Priceless (17 page)

IN THE RESTAURANT
, Charlotte was doing her best. She’d been warmly welcomed at the restaurant, and Kat’s dad made sure everyone knew she was to get all the help she needed to pick up the job. On the one hand, that was great, because God knew she really needed the help, but on the other hand it seemed she was never going to get treated as a normal person. Maybe she just wasn’t one.

She’d been placed in the tender care of Sam King, a waitress with dark wavy hair and intelligent eyes, who was to show her the ropes. A Northern Californian by birth, Sam was full of insight and humor about the New Orleans way of life and, in particular, how to make people feel they were really experiencing it.

“A good percentage of our customers are from out of town,
because the restaurant is rightly famous for its Creole cuisine. But at the same time, this place is very popular among the locals or those people who come to New Orleans a lot. Our job is to make all of them real welcome, in the Southern tradition, flirt a little, keep the drinks coming, smile a lot, and make sure they leave happy.” They watched an older gentleman help his slightly inebriated wife out of the restaurant, colliding with the hostess stand as they did so. “She might be borderline too happy, but she’s walking.” Sam lowered her voice. “You have to make sure if they’re getting too drunk, you tell the barkeep so he can mix their drinks a little more gently. The goal is to have them vomit away from the restaurant.”

Charlotte laughed, but Sam was serious.

“Drinking is a major part of New Orleans life, always has been. You can walk around with a drink in your hand, you can even drive around with a drink in your hand, as long as it’s frozen.”

“The hand?” Charlotte grinned.

“The drink, silly. You haven’t seen the drive-through frozen daiquiri stands? You will.”

Charlotte shook her head. “I’m not a big drinker, to be honest.”

Sam looked approvingly at her. “Smart girl. It will only get you in trouble here, that’s for sure. Customers will try to buy you drinks all the time. Just tell them it’s company policy not to accept. Eventually, they feel bad and just give you a bigger tip.” She frowned. “Hey … that’s Jackson Pearl. What’s he doing here?”

Charlotte whirled around. Jackson was standing at the door, talking with the maitre d’. “You know him?”

Sam nodded. “Of course, everyone does. His band is one of the hottest in town right now, standing room only when they play. Besides, he’s hella cute.”

The maitre d’ was looking around and found Charlotte. He beckoned her over.

Sam raised her eyebrows. “You know him, too?”

“Kind of. Be right back.” Charlotte squared her shoulders and walked over, trying to frown at Jackson and smile at the maitre d’ at the same time.

Jackson lowered his voice. “Charlotte, some creepy guy called you on your cell phone. It must have dropped in the kitchen when … you were at home …” Jackson looked slightly abashed but genuinely concerned.

“What did he say?”

“I’d rather not say in here. But I think we should call the police.”

Charlotte shook her head. “I’ll do it after I finish working, OK? He’s in New York. The police already know about him.”

David Karraby came over. “Everything all right, Charlotte?” He nodded at Jackson. “Good evening, young man. Please pass on my best to your mother.”

Jackson nodded and smiled a little.

“Yes, Mr. Karraby, everything’s OK.” She frowned at Jackson. “Let’s talk about this later.” She was worried she would lose her job, and she hadn’t even worked an hour yet.

Jackson turned to David Karraby. “Charlotte got a threatening phone call, and she got attacked in New York, you know. I think she should call the police.”

Charlotte was furious. “I’m quite capable of making that decision for myself.”

Karraby didn’t blink. “Charlotte, my darlin’, my first responsibility is to my patrons and staff. I’m sure you understand. I’m going to call the police now, and when you’ve sorted all this stuff out, you’ll be welcome back at work, OK?” He reached for the phone.

Charlotte nodded, tears of frustration prickling in her eyes. Within a minute, the police pulled up, and people started to gather. You were never far from a show in the French Quarter, and tonight she was apparently it. Charlotte heard her name being muttered, passed around like a note in class. Great, people were recognizing her. So much for starting over. All she wanted was to be left in peace. A week ago, she’d been in Paris, happily eating croissants and watching the boys, and now she was in a strange city, trying to do a job she never in a million years thought she would have to do, and some crazy guy was fucking up her first night at work. It was
bullshit, and she was getting more than a little overwhelmed by it. What she would give to see a friendly face.

“Charlotte.”

She looked up and saw Scarsford crossing the street. He’d stayed hidden until the police pulled up, and then he’d headed toward her without even thinking about it. Now, as he pushed through the watching crowd, she pulled away and ran toward him, throwing herself into his arms.

Scarsford had managed to get a quiet room at the police station, away from the roaring drunks and shrill whores who’d apparently set up shop in the detectives division.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, right?” He smiled tightly at Charlotte. He’d been so taken aback when she’d run to him, so overwhelmed with the urge to protect her, to take her away somewhere safe and keep her close, that for the moment he’d forgotten his suspicions. He was back under control now, though, he reminded himself, back on the job.

For her part, Charlotte had been glad to see him. She wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t as if he was even on her side, so to speak—but she trusted him.

The New Orleans police had wanted to put her in a squad car, but Scarsford had flashed his badge and brought her down to the station himself. They had driven Jackson to the station and commandeered her phone—she was starting to think she’d give up on cell phones forever—and still had him in the squad room, asking him questions about the call. She’d been shocked to hear what the caller had said and felt very vulnerable, even though he was presumably back in New York. The New Orleans cops had been stony-faced and unmoved. New Orleans had a
horrific crime rate, and they’d seen it all. Having said that, they recognized a potential shit storm when they saw it, and the last thing they wanted was the daughter of a major criminal getting publicly murdered in their city. They were just getting the tourists back after Katrina. They were more than happy to hand Charlotte over to the SEC agent, and soon the local FBI agent would show up, and they would be able to wash their hands of Jackson, too.

Scarsford was on the phone, and Charlotte watched him. He was handsomer than she’d first thought, and somehow the casual jeans and T-shirt were sexier than the suit had been. He was more muscular than she’d suspected, and his arms were taut and tanned, and suddenly she felt a tightness in her stomach that surprised her. He walked over to the small window and looked out at the city, unintentionally giving her the chance to admire his broad shoulders, the sense of coiled power and control that was so alien to her. He turned suddenly, and she saw he was angry, presumably with whomever he was talking to.

“No, I don’t think that’s going to work. She needs to be in custody.” He paused, looking at her but not really seeing her. His mouth was tight, his eyes narrowed, and she shuddered. She didn’t want him ever to be that angry with her. She wanted, she realized, to curl up in his arms and stay there until all of this was over.

“Fuck.” He snapped his phone shut and glared at her. She was looking up at him like a puppy, those big eyes wide in her beautiful face, seeming smaller than ever sitting in this strange room.
Damn her.

“What’s the matter?” Even her voice was soft.

“You’re the matter. I don’t want you to get killed, but seeing as
you’re not actually in anyone’s custody, it’s proving hard for me to get you officially protected. You’re not a witness, because your father has confessed, and hardly anybody thinks you’re involved, anyway, so until this guy actually makes a move on you, we’re in limbo.”

There was a pause as she thought over what he’d said. “Hardly anybody? You said hardly anybody—does that mean somebody thinks I’m involved? Involved in what, anyway, my dad’s stuff?”

He nodded. “It’s still possible you have information that could help us.”

“Do you think so?”

He was silent for a moment, looking at the floor. Then he looked up, directly into her eyes. “What’s on the zip drive, Charlotte?”

She looked surprised. “What?”

He was tired, and he rubbed the side of his face with his palm. “The zip drive. I saw you drop it into the tray at the airport. It wasn’t with the other computer equipment you turned over, and it should have been.”

“That’s why you’re here?” Suddenly, the attraction she felt for him receded, replaced by self-righteous anger. “You’re here because you suspect me, not because you want to protect me.”

“I just want to know what’s on it, Charlotte. If it’s totally unimportant, then you presumably won’t have any problem sharing it.”

Her anger was increasing. “I have no idea what’s on it, you asshole. My father left it for me, along with some other very personal things, and I haven’t even looked at it.”

She was flushed and had never looked sexier to him. His
body ached for her, but his mind was definitely in control.

“So let’s look at it together.”

“Fine. Let’s.” She folded her arms on the table and glared at him.

“Where is it?”

“In my luggage, back at Millie’s house.” She sighed. “Look, Scarsford, I’ve told you before, and I’m telling you again. I know nothing at all about the bullshit my dad was up to, and I have no idea what’s on the zip drive. It could be music, for all I know. Or it could be details of his Swiss bank accounts and offshore companies, in which case you’re welcome to it. You’re welcome to the music, too, if you want it. Take what you want: everyone else does.”

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Fuck you.”

Scarsford left the room without bothering to reply, and several minutes passed. Charlotte looked around, slightly amazed that rooms this ugly existed. Beige walls, dark green hairy carpet tiles, furniture of the type found in crappy public schools—and yet no doubt all manner of human drama and excitement had played out against the bland background. Murderers confessed, victims cried, mothers turned against sons, and sons lied for mothers. How many other sweaty palms had rested on this tabletop? How many other lonely people had watched the second hand sweep around that clock face?

“Come on, we’re moving.” Scarsford’s voice startled her.

Walking through the police station, she saw Jackson, still
tiredly answering questions.

“Why is he still here?” She tugged on Scarsford’s sleeve. “He was helping me. Why are they keeping him?”

Scarsford didn’t even look around. “Who knows? Who cares?”

Charlotte stopped. “I do.”

“Why?” Scarsford sighed but went over to talk to the cop with Jackson. He came back quickly, walking past her and gesturing for her to keep up. “He’s fine. He’s waiting to sign his statement, and then he’s free to go. You can catch up with him tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?” Charlotte had long legs and walked fast as a general rule, but she was having a hard time keeping up with Scarsford, who appeared to be on a schedule.

“No. Tonight you’re with me.”

She slowed, but he didn’t miss a step.

Scarsford’s hotel room was as nondescript as the interrogation room had been, despite the carpet being a different shade of green. Two large beds faced the obligatory plasma TV, and the desk was covered with paperwork and two laptop computers. Scarsford cleared the paperwork and was still hooking up the laptops when a cop knocked on the door to deliver Charlotte’s luggage.

“Do you want to do the honors?” Scarsford had put the suitcase on the bed and was about to flip it open when he apparently remembered his manners.

Charlotte shrugged. “Aren’t you supposed to have a warrant or something?”

“Do I need one? I thought you wanted to show me.”

“I don’t want to show you anything. But I don’t see that I have much choice.”

“Of course you do. You don’t have to give me anything you don’t want to give me, Charlotte.”

She looked at him for a long moment. What she really wanted to give him, right at that moment, was a swift kick in the nuts, but that probably wouldn’t be wise. She thought he liked her. Thought he trusted her. She flipped the locks on the case and
threw back the lid.

When she hooked up the zip drive, nothing happened right away. Clicking on a document called “Index,” she and Scarsford both held their breath. They weren’t sure what they wanted to see, but neither of them expected what popped open.

“Who’s that?” said Scarsford after a moment.

Charlotte was silent. She swallowed as music filled the room. “It’s my mother. And me.”

The zip drive contained home movies. Judging by the index, there were hours of them. Jackie pregnant, laughing, in Central Park. Jackie holding a baby in her arms, sleepy in bed, lit by a small bedside lamp, as beautiful as it’s possible for a woman to be.

And there was sound.

First her father’s voice. “Who do we have here, Jack?”

Her mother laughed. “This is Charlotte Louise Williams, age four days.” She looked down at the baby, who gurgled back. “She has your nose, sweetheart.”

A laugh, off-camera. “We can fix that later. As long as she has your sweet disposition, we’ll be fine.”

“She seems pretty mellow, not that I have anything to compare her to, just yet.”

“Is she getting sleepy?”

Jackie looked down, the corners of her mouth deepening in a smile. “She is, the little strudel.”

“Sing to her, darling.”

Jackie looked up at Charlotte’s dad, behind the camera, and started singing a lullaby. It was as much to him as to the child, and the melody and lyrics were very personal.