Hall, Jessica (23 page)

The disapproval he felt faded into annoyance.
Christ, I'm
getting as uptight as my mother.

At headquarters he checked in with his task force commander, but
no one had any new data or leads to report. It would take another twenty-four
to forty-eight hours to process the evidence collected from the scene. Once he
made a few calls, Cort could do a little canvassing of his own, out on the
Atchafalaya.

Or would have, if Terri Vincent hadn't shown up in his office ten
minutes after he'd arrived. She didn't announce herself or even knock—his door
simply swung open and she sauntered in. "Hey there, Marshal." She
wore another of her endless blase suits, her jacket already rumpled.
"How's tricks?"

"I'm busy." Although he didn't have to make a call, he
picked up the phone. "You have something for me, Sergeant?"

"Yeah." She grinned. "Five-five-five,
six-three-eight-seven."

He cradled the receiver on his shoulder. "What?"

"Five-five-five, six-three-eight-seven. It's a recorded
weather report, updated every hour, and it loops
continuously. I use
it all the time when I want to get rid of someone." She planted herself in
the chair in front of his desk and leaned back, propping one boot on the edge.
"Or would you rather have the one for the high and low tides on the
Gulf?"

He put down the phone. "What do you want, Terri?"

"My captain wants us to work together, remember?" She
ran the toe of her boot along the edge of his desk. "That would require
both of us to be in the same place at the same time, doing the same
thing."

He got up and grabbed the NOFD windbreaker he wore when on
official business. "I'm driving out to the bayou."

"Oops, too late. I already questioned Gantry last night. I
was hoping you'd go with me to interview the widow." She got up and
stretched, propping her hands against the small of her back. "She hasn't
given us a statement yet, and you being so good with women and all..." She
waggled her narrow dark brows at him.

He came around the desk. "Let's get something straight.
You're my brother's partner, not mine."

She cocked her head. She was so tall she didn't have to break her
neck looking up at him, like most women did. "You do have the most
remarkable powers of observation. And?"

"I'm running this arson investigation, not you."

"Well, Marshal, the way I see it, we can go chase around the
swamp, talk to people who will not talk back to us, and probably find out
nothing," she said, her voice overly sweet. "Or we can go interview
the woman who was married to the victim, knew every move he made, slept with
him for the last twenty years, and who is a personal friend of your
family." She pretended to think. "Whatever shall we do?"

"Cozy place J. D.'s friend has got here," Hilaire said
as she emerged from inspecting the bedrooms. "No TV but all kinds of CDs
and books. Two big cozy beds, neither of them twins. She's even got herself a
cute little whirly-pool tub in the bathroom, built for two."

Unable to relax, Sable had paced in front of the lake view window,
watching for signs of J. D.'s return. She didn't want to think about whoever
owned the cottage, much less argue with her cousin about it. She turned and
headed for the kitchen. "How about I make us something to drink?"

"Grand-mère
packed a thermos of her
coffee in the basket." Hilaire followed her in and gazed around at the
white cabinets and small, neat appliances. "Should still be hot."

Sable found some clear glass mugs in the cabinet and poured two
cups. She could feel her cousin watching her. "What's on your mind,
Hil?"

"Like I said, this is a nice place." Hilaire leaned over
the counter to look through the window over the sink. "Would you look at
that? She's even got herself a brick charcoal pit right there in the yard—and
an electric spit. Damn, could I make us some barbecue on that."

"Hil?" Sable held out the mug. "Get serious."

Hilaire took it and sighed. "You don't belong here, cousin.
Not here, not with him."

Which was exactly how Sable felt, not that she'd admit it.
"He's trying to help me—to protect me."

"For one thing, he's a cop, not a bodyguard. He nearly got
you killed last night, or did you forget about all that shooting?"

"He saved my life." Sable nearly knocked over the
thermos before she set it carefully at the back of the counter. "I don't
want to talk about this." She left the kitchen and went to take up her
post by the window.

Hilaire pursued her. "Isabel, I love you like you were my own
sister, but you know I'm right. Look at what happened to you the last time you
got mixed up with Jean-Del—what they did to you. You really think anything is
different now?"

Sable whirled around. "We're not involved like that. He's
only trying to help me."

"Oh,
chère."
Her cousin came over and hugged her
before drawing back and looking up into her eyes. "You never did get over
him, did you?"

She shrugged. "I'll be fine, Hil. If anything happens between
me and J. D., it won't be like it was when I was at Tulane."

"Because Marc LeClare was your real daddy?" Her cousin
shook her head. "His people aren't going to accept you any more than they
did ten years ago. You go and tell the world about Marc and your mama, it'll
only make things worse—can't you see that?"

Sable turned back toward the lake. "All I care about is
finding whoever killed my father."

"And all I want for Mardi Gras is Harry Connick Jr. wearing
nothing but a feathered mask and a double strand of blue beads." Hilaire
sat down on the wicker rocking chair and rested her head against the high back.
"I almost hope he does steal my boat. I don't want to leave you here alone
with him."

"You need to get back to the store before Lacy sells it to a
wandering gypsy." Sable opened the window a little, so she could hear the
sounds from the lake. "Don't worry about me. I think I can restrain
myself."

"Hmph. I've seen the way he looks at you, girl, and I bet you
he buys a whole case of condoms while he's out making groceries."

The memory of a night when J. D. had taken her into the drugstore
to do exactly that made Sable swallow. He'd nearly had to drag her inside, and
she'd been so embarrassed, especially by the look the clerk gave her.

Why do I have to do this?
she'd protested.
This is
a man's thing to do.

I might forget, and I'm counting on you to remember if I do,
he'd
told her, laughing.
And we're both Catholic, so if you get pregnant, both
sides will be hauling out the shotguns for the wedding.

She'd stared at the rack of condoms, feeling slightly resentful.
You
would never marry someone like me.

He'd stopped laughing and had taken her into his arms, right there
in front of the clerk and all the customers.
No, I wouldn't marry someone
like you. I don't want anybody like you. I want you.

"What's in there?" Hilaire got up and opened the tall
cabinet across from her chair, revealing an expensive stereo system. "I
was wondering why she had all those CDs laying on her dresser." She poked
at the receiver's buttons. "You want to listen to some music or the
radio?"

"The radio." Maybe there would be some news about her
father's funeral. Sable pressed her brow against the windowpane and closed her
eyes as she remembered the one and only evening she had spent with Marc. Now he
was lost to her again, forever this time, and she couldn't even go and pay her
last respects.

There was some crackling of static as Hilaire tuned
the
receiver; then an announcer's abrupt, loud voice came through the speakers.

"—witness escaped on foot from Mercy Hospital shortly before
the disappearance of Homicide detective J. D. Gamble. At press time, Chief of
Homicide Captain George Pellerin said the witness, Isabel Marie Duchesne, had
not been found and is now considered a suspect. Sources within the NOPD
indicated that an APB was issued and surrounding county authorities were
alerted to the suspect's flight. State and local police, with the help of a
helicopter, spent nearly five hours combing the immediate area around Mercy for
the suspect before calling off the search for the night." The announcer
gave a short description of Sable, then added, "If you see this woman, do
not attempt to approach her, but contact your local police station immediately.
In other news—"

Hilaire switched off the radio. She was white-faced and shaking.
"Mon
Dieu,
Isabel, this is what they are saying about you? That you're a
suspect
now?"

Sable couldn't think. "They issued an APB for me." An
incredulous laugh erupted from her. "For me."

"The police, they don't kid about things like this."
Hilaire closed the cabinet. "Sounds like they got every cop in Louisiana
out there looking for you."

Sable went to the sofa and sat down, burying her face in her
hands. "I can't believe this—they think I did something to J. D.?"

"You're easy to blame." Her cousin came over and sat
beside her, and slung an arm around her shoulders. "Like when they blamed
you for starting that mud fight back at Tulane—and look how that turned out.
They went and took away everything you earned and kicked you out of that
school."

"I haven't done anything wrong." She stared at her
cousin. "That has to mean something."

"It didn't last time,
chère."

"Jean-Del—"

Hilaire rested a finger against Sable's lips. "You listen
now, because this is bad. When they catch up to you, and they will, they're
going to force him to make a choice."

Sable cringed. "No. It won't be like that."

"But it is,
chère.
It always is. J. D. won't like it,
but that's life. He's Creole; you're Cajun. Those folks in the city are part of
his family, and his job, and everything he knows and loves. You're just an old
girlfriend, honey." She tilted her head to the side. "They're not so
different from us. We do the same for our own."

"He'll stand by me," Sable insisted. "He won't let
them arrest me."

"For now. But when it comes time to choose, who do you think
he's going to pick?" Her cousin looked sad. "Sable, think. It's not
love on the line. It's not a scholarship. It's your life."

The Garden District may have been the loveliest jewel in the
Crescent City's crown, but Terri Vincent had never felt at ease even when she'd
been in uniform, patrolling its short, narrow, potholed streets. Everything
from the electric-powered green streetcars running along St. Charles Avenue to
the manicured jewel box gardens and the fancy little bookshops had always
seemed a bit too pretentious for her liking. She was more at home in the
Quarter, where life was free and easy, and the hours were counted by the bells
of St. Louis Cathedral, which had the right to be ostentatious.

Too many fancy mansions,
she thought as she pulled
around to the back entrance of Marc and Laure LeClare's elegant home.
People
don't live in these places— they curate them, like museums.

Marc LeClare's widow must have hired a private security firm to
watch over the property, because there was a small army of uniformed guards
keeping the reporters and paparazzi from setting up camp. When one of them
tapped Terri's window, she rolled it down to show her badge.

"Detective Vincent and Fire Marshal Gamble," she
told
him. "We have an appointment to speak with Mrs. LeClare."

"Right." The guard checked his clipboard and checked off
an item, then waved a hand to the guard operating the electronic gate.
"Let them through."

A short drive over a sweeping interlocked-stone drive led up to
the three-story, galleried structure painted a soft cream with elaborate
burgundy modillion cornice trim.

"Wow." Terri put the car in park and sat looking up for
a minute. "I don't remember seeing this place before."

"Marc recently had it renovated to restore the Chinese,
Italianate, Eastlake, and Queen Anne revival elements from the original
blueprints." Cort scanned the property, checking out the Mercedes and the
BMW parked on the other side of the drive. "The original house was by
Thomas Sully."

"So it's really old." Thinking of the termite problems
alone made her shudder.

"And rare." He gave the mansion a brooding look.
"Most of Sully's houses have been demolished."

"Who's Sully?" Not that she really cared, but Cort was
apparently trying to relate something important to her, in his usual
college-professor-lecturing way.

"He was the first architect to open a professional,
large-scale firm in the city. In twenty-five years he built over thirty homes
and churches, and changed the face of the Garden District."