Hall, Jessica (8 page)

"I want you and Gamble in my office," Pellerin told her
as they went back upstairs. He was a short, heavy-set man who looked like a
rabid bulldog on his
good
days. "As soon as he's done with the
witness."

"Yes, sir." She kept her expression blank, but her
stomach knotted. Pellerin didn't get steamed without good reason—and it wasn't
just the media sharks. Every friend Marc LeClare had—and he had them all
the
way up to the White House—would be calling and demanding answers.

And when they found out about the girl? All hell would break
loose.

She went to her desk to pull the necessary report forms for Laure
LeClare to fill out, when her phone rang. "Detective Vincent."

"It's me," a familiar deep voice, almost identical to J.
D.'s, said. "What's going on down there?"

Every one of her muscles tightened; Terri could think of no one
she'd rather speak to less. The voice belonged to Chief Fire Marshal Cortland
Gamble, another person her partner should have dealt with himself. Unlike his
brother, Cort was rigid and serious, and devoted himself utterly to the job. He
was universally respected and the best fire marshal the city had had in years.

None of which explained why she'd fallen for him years ago.

Terri was still so ridiculously infatuated with Cort Gamble that
she didn't trust herself around him. One kind word from him would have punched
through the fortress she'd built around her heart and wrecked her forever, and
she couldn't allow that.
Wouldn't
allow him to do that to her. So she
avoided him, and hoped in time that she could starve her stupid female feelings
to death.

It hadn't worked so far, but there was nothing else she could do.
Like J. D., Cort liked high-maintenance, low-IQ women who looked good on his
arm. Terri Vincent was as far from that as a woman could get and still qualify
as a member of the female gender. "Arson, murder, mayhem, the usual."
She kept her tone light and happy. Cort hated light and happy "How's the
weather in Biloxi, Chief? You working on your tan?"

"
I
just got word from my department," he said, his
voice dropping from chilly to flash frozen. "Who killed Marc
LeClare?"

"We're investigating that." She wasn't going to tell him
that his brother's ex-girlfriend was mixed up with his father's best friend;
the phone lines couldn't handle that kind of volume. "Maybe you should
come on home; I think J. D.'s going to need some help on this one." Though
what Cort could do for him, she didn't know. Cortland Gamble was as by-the-book
as a Supreme Court judge.

"I'll catch the first flight I can get. You tell J. D."

Am I his partner or his answering service?
That
was when Terri heard the crash from the direction of the interview rooms.
"Gotta go. See you around, Marshal."

She slammed down the phone and sprinted across the squad room
toward the corridor. Water was gushing out from under the door—had J. D.
punched out the watercooler? She should have listened to her gut and never have
left him alone with Sable Duchesne.

The crash was so loud it seemed to rattle the walls. The five-gallon
container atop the refrigeration unit broke free and began gushing water all
over the floor.

J. D. ignored it, and caught Sable as she darted for the door.
"Damn it, Sable, no."

The water made her flat-soled shoes slide, and she had to clutch
at his jacket to regain her balance. That brought her body up against his from
thigh to chest.

"Let go of me," she said, arching away.

"So you can fall on your ass and get wet? Hold still."
He controlled her with his hands and arms, keeping her pressed up against him
as the water jug
emptied out. His breath touched her face. "Every reporter in
town is downstairs. Did you think you could just walk out of here?"

"I wouldn't have walked." She looked down at the floor
and felt suddenly ashamed.
"Dim,
what a mess."

"Floor needed mopping anyway." He brushed her dirty hair
away from her face. "Someone will deal with it later."

Just like the rich Creole boy he'd been, always assuming someone
else would clean up after him. "But not you." She twisted, jerking
within his grasp, but he wouldn't let her go.

J. D. locked his arms around her, forcing her up against his rigid
frame. She felt her breasts swell as they pressed into his chest, felt the
shocking ridge of his erection burning into her hip. Liquid heat started to
pool between her thighs as her body responded to what her mind could not
accept.

Dear God, no. I was over this; I was over him.

"Shit." He hissed in a quick breath when she moved,
trying to put space between them but only rubbing the curve of her hip against
him. "Stop doing that."

Something heavy slammed into the door, and the chair jamming it
slid away from the knob. Terri Vincent charged in, sized up the situation, and
quickly slammed the door shut behind her.

She looked from the water to Sable to J. D. "Unbelievable. Do
I have to get a hose?"

J. D. kept Sable in his arms as he turned to his partner.
"What do you want?"

"Besides a mop? A new partner. One with a functioning
brain." Before J. D. could reply, Terri held up a hand. "No, no,
don't tell me. I really don't want to
know, and we've got other
problems to deal with besides the flood here."

He slowly released Sable, but as she tried to step away, curled
his fingers around her right wrist. "Stay put," he said to her, then
looked at Terri. "Like what?"

She told him, ticking points off her fingers as she did.
"Someone leaked crime scene info to the press, so they already know the
vic was Marc LeClare. Captain Pellerin wants us in his office so he can chew
both our asses up one wall and down the other. LeClare's widow will be here any
minute—she's coming from IDing the body at the morgue—and we need to interview
her. Oh, and your brother's flying back from Biloxi to help you with our case.
Won't that be fun?"

He dragged a hand through his hair. "This is turning into a
circus."

Moriah Navarre heard the low, appreciative male whistles behind
her as she came out of the dress shop, but didn't react to them. She was too
angry. She'd driven all the way downtown so J. D. could take her to lunch, and
he'd stood her up—again. She couldn't make him jealous by seeing his brother,
because Cort was out of town—again. And J. D.'s partner had scored points off
her by informing her on both accounts—again.

She hated Terri Vincent almost as much as the wolf whistles.

It wasn't just because J. D.'s partner was smart, funny, and
attractive—although she was, enough to make Moriah wish she'd transfer to
another
division. In Alaska. And while it grated that J. D. spent all day
with Terri while barely remembering to call Moriah twice a week, she understood
that his job had to come first—for now.

No, what really bugged her was the way Terri Vincent treated her.
Most of the time she showed nothing but contempt, but now and then, she came
across with this completely inappropriate pity. As if Moriah Navarre of the New
Orleans Navarres, who had the money and looks and friends the female cop would
never have, needed sympathy.

She took out her cell phone and tried calling Laure LeClare. As
president of the Garden District Historical Society, Laure supervised several
committees, and Moriah had volunteered to help out with a society tea. The
housekeeper answered, and told her that Laure had had to go downtown. As Moriah
hung up, she frowned. She'd promised to stop by the LeClares' house after lunch
to discuss the catering for the tea, but perhaps Laure had forgotten.

"Hey, baby, how 'bout you strut that fine little ass of yours
this way?"

She turned around to see a trio of city workers loitering around
an open manhole. The biggest one, a minimountain of muscle with a bristly black
goatee and a gleaming shaved head, was grinning at her like an ape in heat.

When you look at some men,
her mother maintained,
you
just know Darwin was fight.

Moriah was in no mood for infatuated primates. If she were Terri
Vincent, she could just flash her badge or her gun and they'd shut right up. But
Terri commanded respect—Moriah didn't.

Maybe it was time that changed. "Are you speaking to
me?"

"Yeah, sugar, come on over." He patted the top of one of
his log-shaped thighs. "You can park yourself right here. I'll give you
something to talk about."

His companions erupted into laughter.

She put away her phone, changed direction, and walked right up to
them. The workers hooted as she took a stand in front of her oversized heckler.

"You know, women really don't like being ogled," she
told him, keeping her tone calm and cool. "Or being subjected to that kind
of language."

"You're no fun." He leered at the front of her blouse.
"What's the matter, honey? Am I scaring you?"

"Scaring me? Hardly." Moriah glanced at the wheelbarrow
by the manhole cover, and remembered a trick her brother, James, had showed her
once. Deliberately she reached out and squeezed his bulging, sweaty bicep.
"Let me guess—you're the biggest, strongest guy on this crew, right?"

"Damn straight." And proud of it, from the way he flexed
his arm under her fingers. "I can go all night long, sugar.
All
night
long."

"How about twenty yards?" She pointed to the
wheelbarrow. "I bet you that I can push something in that wheelbarrow
across the street, but you won't be able to push it back."

He sized up her spare, petite frame and shook his head sadly.
"Oh, darlin', wake up. You're dreaming."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She tilted her head to one side,
looking at him from under her lashes. "Tell you what—if you win, I'll go
out on a date with you."

As his buddies produced sounds of lewd approval, the
minimountain's goatee stretched until it nearly met his ears.

"But if I win," she added, "you have to promise to
stop harassing women on the street."

"Hot damn, then I've already won." He hitched up his
belt as he stood. "Let's go."

"Great." She went over, grabbed the wheelbarrow, and
brought it to him. "Okay, climb in."

"What the—" His mouth flattened and his face reddened as
he got the joke.

The other men started laughing again, this time at their friend,
until they were gasping for breath and grabbing their sides.

The infatuation faded from the minimountain's eyes. "Hell,
lady, that ain't fair."

"I never said it would be." She patted his cheek.
"Now remember your promise."

On the way back to her car, her cell phone rang, and she took it
out of her purse, hoping it was J. D. "Hello?"

"Moriah." It was Laure LeClare, and she was sobbing.
"I'm at the police station.... can you come
here?"

"Lord, I was just there—are you all right?" Alarmed,
Moriah searched in her purse for her keys. "What's wrong? What's
happened?"

"I'll take her out through the back," Terri offered as
she, J. D., and Sable left the interview room and headed for the elevators.
"You'd better talk to the wife."

J. D. knew Marc's wife from the many social occasions that the
Gambles attended. Laure LeClare was an elegant, soft-spoken woman who had been
a devoted wife and a staunch supporter of her husband's election campaign. J.
D. knew she was going to be devastated,
and as a friend of the
family he felt obligated to take her statement and make sure she returned home
safely—especially with the media still lurking around. At the same time, he
didn't want to leave Sable.

Terri intercepted his gaze. "Go. I'll look after her."

As soon as the elevator doors opened to the main floor, a young
woman in a bright orange tank top and an older man in shabby clothes waiting in
the lobby stood up. Before Terri could stop her, Sable hurried out of the
elevator.

"Elle voil
à—there she is!" the
generously endowed blonde cried out, hurrying over,
"
Ê
tes-vous
bien?
Are you all right,
chère?"

J. D. didn't recognize either one of them, but from the look on
Sable's face and the dialect of French the girl spoke, he assumed they were
relatives. Something twisted inside him. Back in college, she had never
introduced him to her family.