. He might catch on. He might not cave.”

“It will work.” Jackson set his mouth in a tight line. “Trust me, partner, when we corner him, he'll squeal like a New Year's pig. And if he doesn't, I'll beat the truth out of him.”

“That's my line,” Santos muttered, attempting humor. “Next thing I know, you'll be ordering steak.”

“The big cut, bloody rare.”

Santos laughed, though the sound rang hollow to him. “We've got the basics. We know about the money. We know she met with him, we know she passed him an envelope. We know about her…extracurricular activities. All we do is act and fill in the blanks. Fudge a little. We do it all the time.”

“And damn well, I might add.”

“I wish we had more,” Santos said. “I wish this visit was one by the books.” He narrowed his eyes. “Funny thing, filling in the blanks isn't nearly so appealing when it's my ass on the line.”

“No joke.” Jackson made a sound of frustration. “These piece-of-shit scumbags are not going to take you down. We're not going to let it happen.”

“Let's do it then.”

They climbed out of the car, crossed to the club's entrance and let themselves in. Chop sat at the bar, eating a plate of something and smoking. Above the bar, the television blared cartoons—Wile E. Coyote was in hot pursuit of the Roadrunner.

“Bar's closed,” Chop called, his mouth full, not turning. “Come back at eleven.”

“Afraid that won't be possible,” Santos said, sauntering across to the bar. “We've got business that needs attending now.”

Chop swiveled to look at them, cursed, then returned to his breakfast. “Pigs. What next?”

“What, indeed?” Jackson went to Chop's left. He eyed the plate of food. “Nobody's given you the bad news about animal fat, have they?”

“Fuck off.”

Santos laughed and leaned on the bar to Chop's right. He met Jackson's eyes. “Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Chop narrowed his eyes on Santos, and shoveled in another forkful of food. Some of the gooey yellow egg yolk dribbled onto his chin. “You can't be here on police business. You're not a cop anymore.”

“That so?” Santos took out his shield, or what he hoped would pass for
his
shield, and flashed it for Chop's inspection. “Funny how things can change overnight. Information comes to light, and boom, it's a brand-new day.”

Chop looked more amused than nervous. “Who's your big friend?”

“Detective Jackson.” Jackson flashed his shield, then pocketed it. “We wanted to talk to you about an interesting chat we had with one of your friends.”

“A friend of mine?” Chop laughed. “I didn't know I had any.”

“Her name's Hope St. Germaine. Sometimes calls herself Violet. Ringing any bells?”

Chop's smile faded, and he pushed his plate away. “Nope. Maybe you should refresh my memory.”

“Glad to.” Santos picked up Chop's cigarette lighter, weighing it in his palm. “Heavy. Must be gold.” He flipped it open, struck the wheel, then snapped the lid shut, extinguishing the flame. “How much does a lighter like this cost, Chop?” Santos arched his eyebrows in question. “Not twenty-five thousand dollars? Surely not that much. What do you think, Jackson?”

He tossed the lighter, Jackson caught it, then weighed it in his hand. “I'll bet twenty-five thousand dollars could buy quite a number of these. A suitcase full, even.”

Chop snatched the lighter from Jackson, then dropped it into his shirt pocket. “You have a point here?”

“Yeah, we have a point.” Santos leaned toward the man, pinning him with his gaze. “This friend of yours, this Hope St. Germaine, she says you blackmailed her. Says you threatened to expose her…sexual preferences. Claims she overheard you plotting how to set me up. She'll testify, too. She doesn't want her high-society ass going to jail.”

Santos smiled thinly and poked his index finger into Chop's fleshy chest. “And we get you, my friend. We get you for conspiracy and blackmail. Tasty, yes?”

Chop yawned and knocked Santos's hand away. “Bullshit. You've got nothing.”

“We've got all we need.”

“Right.” Chop chuckled and pushed away from the bar. “I think I'm going to give my friendly D.A. a call. He's going to find this incident most…interesting.”

Jackson caught the man's arm. “I don't think you want to do that. Especially since we've got a witness. A witness who puts you two together. A witness who saw money change hands.” He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Blackmail is such a nasty thing. Especially when you blackmail a woman like this one. She has many highly placed friends.”

Chop swallowed hard, audibly. He began to sweat.

“Look—” Santos leaned closer to the man, though the odor of him made him want to gag. “I think she's involved. We don't like each other very much. But I'll be just as happy if you take the fall. You're a pretty slimy piece of work, and I'll be glad to have you off the street. Either way, I've got my badge back.”

“Off the street,” Jackson repeated. “About time you did some time. How long you think he'll get, Santos?”

Santos made a show of considering it. “Fifteen to thirty. After all, we're talking blackmail and conspiracy.” He smiled at his partner, knowing that they were winning, working to control the elation that would give their game away. “You think the boys at Angola will like him? He's kind of pretty, in a fat, nasty sort of way.”

“Fuck off,” Chop muttered, though this time the oath lacked bravado.

“Even at the minimum,” Jackson continued, “by the time he gets out, he'll be too old to get it up anymore. But hey, that's not our problem.”

“Why would I blackmail her?” Chop asked, jumping to his feet. He looked at them each in turn, his expression earnest as a Boy Scout's. “And ruin my reputation? Please, I've got clients wealthier, and with much more to lose, than her. Lots of 'em. She's small time.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Santos said, amused. He looked at Jackson. “Do you believe him?”

“Oh sure, I believe him. But what about all those upstanding ladies and gentlemen of the jury? I've got a big picture of this. By the time the prosecution is done describing the breadth, or should I say the depths, of your operation—” Jackson shook his head. “Frankly, the maximum sentence won't be enough for those folks.”

For a full minute, Chop said nothing. He looked from one to the other of them, nervously chewing on his lower lip. Finally, he swore. “I'm not taking a dive for that perverted bitch. I don't care how much she paid me.” He looked at Santos. “She came to
me.
She wanted your ass in a sling. She planned the entire thing.”

“Right.” Santos snorted, hiding his excitement. “We're talking about a woman from one of this city's oldest, best-known families. We're talking a lady who goes to mass every day. A lady who gives about a gazillion dollars to local charities. And she set me up?” Santos motioned to Jackson. “Cuff him.”

“It's true!” Chop took a step backward, mouth thinning. “And I can back it up. I can back it all up. Names. Dates. Pictures. Recordings. Nobody, but nobody screws Chop Robichaux.”

 

He could back it up, Jackson and Santos found out shortly after. If nothing else, Chop was one hell of a careful businessman; it seemed he kept files on everything and everyone. He hadn't been boasting when he claimed he had clients with a lot more to lose than Hope St. Germaine. He was already with the D.A., talking plea and deal. He wasn't going to get off scot-free, though. Not this time.

Santos slapped the manila envelope against his hand. Inside were eight-by-ten pictures of Hope St. Germaine. Pictures of her in her other life. The life she had managed to keep secret from everyone for so long. Even her daughter.

Glory.
A lump formed in his throat.
Dear Jesus, how was he going to tell Glory?

“Hey, partner.”

Santos turned. “You have the warrant?”

“It's in the works. We'll have it in less than an hour. Forty minutes, if all goes right.”

“I want to be there.”

“Understandable. I already talked to the captain. He's listened to Chop's taped confession. Considering the circumstances, it's a go.”

Santos checked his watch and frowned. “I need the entire hour. I have to—” His throat closed over the words, and he cleared it. He met his partner's eyes. “I have to tell Glory. I can't let her learn from the media. And she'll want to see her mother, I'm sure. You know, before we get there.”

“You'll go with Glory? We can't chance mama's taking off.”

Santos nodded, heartsick at the prospect of what he had to do. “I'll be there.”

“Good. I'll see to it you get the hour.” Jackson searched Santos's expression. “You okay with this?”

“Sure, I…Hell, no, I'm not okay with this.” He swore, angry and frustrated—by the situation, by what he had to do. “I'm glad to have my badge back. I'm a cop, Jackson. I bust the bad guys, I look for answers. It's what I am. It's what I do. But how do I look Glory in the eyes and tell her what her mother is?”

“You're right, Santos. You are a good cop. And this isn't your fault. You're not the bad guy here. Remember that.”

“Yeah, right. Tell it to Glory.” Santos took a long, frustrated breath. “What am I going to say to her? How do I tell her without hurting her?”

“I don't know, partner.” Jackson laid a hand on Santos's shoulder. “I just don't know.”

S
antos found Glory in her office at the hotel, instructed her secretary to hold all interruptions, sat her down and relayed the tale, calmly and without inflection, starting with what Liz had told him and Jackson.

While Santos spoke, Glory sat unmoving, staring blankly at him, not believing her ears. When he finished, she shook her head. “You can't be serious about this.”

“I'm dead serious about it.” He cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Glory.”

“But…” She swallowed hard. “It's ridiculous. Insane. You're saying that you…followed my mother? You're saying that you discovered my mother was involved with this sleazy…Chop Robichaux? That she's a client of his?” Her voice rose. “You're saying you think she was—”

“Was the one who set me up. Yes.”

She shook her head again, feeling the blood drain from her face.
This couldn't be happening. Not again.
“I don't believe you.”

“I'm sorry, Glory. I wish it weren't true.”

He looked down at his hands, then back up at her. She caught her breath at the helplessness in his expression. At the regret. Fear stole over her, and she began to shake.

“It's not true!” She jumped to her feet, her hands clenched into fists at her side. “Why are you doing this, Santos? I know you…dislike her. I know you have reason to, but this is…it's—”

She swung away from him, unable to bear the pitying expression in his eyes. She brought her trembling hands to her face, struggling to find the right words, the ones that would make this go away, the ones that would wake her from this nightmare.

She faced him once more. “This is beyond dislike, Santos. It's sick. You need help.”

He stood and crossed to her. At his expression, tears stung her eyes. He gathered her hands in his and rubbed them, as if trying to warm them. “I'm not the one who's sick, sweetheart. Believe me, I hate having to hurt you this way.”

She jerked her hands from his. “I don't believe you, Santos. This is a lie. A lie! I can't. You're talking about my mother.”

“I know it's your mother.” He swore. “You can't imagine how much I dreaded coming here and telling you this. You can't imagine—”

“Spare me, Detective Santos. You're enjoying this.”

He stiffened. “You're angry at the wrong person. And killing the messenger isn't going to change the facts. I'm not the one who hurt and betrayed you. And we both know it.”

She brought a hand to her eyes, covering them, battling tears.
It wasn't true. It couldn't be.

“I brought…proof. I have pictures. But I don't want you to look at them.” He caught her arm, forcing her to face him. “Just believe me, Glory. I wouldn't lie to you. Not about this or anything else.”

“Pictures?” she repeated, her vision blurred with tears. “What do you mean?”

He motioned toward the large manila envelope he had brought in with him, propped by the side of his chair. “Robichaux kept files on all his clients. Every transaction, the date of the transaction, the…services provided and their cost. Your mother's file dates back to 1970.”

Glory would have been three years old. Her father had still been alive. Very much alive.

Glory's stomach rose to her throat.
It wasn't true. It couldn't be.

Glory strode across to the envelope, bent and defiantly snatched it up.

“Glory!” Santos took a step toward her, hand out. “Please, sweetheart, just believe me. Once you look at those photographs…you can never go back. Do you understand? Once you see her that way, you'll never—”

“Don't say anything else!” She drew a shuddering breath, realizing for the first time how close to hysteria she was. “Don't you…speak to me. Never speak to me…again.”

“I didn't do this, Glory. I only uncovered it.” He took another step. “If you look at those photographs, you'll never be able to forget them. Don't do that to yourself, it's not necessary. Just believe me.”

She loosened the envelope's metal clasp. She reached inside, closing her fingers over what felt like glossy photos. She eased one out, her gaze not on it, but on Santos.

Her hand began to shake. Her eyes flooded with tears. The envelope slipped from her fingers, and she doubled over, sobbing. Santos crossed to her. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her up. “Glory, sweetheart, it's going to be okay.”

“It's…not,” she managed to say around tears, pressing her face to his shoulder. “How can it be okay…ever again? My mother is…my mother…”

She cried for a long time, noisily, the pain inside her too much to bear. While she did, Santos held her, murmuring sounds of comfort, stroking her hair.

Finally, exhausted and spent, she lifted her face to his. “What…what am I going to do, Santos? How am I…how do I…go on?”

“You just do,” he murmured, brushing the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “But first, you need to go to her. You don't have much time.”

She wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand. “What do you mean?”

“A warrant's been issued for her arrest.”

“Arrest?” Glory repeated, her knees going weak, then giving. He held her up. “On what charges?”

“Conspiracy. I bought you a little time. I knew you'd want to see her before…”

Before she was arrested. Before the story broke and the media feeding frenzy began.

His unfinished thought hung in the air between them. Her heart stopped, then began beating again with a vengeance. “How long have you known about this? How long have you been…following her?” She could hardly get the words out, they were so bizarre, so unbelievable to her.

“Five days.”

“Five…days.” She counted back, thinking of the times they had been together. Realizing what his silence meant.

She eased out of his arms, anger coming upon her so swiftly it took her breath. “You knew about this for five days, but you never said a thing to me? For five days you had suspicions and—”

“And until today, that's all they were. What could I have said to you?”

“You could have told me the truth! We're lovers, we were sleeping together. Yet you kept this from me?” She shook her head, her devastation complete. “You don't see anything wrong with that, do you?”

“No. Without proof, what could I have said to you? That I
thought
your mother had set me up? That she was involved with a criminal? Please. She's your mother, Glory.”

“Exactly.” Glory pushed her hair away from her face, hand shaking. “She's my mother. You should have told me the truth. You should have let me know what was going on. Dammit, Santos, I deserved that.”

“If I had done that, I would have jeopardized my investigation.”

“I see.” She fisted her fingers, so angry she tasted the emotion. “You were afraid I'd tip my mother off, and she'd skip town. You were worried that I'd find a way to stop you. That I'd tip your captain off about what you were doing.”

For a moment, he said nothing, then he let out a frustrated breath. “I knew you wouldn't believe me. I wanted to be able to prove to you that it was true. What's wrong with that?”

She loved him, she realized. She had never stopped.

He didn't believe in her; he didn't love her. He never would.

That's what was wrong with that.

She crossed to her desk. She retrieved her purse from the bottom drawer, then turned back to him. “How much time do I have left?”

“Not much.” He checked his watch. “Twenty minutes, tops.”

She nodded, outwardly calm. Inside, she was falling apart. “I guess I'd better go.”

“I'm going with you.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Like hell. I'm going alone.”

“I gave Jackson my word.”

“Still afraid I'm going to help her skip town?”

At his damning silence, Glory strode to her office door. There, she stopped and turned to him. “You know, you keep accusing me of not believing in you. Of never believing in you. But I believed enough in you to love you. Not once, but twice now. You're the one who made an issue over our differences, not me. You're the one who judged, the one who decided I was too privileged, too spoiled and self-centered to
really
love you.” She inched her chin up. “
You're
the one who decided you weren't good enough for me to love. Not me.”

Glory yanked open her office door. “It seems to me, that you were the one who never believed, Santos. Not in me, not in us. You never trusted me. You still don't. But right now, I don't have the time to worry about that.”

She drew in a deep, fortifying breath and met his eyes, daring him to try to challenge her. “I'm going to see my mother. And I'm going alone.”