Mostly Murder (2 page)

It was a beautiful and sunny December day, only a few weeks before Christmas, in fact, and nothing the least bit catastrophic had happened for a change. That was just fine with homicide detective Claire Morgan. So far, so good. She sat behind her new and temporary desk at the Lafourche Parish Sheriff 's Office in Thibodaux, Louisiana and watched her new and temporary partner, Zander Jackson, trying to balance himself on a rickety stepladder while he adjusted a gauzy white angel on top of the eight-foot office Christmas tree. She had only been aboard in the law enforcement department in the bayous southwest of New Orleans for a couple of weeks, all after her true love and super psychiatrist to the stars, Nicholas Black, had flown off on his private Learjet to his London hotel/psychiatric clinic to take care of what he fondly described as a particularly rambunctious head case. He was indeed a world-famous shrink and possibly the best-looking guy she'd ever seen in her life, which was a very good thing, actually.

Claire happened to be one of his rambunctious head cases herself, of course, but she was a lot better off now than she had been several months back. Alas, she did have a tendency to find trouble wherever she went, and Black had always been the protective sort, but especially now. Probably because she had barely survived a work-related, eighteen-day coma, and not so long ago, either. He didn't exactly celebrate the idea of her getting back to work as a homicide detective, whether it be in the lazy bayous or at the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri, where she had worked on the case that had put her in the aforementioned dream world for those three long weeks. But he rarely took it upon himself to tell her what to do, and vice versa, which was why they got along so famously.

Although Claire hadn't known Zander—actually he was Zee to his friends—long, he was a neat guy. Almost as great as Claire's real partner back at the lake, whose name was Bud Davis. Truth was, she missed Bud like crazy, and all her other Missouri colleagues, too. But it was good to get away from the scene of some rather hairy crimes she'd investigated up that way, and the sixty-eight-degree Christmas weather was a good incentive to stay put until the summer heat rolled in. Also, said Missouri friends visited a lot, which was always something to look forward to. Now that she was back in homicide where she belonged, the utter boredom that had veritably sent her climbing the walls was long gone. Now and again, she still experienced some horrific nightmares of ugly cases gone by, but she was handling it okay. So, onward and forward, bring it on.

“Hey, Claire, who you root for? The Saints or the Rams?”

Claire smiled. Zee was football crazy, to say the least. “Saints when I'm here. Rams when I'm in Missouri.”

“Well, you better root for the Saints when you're here.”

“So says Black, too.”

They laughed together. Claire stood up and helped him drape some gold tinsel, which had probably been in the office storage bin since the 1980s, in and out of the fragrant branches. The tree was a spreading cedar that had been cut down somewhere way out in the surrounding bayous, one that nearly touched the ceiling tiles. She liked that, a real tree that smelled fresh and pungent. Black always insisted on getting a real tree, too, usually one big enough to fit into the nave in the St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square. And he liked to cut it down himself, hiking into the woods of his property in Missouri with an ax over his broad shoulder, like some kind of big, handsome Paul Bunyan. The guy loved Christmas, what could she say.

Claire just hoped that he fixed up his troublesome patient and made it home by Christmas Eve. That didn't give him a lot of time to work his magic and hightail it back home with her present, and he usually gave her one hell of a good present. What to get him was a whole different story. She had her work cut out for her. But he loved every inch of New Orleans, his hometown, and was having a ball living there again, even temporarily, so she supposed anything she got for him that was associated with his beloved NOLA would please him to no end. He had bought a hotel there, too, and a restored mansion for them to live in, but that was Black for you. He did love his real estate.

When she'd first glimpsed the house that he'd been raving about on Governor Nicholls Street in the French Quarter, it hadn't looked like much from the outside. In fact, it had looked like a dilapidated building in the warehouse district. Once he'd opened the plain black shuttered doors at street level, however, they'd walked straight into a spread out of
House Beautiful
, all modern and comfortable and beautiful. And she was talking big-time glamour.

For instance, there were the marble grand spiral staircase and the elevator. Not to mention the eight large bedrooms, all with their own marble fireplaces, the formal living and dining rooms, a gourmet kitchen, a private courtyard replete with fountains, a small lap pool with a waterfall, a formal rose garden, and a large mimosa tree on which she could hang her punching bag. Black had told her that he'd had his eye on that particular house for years and finally snatched it up when it went on the market. And yes, sir, it had cost him a pretty penny. But he had lots of pretty pennies and was collecting more all the time. Her guy made serious bucks, all right.

While Claire added some silvery strands of icicles, Zee stood back with his hands on his hips and admired their handiwork. “Hey, this thing's lookin' good. I like those gold fleur-de-lis ornaments you brought in. Know what, though? I'm gonna call Nancy and tell her to bring us down some pizzas. It's gonna be slower than a funeral procession today, believe me. Sundays are quiet, and that's good. We can watch the Saints game without interruptions.”

Claire didn't like Zee's analogy all that much. She'd seen way too many funerals in her lifetime. He had earned that nickname, Zee, running touchdowns once upon a time out at Tulane University. Zoom Zoom Zee back then—shortened to 3Z, but that was a bit much for her so Zee would have to suffice. She watched him switch on the flat-screen television on the file cabinet and then punch Nancy's number into his beloved white smartphone. Nancy Gill was the Lafourche Parish medical examiner and the main reason Claire found herself sitting behind a Louisiana detective's desk. Nancy had been at the lake last summer on a law enforcement exchange program and had talked Claire into coming aboard for the winter in a similar exchange, way down there in the bayous.

Zee slouched down across the desk from her, the phone to his ear, all muscles and athletic grace, a real good-looking guy with skin the color of Hershey's chocolate and caramel-colored eyes. She knew he'd spent most of his tenure at the New Orleans Police Department, working in their Vice and Narcotics Units. Then he'd gotten in a few more years busting bearded druggies and swamp-based meth labs in Lafourche Parish before he'd made detective grade and been transferred to homicide.

Because of her years of experience, she had been designated lead on the few cases they'd handled together so far, which had entailed one stolen bateau, which is a bayou boat, and a missing child who'd turned out to be asleep in his rickety backyard tree house. Zee had shown some good investigatory instincts. Apparently, they did not run into a plethora of grisly murders in the bayous around Lafourche Parish, which was fine by her and sent Black a few degrees up the ecstatic scale. Maybe the local felons made the drive up to the Big Easy to perpetrate their Louisiana homicides. As Zee had intimated, today would be quiet. Everybody in the state would be watching the Saints play over in Dallas.

“Nancy said to give her fifteen minutes, tops. Hope you like Meat Lover's Pizza.”

“You bet. Sounds good.”

When Claire's phone sang out the opening chords of Roy Orbison's “Blue Bayou,” her brand new ring tone chosen in honor of her new digs, Black's name popped up on caller ID. Her beau was checking in from Ye Merry Olde England.

Claire moved out into the deserted hallway, punched on, and said, “Hey, cheerio, old chap, and all that rot.”

“Cheerio, hell. I miss you. Catch the next flight over here and make me a happy man.”

“Well, that's good, and glad to hear you miss me. Ditto back to you. So, how's it going over there? Any crazies running amok?”

“I can't sleep without you in my bed.”

“Glad to hear that, too. Really, though, how's your patient? Straitjacket on and all is well?”

“He's doing very well. I changed his meds. How about you? How do you feel?”

Black, worrying about her again. Her coma had gotten to him big time and made him hover a whole lot more than necessary. “I'm fine, really. Feel good, in fact. I like it over here at Lafourche. Zee's cool. Nancy's great. It's been pretty quiet, to tell you the truth.”

“No headaches? No blurred vision?”

“Jeez, Black, I'm fine,” I said. Hey, he was a good doctor. He covered all the bases. And he had one hell of a bedside manner—at least with her, he did.

“No car crashes? Nobody's shot you down? Beaten you up? Knifed you in the back?”

Yes, he had sarcasm down pat, too. Although most of that stuff had happened to her at one time or another, except for the knife thing. She'd never been stabbed, thank God, not unless you counted one rather nasty meat cleaver attack. Black was joking, yes, but not totally. “Well, some jerk cut me off in traffic two days ago. Made me brake hard. That count?”

“I hate to think what you did to him.”

“It was a her, and I let her off with a polite police warning.”

Quiet ensued for a beat. “So how is the new job, really? Like it? Please tell me you aren't chasing any serial killers.”

“I'm not chasing any serial killers. Yet. We've been lucky.”

“You just made my day.”

“Truth is, the only excitement around here today is the Saints game. And yes, I put it in the DVR for you. Zee's a bigger Saints fan than you are, if that's even possible. See how exciting my life is when you're gone?”

“I don't particularly want you to be excited while I'm gone.” Short pause again. “Are you sleeping okay? Any more nightmares?”

See? The guy is overly concerned.
She guessed she'd fib a bit about the nightmares, though, just to give him peace of mind. “Nope. I'm definitely on the mend, at least ninety-nine percent and climbing.”

“I miss you,” he said again.

“Well, come back home then. I'm tired of sleeping in that big round bed in that big palatial house all by myself. The French Quarter's great, but lonely with you gone. What's taking you so long, anyway? Slumming it with Wills and Kate at Buckingham Palace?”

“I wish. My patient is doing much better, but I've got to tie up a few loose ends. I should be home on Tuesday. Take that day off and the next one, too. I've got good things planned for us in that big round bed in that big palatial house.”

Claire smiled. Sounded fine to her. Oh, yeah, definitely. “We'll see, Black. Gotta go. Nancy just walked in with pizza and sodas, and the game's about to start.”

“Be careful, Claire. I mean it. Juan and Maria are there with you, right?”

Juan Christo was Black's new home security guard/gardener who carried a shotgun, and his wife, Maria, was their cook/housekeeper who probably carried a pistol, too, knowing Black. The middle-aged couple hailed from Guatemala and kept the house running like clockwork and kept Claire company when Black was gone. She liked them both a lot. “They're fine, too, and hover over me almost as much as you do.”

“Okay, then. Remember, duck and weave. Stay close to Zee.”

The duck-and-weave thing was a private joke, his way of saying be careful. “Quit worrying. I'm fine. This place is a veritable no-crime zone.”

They hung up just as Nancy put down the pizzas on Claire's desk and said, “Does this smell scrumptious, or what? I got us some cheese bread, too.”

Yes, indeed, it did smell wonderful. Claire opened the lid and chose a nice big piece as Nancy pulled an ice-cold Pepsi off the plastic rings of the six-pack she carried. She handed it to Claire. “Oh, God, look, they're interviewing Jack Holliday. Man, is he hot, or what?”

“Yep, number eleven, Tulane jersey retired,” Zee agreed. “Best college quarterback who ever threw a football, in my humble opinion.”

“Best looking, too,” Nancy added.

Claire took another bite. “So he doesn't play for the Saints?”

“One season, then he blew out his knee. He lives here in New Orleans, though, and was the biggest star Tulane had ever seen, so everybody loves him. Now he represents most of his former teammates and is making tons of money.”

Nancy rolled her chair up beside Claire. Nancy Gill was just gorgeous. She looked like some Amazon warrior of old, very tall and beautiful, with long reddish brown hair and eyes the exact same russet color. She was top-notch at her job, too, almost as good as Buckeye Boyd, Claire's ME up in Missouri. Nancy had been trained at the NOPD, too, by some of the best CSI techs in the country and was ultra-meticulous about her crime scenes. She had become a good friend, especially when Black was off jet-setting around the Continent and Claire could actually spend some time with her.

The pizza tasted delicious, and up on the screen, the stadium in Dallas was alive with thousands of insane fans screaming for blood. The Saints were on the field, milling around, all in gold and black, and the Dallas Cowboys were, too, all of them no doubt just waiting for the head-on, bone-cracking collisions to ensue. Claire had run into a few of those, too, and had the residual scars to prove it.

Just as the Saints completed pass one, Zee's cell phone rang. His ringtone was the voice of the suave and sexy Usher, of course crooning a love song called “Here I Stand” that no doubt had caused many a lady's heart to flutter. Zee mumbled a mild curse and kept his eyes glued on the game while he answered. “Yeah, what's up? C'mon, game just started, dude.”