Hall, Jessica (11 page)

"Hell of a mess," his senior investigator told him as he
went over what he knew about the arson case. "We're waiting for the
medical examiner's report on LeClare. The redhead barely got out before the
building went up."

Terri Vincent hadn't breathed a word about the witness being J.
D.'s ex. She would have known, too. J. D. wasn't one to keep something like
that from his partner. Why she hadn't told Cort would be one of the first
things he'd take up with her when he got downtown. "What was used to torch
the building?"

"Amoco cocktails," his investigator said, referring to a
very specific type of homemade gasoline bomb. "We recovered one partially
intact, and if s exactly like the ones used to torch that marina last month,
and the processing plant in December."

Cort thought of the serial arsonist who had been plaguing
LeClare's commercial-fishing industries. From the threats LeClare had received,
Corf s department was fairly sure it was a group of disgruntled independent
fishermen torching the businessman's property—fishermen who were Cajuns, just
like Sable Duchesne.

It might be a coincidence, or maybe Sable had another reason for
being there.

"Send someone to pick up my bags at the airport. I'll leave
the claim checks at the information counter."

Cort pulled the long-term parking ticket from his wallet.

"Where you headed, Chief?"

Sable knew the moment J. D. left the examination room, and
unconsciously relaxed for a moment before concentrating on keeping the ER staff
convinced that she was not going to regain consciousness. Her stretcher was
wheeled out of the exam room into a hallway. From the conversation between the
nurse and the orderly, they were moving her to radiology and from there would
take her to a room.

"So what's her story?" she heard a young male voice ask
after she was pushed into a very cold room.

"Not sure. Head injury, I think." The orderly who had
taken her from the ER had only received instructions to transport her to
radiology. "You want her chart?"

"No, leave it there. I've got a portable pelvis in ten
minutes. I've got to get this one done fast." Something soft but stiff
encircled her neck. "Help me move her?"

She remained limp as they lifted and maneuvered her onto the exam
table, and she kept her eyes closed as the radiology machines and film plates
were arranged around her. Only when the volunteer stepped outside did she open
her eyes to slits, to see the layout of the room. There was a protective panel
behind which a young male technician stood over a complicated-looking console.
The orderly was gone, and there was no sign of J. D. anywhere.

I
can stop pretending now.

She watched the young male technician as he worked. He turned
knobs and punched buttons, and
the equipment buzzed. He came out to
change plates and smiled down at her.

"Hey, there. How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts," she admitted.

"I imagine it does." His pager went off, and he checked
it and sighed. "Listen, sweetheart, I've got an emergency right down the
hall here that can't wait. You just relax, and I'll be right back, okay?"
When she nodded, he grinned again and wheeled one of the smaller machines out
of the room.

Sable rolled onto her side and tugged the thin sheet around her.
That and the patient gown she wore were so thin that they didn't keep her from
shivering. The minutes ticked by, and when the technician didn't return she
grew restless.

Did he forget about me?

At last she sat up, climbed down from the table, and went to see
what was holding up the technician. She reached the door just as it swung open,
and stepped back behind it.

A short, wiry-looking man in a yellow hard hat came in and walked
toward the table. She couldn't see his face, but he left a strangely familiar
odor in his wake. A smell like fish... mixed with gasoline.

It was him.

Sable edged around the door and ran out into the hall. There was
no one outside in either direction, so she darted into the unmarked door on the
other side of the hall. It turned out to be some kind of supply closet,
complete with stacked rolling carts of clean linens.

What do I do now?

She couldn't stay here; she had to get away. She needed clothes.

A rack of white lab coats hung on one side of the closet, and she
grabbed one, then nearly screamed as
the gap revealed the
motionless body of the young X-ray technician. The whites of his eyes were pink
and his jaw sagged; there were dark bruises around his neck.

He'd been strangled.

Her stomach surged as she reached down and checked for a pulse,
but found none. She threw a wild look at the door. Would he come back? Would he
look for her in here?

Find J. D.

She went to the door and eased it open a fraction of an inch. The
stink of fish and gasoline hit her nose, and she saw a man's back only a few
inches away. The man was still wearing a yellow hard hat. He was standing right
in front of the closet, waiting.

Watching for her.

Sable pulled the lab coats back to conceal the technician's body,
then retrieved a pair of surgical scrub pants spotted with dried blood from a
soiled linen bin. After yanking on the pants and tucking her patient gown
inside, she pulled on the lab coat she'd taken down. A quick search of the
shelves produced a plastic shower cap and a pair of elastic shoe coverings,
which she used to cover her hair and feet.

With a silent prayer she grabbed one of the clean linen carts, and
used it to push the door open. The man automatically stepped aside and glanced
at her, but she kept her head down and quickly turned her back to him.
"Pardon me."

She pushed the bin down the hall toward the red exit sign.

Just a few more feet.

"Hey—hey, wait."

When she glanced back over her shoulder, she saw him running after
her. In desperation she swung the
bin around and shoved it at
him, then ran into the stairwell. She hurried down the steps to the next floor,
where she darted inside the ward. She didn't dare stop to ask for help. He was
coming after her; he could catch up at any second.

She had to get away.

The lab coat made her invisible to the nurses and doctors she
passed as she followed the signs to the elevators. No one spoke to her or even
glanced her way on the elevator, or tried to stop her when she left the hospital.

For a moment she stood outside and thought of J. D. waiting in the
ER for her, then through the glass saw the man in the yellow hard hat step off
the elevator. He was scanning the faces of the people in the lobby.

For the first time she got a good look at his face, and recognized
him. Billy Tibbideau, one of Caine Gantry's men.

Caine had been fighting tooth and nail to keep commercial fishing
out of the bayou. Marc had owned one of the largest commercial-fishing
companies in the state.

Billy started walking toward the front entrance.

She had to find J. D. Sable hurried down to the ER entrance, then
stopped when a sedan pulled up in front of her, blocking her path. The elderly
driver got out and walked toward her, leaning heavily on the cane in his right
hand. His left was wrapped in a bloody kitchen towel.

"What happened to you?"

"Durn stray dog bit me," he said, then scowled and
nodded toward the sedan. "I left the keys in the ignition—you go on and
park that for me. I'm about to keel over." Without another word he hobbled
on into the hospital.

"Cortland is returning early from Biloxi," Elizabet
Gamble told her housekeeper, Mae Wallace, as she inspected the new floral
arrangement in the dining room, and tucked a wayward fern leaf back behind a
full-bloom rose. "Would you set an extra place for him at dinner
tonight?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mae went to draw the blue satin curtains
open. "Looks like it's going to rain."

"Better now than this weekend." Elizabet frowned at her
slightly blurred reflection in the surface of the long mahogany table, which
had been in her family since the French Revolution. There was nothing wrong
with the short, neat arrangement of silver curls, but she lifted the glasses
hanging on the chain around her neck to inspect herself anyway. "Either
I've grown two more eyebrows, or this table needs polishing, Mae."

The housekeeper chuckled. "I'm sure if s the table,
ma'am." The phone in the kitchen rang, and Mae excused herself. She
returned a moment later. "It's Ms. Moriah Navarre for you."

"I'll take it in the library. Which reminds me, would you
call the florist and make sure she has enough gardenias in stock for the party?
I don't want to have to scramble for flowers at the last minute." Elizabet
picked up her planner from the table. There was so much to do, and only a few
days left. "Oh, and please let me know when the caterer delivers the
serving tables—we'll need an extra one for the cold buffet."

The week of New Orleans's biggest holiday of the year was always
hectic, but Elizabet Gamble had grown accustomed to handling the challenges.
Aside
from the annual Krewe of Louis Dinner, which her husband held at his
restaurant for his business associates, the Noir et Blanc Gala was the most
important social event on the family calendar. Since assuming the role of
hostess from her mother twenty-five years ago, Elizabet had followed tradition
and driven herself to put on the most elegant, perfect party of the season.

Tradition was a wonderful thing, but in the last few years keeping
up with it had started to wear on her.
I'm getting too old to be running
around like this every Mardi Gras.

As she went into her husband's library, Elizabet wished for the
thousandth time that she had a daughter of her own. Her daughter-in-law, Wendy,
might have taken over the family duties, but she and Evan insisted on living on
a ranch in the middle of godforsaken Montana, of all places. Still, Elizabet
had two more sons to marry off, and as soon as Jean-Delano settled down with
Moriah, she could pass the torch of tradition.

Now if I can just convince him to propose to the girl.
She
knew how stubborn her son could be, but it wouldn't hurt to drop a gentle hint.
An engagement announcement at this year's gala would be the perfect highlight
of the party. Once he was married, then she and Moriah could work on getting
him out of the police department and into an occupation that wouldn't require
him to carry a gun to work.

She picked up the phone on her husband's desk. "Moriah, my
dear, how are you? What excellent timing—I was just thinking about you."
The smell of strong liquor made her frown, and she opened one of the desk
drawers, where her husband had left a bottle of cognac and a small snifter. She
suppressed a sigh— Louie had promised her and his doctor that he'd stop
drinking—and
closed the drawer.
"I've
been meaning to have you and Jean-Delano
over for dinner this week; would the two of you be free tonight? Cort will be
home early, so we all could have a little pre-gala celebration."

"Elizabet, I'm sorry, I can't. Something terrible has
happened." Moriah sounded uncharacteristically hoarse and unhappy.
"Marc LeClare was killed this morning."

She slowly sat down in her husband's chair, unable to speak as
Moriah related the appalling details of what had happened. Elizabet thought of
Marc, who had been friends with her husband since childhood, and how devastated
Louie was going to be when he heard the news. Tears stung her eyes as Moriah
told her about Laure LeClare's near-catatonic state, and how vicious the media
were being.

As the girl's voice trailed off, Elizabet rallied herself.
"I'll call Louis; we'll bring some food from the restaurant over for
Laure. Will you be staying with her, honey? I don't think she has any family in
town."

"Yes, I think I'd better." Moriah sighed. "I've
been trying to get hold of J. D., but they say he's at the hospital with the
woman they found with Marc."

"A woman?" Elizabet frowned. "Who is she? Why is
she at the hospital?"

"She was hurt or something; I'm not sure. They're having a
press conference about her on television in a few minutes." An uneven
voice spoke in the background, and Moriah added, "I have to go—Laure's
calling me. You will come soon, won't you, Elizabet?"

"Yes. Try to get her to rest in the meantime, and don't speak
to any reporters. I'll see you soon." Elizabet switched lines and dialed
her husband's restaurant. "Philipe? Would you ask my husband to come to
the
phone, please." She listened for a moment as the maître d' explained that
Louis was supervising a delivery. "Very well, then, please ask him to call
me back as soon as possible. It's extremely important."