Authors: Erica Spindler
Tuesday, August 16
2:20
A.M.
Mira sat bolt upright in bed. Heart thundering, she flipped on the bedside lamp. A pool of light spilled over her. Nola, she realized. She had left the dog in the courtyard. She was barking.
Mira groaned and dragged her hands through her hair. Right, she
needed
a dog. Thanks, Connor. Like she’d been getting a full night’s sleep without Little Miss Loudmouth.
She threw aside the covers and climbed out of bed. If she didn’t shush Nola, cranky old Louise Latrobe would call the cops. Just what she needed: more NOPD attention.
The floor was cool beneath her bare feet. Hoping to stay at least a little groggy, she didn’t bother with more lights. She padded out to the hallway and froze.
Jeff.
The spicy soap and aftershave he’d used, the scent hung in the air.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent, memories flooding her. Jeff, stepping out of the shower, a billow of fragrant steam filling the bathroom. Cuddling in front of the television, nuzzling his neck, his scent filling her nose.
He was here, she realized. Home at last.
It’d all been a bad dream.
A distinct click, like a door being shut, startled her out of the moment. Reality hit her with the force of a wrecking ball.
Nola’s barking.
The smell of aftershave. The door.
She wasn’t alone.
With a cry, Mira ran for the kitchen and the door to the courtyard. Her steps faltered as she realized Nola had gone quiet. How long ago? Minutes? Because the danger had passed? Or because someone had shut her up?
No!
She broke into a run.
No, no, no!
“Nola!” she called. “Come!”
The dog responded to her cry. She heard her at the courtyard door, clawing.
Just as fear had played a litany of denials in her head, relief played one of thanks. She reached the door, fumbled with the lock, then yanked it open. The dog barreled in, nearly toppling her, obviously no worse for wear.
She wished she could say the same of herself.
Trembling, she sank to the floor and put her arms around the dog’s neck. Whoever had been in the house was gone. She was unharmed. Nola was fine. Take a deep breath, she told herself. It was okay. Everything was okay.
She pressed her face into the dog’s soft fur, comforted. Nola seemed to understand what she needed, and the normally boisterous animal sat immobile, just letting Mira hug her.
A prayer of thanksgiving played in her head. For Nola. Her high-pitched barking. For Connor bringing her the dog, tricking her into taking it.
Connor.
As she thought of him, gratitude and affection speared through her. What if he hadn’t insisted she needed a dog? Where might she be right now?
Someone had been in her house. Again.
She struggled to keep her terror in check, focusing instead on her gratitude. Her relief at being healthy and safe.
She hadn’t felt that after Katrina. Instead she’d felt guilty. Survivor’s guilt, Dr. Jasper had told her. Normal under the circumstances. Many storm survivors were suffering from it. And she had more reasons than most.
She was glad to be alive.
The realization took her breath. She was thankful, with every fiber of her being, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She hadn’t felt this way since before the storm. Mira laughed, reveling in the incredible heady feeling.
She had to share this with Connor. She had to thank him. Jumping to her feet, she retrieved her phone, located his number and dialed it. He answered immediately, sounding fully awake.
Without pausing to consider the oddness of that, she rushed on. “It’s Mira.”
“Mira? Are you okay?”
Her words came out in a rush. “Yes. No … I mean, maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am.”
“Now you’ve lost me.” He yawned. “Did you just wake up or something?”
She had, Mira thought, and laughed. She knew she sounded like a total whack job, but she didn’t care. “Thank you. For Nola. That’s all I wanted to say.”
She heard a rustling from his end of the phone, as if he was moving the bedclothes, sitting up. “I’m glad you two have bonded.”
“That happens with a near-death experience.”
“You’re talking so crazy. Have you been drinking?”
“Nope. Just high on life.”
He laughed. “You don’t have any idea what time it is, do you?”
“None.”
“Three in the morning.”
That penetrated her euphoric bubble. “Oh, my gosh! Connor, I’m so sorry. I’ll let you go.”
“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t sleep much anyway. Why don’t you tell me what brought on this middle-of-the-night, near-death, canine-bonding experience.”
“Someone was in the house tonight. Nola’s barking woke me—”
He cut her off. “Someone was in your house tonight?”
“Yes. But that’s not—”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“It should be. I mean, shit, Mira … have you lost your frigging mind?”
Her bubble of euphoria deflated completely; fear began to fill it. “Oh, my God … someone was in my house again.”
“I’m on my way over.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m—”
“Yeah, I do. What was the name of that detective from before?”
“Malone,” she said. “Detective Malone.”
“Call him. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, August 16
3:10
A.M.
Fifteen years on the job, and Malone still hadn’t adjusted to the middle-of-the-night calls. The blood and gore he could handle. The disregard for human life displayed by some, the sick behavior many accepted as normal. He had learned to let the distrust, discrimination and stupidity roll off his back. And he did it without drink or drugs.
But damn, he missed a good night’s sleep.
Bayle pulled up behind him. She had wanted in, no matter the hour; he’d given her what she wanted. She climbed out of her vehicle and headed his way. From the look of her, she needed her sleep as well.
“What the hell?” she said when she reached him.
“Apparently, someone broke into her house. Again.”
“Lucky us.” At her scowl, he decided she had no sense of humor in the middle of the night.
As they approached the entrance, a dog began to bark. Gallier opened the door before they rang the bell. She held the dog, a big golden retriever, by the collar. “Detective Malone, thank you for coming.”
“Ms. Gallier. You remember my partner, Detective Bayle?”
He saw her slight frown. He suspected Bayle had noted it as well.
“Of course. Come in.”
“I see you took my advice and got a dog.” Malone squatted and scratched behind her ears. “What’s her name?”
“Nola. But I didn’t actually take your advice. Connor—”
The other man emerged from the back of the house, carrying two mugs of coffee. The brew smelled wonderful, obviously a good-quality dark roast.
“Hello, Detectives,” he said.
“Mr. Scott.”
“Call me Connor.” He handed Mira one of the mugs. “Can I get either of you a cup?”
They both refused, then turned back to Gallier. Bayle spoke first. “You were telling us about how you got Nola.”
At her name, the animal trotted over to Bayle for some attention. She patted her head.
“Connor tricked me into taking her.”
“Tricked?” Malone repeated. “Interesting choice of words. How does one do that?”
Scott answered for her. “Mira told me about that Preacher guy attacking her at her studio, then breaking in here. It just didn’t seem smart or safe for her to live here alone. So I brought Nola over and persuaded her to keep her at least for a night.” He smiled. “No tricks involved.”
Malone glanced at Gallier. An emotion moved across her face, an expression of surprise or confusion, then was gone. Scott, he thought, was lying.
Bayle stepped in. “Good thing you did.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “That’s the way it turned out.”
Malone assessed him for a moment, before turning back to Gallier. “Tell us exactly what happened.”
“Nola’s barking woke me up.”
“What time was that?” Bayle asked.
“I’m not certain, I didn’t look at the clock. About two thirty, I guess. I’d made up a bed for her in the courtyard.”
“And where’s your bedroom?”
She pointed down the hall. “I use the downstairs suite. It’s more convenient.”
“And she was loud enough to wake you?”
“Yes. She was going berserk.” She rubbed her arms as if cold. “At first I thought she was just being a dog and I worried she would wake Mrs. Latrobe.”
“Who?”
“My neighbor. On the right. She can be cantankerous. So I got out of bed to go fuss at Nola. But when I got to the hallway, I—”
She stopped and Malone frowned. “What, Ms. Gallier?”
“It’s going to sound silly, but I smelled men’s aftershave.”
Scott frowned. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t?” She clasped her hands together. “I guess I forgot.”
“And then?”
“I heard a door click shut. That’s when I realized—”
She bit the last back, looking uncomfortable. Malone prodded her again. “What did you realize?”
She lifted her chin slightly. “That the smell wasn’t my imagination.”
Bayle cocked her head. “Why would you have thought that?”
Gallier glanced away, then back at them, expression almost defiant. “Because the scent I smelled was the one my husband wore.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tuesday, August 16
4:05
A.M.
Mira shut the door behind the detectives. She held the knob a moment, aware of Connor standing behind her. Once again, they’d found nothing. No sign of a break-in. The windows and doors locked from the inside.
She looked at Connor. “It doesn’t make any sense. I know what I heard. I smelled his aftershave. I didn’t imagine it.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Please don’t.” She caught his arm; it felt like rock beneath her hand. “Stay.”
“I can’t do this, Mira.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Nothing.” He freed himself from her grasp. “I need to go.”
“You’re angry,” she said. “Why?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.” She held his gaze. “Please, don’t go.”
“I can’t do this,” he said again, gesturing to her, then himself. “You and me. I can’t be your go-to guy.”
His words hurt. She held her ground. “I didn’t ask you to be.”
“No? You called me, remember?”
She tilted up her chin. “To thank you for Nola. You brought me the damn dog, I didn’t ask for that.”
“What was I supposed to do?” He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “You tell me about some derelict attacking you, then breaking into your house, and you expect me to sit back and do nothing? I’m not that guy either.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t have anyone else to turn to.” This time she caught his hand, laced her fingers with his. His hand was warm, solid. She didn’t want to let go. “Please, don’t be angry with me. Don’t leave.”
He looked at their joined hands, expression torn, then back up at her. “Jeff’s aftershave, Mira? It’s been almost six years. Is he still so real to you?”
“Yes.” She searched his gaze, heart thundering. “He’s not for you?”
“No. Jeff … he…” Connor swore and freed his hand. “I’ve got to go.”
She stepped in front of the door. “He was your best friend.”
His lips tightened. She sensed he was holding back, that the things he longed to say burned on his tongue. “Whatever you’re thinking, say it, Connor. Just tell me!”
“Move away from the door.”
She held her ground, furious. “Why’d you change the story about Nola?”
“What?”
“The police, you lied to them.”
“It told them too much about us. About you. I don’t trust them.”
“
You don’t trust
them
? They’re the police.”
“And that doesn’t mean squat.”
“Wow, you have changed.”
“War’ll do that to you, sweetheart.”
She cringed at the brutal edge in his voice. “Trust me,” she said softly, reaching out to him. “Please.”
“I want to trust you, I really do.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know. But it’s all I’ve got.” He gently moved her away from the door. “Goodbye, Mira.”
He said it as if this was the last time they would see each other. She couldn’t bear it. But she didn’t know how to stop him.
He climbed into his car and backed out of her drive. And her life. Again.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tuesday, August 16
6:40
A.M.
Malone sat at his desk, gazing at his computer screen. His eyes burned with fatigue, his stomach from too much coffee and too little food. A couple cubicles over, Bayle was doing the same—a little investigative work via the miracle of the Internet.
They’d agreed that something about Gallier’s story and Scott’s presence didn’t add up. They had decided to divide and conquer: he would search out information about Scott, she about Gallier. He’d also wanted to do a little research into the origins and meaning of both
He will come again to judge the living and the dead
and
Judgment Day
.
The saying wasn’t biblical but liturgical. Called the Apostles’ Creed, it was used by nearly every Christian denomination. Both referred to a belief in a God who would come and collect the faithful and banish all others to hell, wherever and whatever that might be.
Many religions had some concept of a God who judged and a final judgment day, but only the Catholic and Lutheran denominations used those exact words in their creed.
So their perp was raised in the church, most probably Roman Catholic, since the New Orleans area was heavily Catholic.
Malone made a mental note to discuss that with Bayle and turned his attention to Scott. Something about the guy just didn’t sit right with him. It was too convenient that all this crap started at the same time he returned home from military service.