Target (25 page)

“Hi,” Aurelie said. “Not the best reason for a gathering.”

“No, I should say not,” Emma said. She shook hands with Sarah and gave Delia a quick hug. “When this is all over, I'd like to have you all over. Maybe for a barbecue if Finn can light a grill without blowing himself up.”

Finn's big hand ran through short, dark hair. He grinned. “She's not going to let me forget a little accident I had, are you, love?” He kissed her and they laughed together.

Emma's hair was a honey-blond version of Aurelie's dark masses of curls. Just like Aurelie's it jutted from a central part, and it suited her. Nick looked at the two of them. He preferred Aurelie's almost black hair. And was grateful she didn't wear the beige straw hat with the black brim unless she was in the sun. She'd changed into a yellow tank dress, a skimpy thing he liked a lot and would like even better if there weren't other men around.

Angel hung back, his hands in his pockets, relaxed but not noticeably engaged.

Sarah said, “Formidable,” to Nick.

He almost asked what she meant, before he saw she was looking at Finn's buddy. “Maybe,” he said. “But Finn has good taste, so he's a good guy.”

Except for Ona and her staff, who scurried around putting the café back in order, and Matt and Buck dismantling the sound system, the room had emptied out.

“We can stay here,” Angel said. He inclined his head almost imperceptibly toward the two cops. “They won't be wanting to swap jokes anytime soon. They'll be outta here. Better in here than out there in the parking lot. More casual.”

Finn nodded.

Patrick Damalis approached and pressed the flesh all the way around. “Sorry you folks are having a difficult time,” he said, addressing Nick. “Hang in there and we'll sort it all out.”

“Thank you, Mayor,” Nick said and Delia echoed, “Thank you, Mayor,” with a straighter face than Nick could have managed.

“Pompous ass,” Emma Duhon said unexpectedly when the man had walked far enough away. “Always was.”

Matt and Buck left the equipment in one corner and made their own detour to the group. “Thanks for cooperatin',” Matt said to Aurelie.

“Ed was a surprise,” she said. “What was that about?”

Buck was too busy giving Sarah a slow assessment to respond, but Matt said, “Don't worry about it. That's
our
job. I'll be talkin' to him. It could be like he said. Heat-stroke. Then the bump on the head and he may have gotten confused enough to jump in the pool. Good night, all.”

They watched them go before Angel stood in front of Delia and Sarah. “Okay if I call you by your first names?”

Seconds ticked away before Delia cleared her throat and said, “Absolutely. And what should we call you?”

“Angel will do,” he said, straight-faced.

Nick wanted to laugh at the dazzled expressions on Delia's and Sarah's faces. “I hoped Ed was going to be the break we need,” he said to Finn.

“He will be,” Angel said. “He's already shown us that.”

“Yes,” Nick said, considering Ed's behavior. “I guess he has.”

“How will we reach you if we need you, Angel?” Delia asked. “There's plenty of room at Place Lafource if—”

“No, thank you, Delia. You relax. I'll be the one doing any reaching if it's necessary.”

B
uck Dupiere scuffed up the dusty wooden steps to the tin-roofed house he'd rented by the bayou. The house stood on stilts; water slipped around them on the bayou side of the place, and on this side, the steps went up a long way to the gallery. He had already learned to avoid several loose boards up there.

A voice said, “Hi, Buck Dupiere, I've been waiting for—”

A woman emerged from shadows. He slammed her against his screen door, and knocked her arms above her head before she could get more words out. Her hands were empty. He snapped them down and wedged them behind her back. Holding her by the throat, he frisked her.

“I'm not going to be any trouble,” she said. “Please, I just want to talk to you.”

Buck peered closer at her face, glanced down at moonlight bouncing off the tops of a memorable pair displayed at the low neck of a tank top. “Creeping up on a cop in the dark isn't real smart,” he said, loosening his grip on her throat and taking her by the shoulders instead.

“I know. I had to come. I don't have anyone else to turn to.”

“You don't know anything about me…except my name. Why choose me?”

“I saw you.” Her breasts rose and fell rapidly. “You're a strong man, honest, I could tell. And I know you don't come from around here, so you don't think like a small-town cop.”

“Maybe I come from another small town.”

“New Orleans?”

He didn't like the idea that she'd asked questions about him. “Yeah. You've done your homework.”

“Some things aren't hard to find out.”

Buck set her to one side, yanked the screen open and unlocked the door. He reached the switch and flipped on a light. He stood back. “Inside and face me.”

“I'm not a criminal, I'm a writer.”

“And writers can't be criminals?”

She grabbed her bag and walked across the threshold. He crowded in behind her so that when she turned around he was in her face. Her eyes widened. He noted that for a desperate woman she'd taken a lot of time with her makeup and her long, blond hair.

“We've met before haven't we?” he asked.

“I'm Joan Reeves. You asked me to dinner,” she said, smiling. “Remember, I'm here because I'm working on a book about antebellum houses and the families who have lived in them. I'm using Place Lafource here in Pointe Judah, and Nick's the perfect one for me to get the facts from, but he's making things real difficult. I need to talk to you alone about how to handle him. This was the only way I knew to do that.”

“How did you find out where I live? Don't answer that. I forget where I am sometimes. In this town, you probably know what I had for lunch.”

“I don't know that,” she said.

He looked at her, curious. The sweet, annoying little voice wouldn't bother him so much if he thought it was real. But could she be as stupid as she sounded? “That was just a figure of speech,” he said.

She gave an exaggerated snort and covered her mouth. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Look, I'm tired. All I want is a drink and some sleep. Come and see me at the station tomorrow.”

“No!” She jiggled on the toes of shoes with thin straps that criss-crossed several times at the ankle. “Oh, please. I'm in trouble and I can't wait till tomorrow to talk to you. And it's got to be in complete privacy. Just between you and me, Buck. I promise I'll make it up to you.”

That was an interesting offer. He looked at her speculatively. “It's been a long day. I'm having a beer. Want one?”

She pulled up her shoulders, then smiled. A pretty woman, a sexy woman. “Thank you very much,” she said. “I know what you mean about long days. I went to the station this morning. I was hoping for a word with Matt. He was already out somewhere. The officer out front, Carly, said you were out, too. Last night I was there, as well, but I couldn't get in then, either, because the desk officer said everyone was busy with Nick and Aurelie Board. I know a doctor was called. Who got sick? Or was someone hurt? What's going on?”

He stared at her. “You're askin' me about an official meeting?”

“Aw, c'mon, questions from people like me aren't new to you. I've got a job to do and this whole town behaves like I'm trying to steal something from them.”

“Ah…” He wagged a finger in the air. “Beer. Beer would be good. It's a nice night. We'll sit out back.”

His home might be little more than a shack on stilts with a tin roof, but he had a collection of furniture big enough to furnish a much larger house. His ex-wife hadn't been interested in trying to screw him out of antiques she didn't understand, just their children.

He'd chosen the pieces of furniture he used here to keep him remembering things, lessons learned. The rest was in storage.

Mollie surely had looked good arranged on the little pink-and-silver damask chaise that had belonged to his grandmother. His habit was to look at the chaise when he came home. Mollie used to sit there holding their twin girls and he had been a happy man with his three golden-haired girls.

Times changed.

Joan slid into a chair and made herself comfortable. There was nothing in the living room that could interest Joan Reeves. He left her there and went into his shiny clean kitchen to get a couple of beers. These he opened and he poured the one for Joan into a glass.

Matt had talked about Joan Reeves and her so-called book. She wasn't a journalist—the hated breed. He must remind himself of that regularly, Buck thought, and the obvious fact that she was very different from any reporter he'd encountered. But he needed to watch her carefully, just to make sure she didn't get into something that was none of her business. After a lot of meticulous work, he and Matt had come up empty. That did not surprise Buck one bit, or discourage him. He was patient.

This woman was too eager, too determined for the average writer working on the kind of project she talked about. He had only come in contact with a few writers but they usually took the attitude that everything they needed would eventually come to them. Not Joan Reeves. She meant business,
now,
and she was pushy, even if she did talk like a Catholic schoolgirl.

“C'mon out,” he called, “into the kitchen.” He waited until she stepped uncertainly through the door and looked around.

“Nothin' worth writin' about here,” he said. “Just a bachelor pad.”

“A clean and tidy bachelor,” she said. “I like that. And you've got everything really nice, too. Your furniture's gorgeous.”

He didn't thank her.

“May I use your bathroom?” she asked, looking coy.

Buck pointed her to the bedroom and the only bathroom in the house. She dropped her purse on a chair and swayed away from him.

 

Joan closed the door in the tiny bathroom and locked it. She ran water in the sink and slid open metal, mirror-fronted cabinets. They were tidy, like the kitchen, with ordinary male toiletries, aspirin, condoms, nothing interesting.

She looked around and felt stupid, and desperate. What had she expected to find, a kilo of coke under the sink?

On the back of one door, the left one, he'd taped a photo taken at a distance. Joan leaned close to see better. A funeral in the rain. A canopy with mourners clustered beneath. With pulse throbbing in her throat, she drew back and closed the door.

He was a physical man and he had action in mind. And she was ready for him. But she'd needed to take a little time and think how to use the opportunity she'd be buying.

 

When Joan reappeared, Buck considered asking if she'd found what she wanted in his medicine cabinet. Did she honestly think running water masked the sound those squeaky hinges made? So what. Her little attempt at sleuthing hadn't been worth the effort to her.

The back door opened onto a second gallery that jutted into gnarled cypress trees growing out of the bayou shallows. He indicated for Joan to go outside.

Curtains of Spanish moss shone silver, and mist coiled through the tree trunks, just above the water.

“Take a chair.” He tilted his head, indicating for her to pass him. “Over there.”

Halfway past him, she paused and looked up without smiling. “I'm not complicated,” she told him. “I do have needs, though. Like being able to eat and put my head down somewhere safe.” She tucked her hands into the pockets of a short, straight denim skirt and drew up her shoulders.

Her top gaped, Buck looked down on twin peaks and his automatic indicator jumped. The view she'd given him was no accident. Her message didn't need interpretation: she would enjoy paying for his cooperation in her own way if that's what it took. He was a man who liked to make up his own mind about what worked to his advantage.

He had already decided he was getting double wages.

There were four chairs, old teak weathered gray the way he liked it, and shimmed up close enough to the iron railing around the gallery to allow for foot-propping.

Joan took the second chair in and Buck sat beside her. Standing, Joan was statuesque. She must have long legs, because when she sat, he looked over the top of her head.

“You're set up for a party,” she said.

He looked at her blankly.

She indicated the row of chairs. He nodded and said, “You never know how many drinking buddies will show up.” The four chairs were a habit and a symbol…and a warning never to let anyone get too close to him again.

So far, Joan was the first person who had joined him on his gallery among the cypresses where the trees had their roots in sludgy, waterlogged ground and their branches entwined beneath the blasted skags of their crowns, victims of electrical storms.

Buck passed Joan her beer.

She thanked him and said, “How long have you lived here?”

“Not long. I heard there could be a position opening with the local police and I let them know I might be interested if they got the kind of vacancy I could take. Something came up and here I am.” He'd arrived as soon as Matt let him know he understood Billy Meche would leave, but he'd kept to himself until the job came through. He liked to get to know his surroundings real well. Asking directions wasn't something he did.

“It's a lot different here from New Orleans,” Joan said.

The less personal discussion, the better. “Yeah.” He wasn't shedding tears over leaving the NOPD.

“I guess folks don't want to work there anymore.”

New Orleans was his city. “It's a good place and it's coming back just fine. I wanted a change, is all.”

He swung his boots onto the railing.

“I'm lucky,” she said. “I can work any old place.”

“Are you always busy?”

“Not as busy as I'd like to be. I've had some thin times. But this is good, this thing I'm doing now. It's going to pay really well.”

He doubted she had any guarantees of a good payday. Her anxiety was too obvious, too raw.

He decided to let her make all the moves, raise all the topics, and kept quiet.

“What do you know about the Boards?” she asked.

He crossed his ankles. “Nothing. Why should I?”

“I don't know. I was just hoping.”

“I don't know anything about them.”

She took a sip of beer. “I got the impression Nick and Matt are old friends. Doesn't Matt know stuff about the family?”

“If he does, he hasn't told me.”

“I bet he would if you asked him.” She looked sideways at him and the moon glinted in her eye. “And his sisters. They seem different.”

Buck upended his bottle and poured the beer down his throat. If he wanted to he could wise her up to Nick, Sarah and Aurelie not being related. If he wanted to. Might make a bone to get Joan off his back if he needed to and it wasn't like everyone around here wouldn't know soon enough.

She gave his arm a playful punch. “You're a quiet one but I really like you. I haven't done so well with the Boards. I mistook Aurelie for Nick's wife once. I'm not a shining star around here.”

She looked pretty shiny to Buck. He checked her over again. “Why aren't you married, with a couple of cute kids? Or maybe you are.”

“No.”

“You should be. Good-looking woman like you, smart. Someone's missing a bet.”

He heard her take a long breath through her nose. “Thanks. I think that's the closest I've gotten to a compliment in a long time.”

“It's hot,” he said. There was no percentage in pretty talk with Joan Reeves. “I like it. Humid as hell. Makes me feel like takin' off all my clothes.”

She didn't giggle like some women would. “You married?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Lonely?”

A direct woman. “Sometimes.”