Read Heather Graham Online

Authors: Down in New Orleans

Heather Graham (10 page)

BOOK: Heather Graham
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“I’m not on duty.”

“That’s right, you’re
not
grilling me.”

“Right.”

“But you are going back to work?”

“I am.”

“Ah, I see.”

“What do you see, Mrs. Marcel?”

“A cop stumbling around in the dark
blind drunk
when he should be looking for a murder weapon.”

“Are you asking me back to your place?”

“What?”

“If I were planning on looking for a murder weapon tonight, that’s where I’d go.”

“No, you’re not asked back to my place.” She set her fork down. “How dare you—”

“Helena’s coming.”

Helena was coming. Returning with the carafe and two wineglasses. She deposited them quickly, and moved on.

And Ann wondered what the hell she cared if Helena heard her tell this cop what he should do with himself.

“Actually, I’m not really sure if I do think that you’re hiding the murder weapon,” he said casually when Helena had gone.

“Really? How difficult to believe.”

He poured wine into his glass. “If I believed that you had that weapon and were hiding it in your place, you can bet your ass that I would have had a search warrant for your property long before now.”

She swept the carafe from his hand and poured rosé into her own glass. “Remind me not to dine with you again.”

“Do I drive you to drink, Mrs. Marcel? Perhaps circumstances alone are doing that.”

She clunked the carafe down, picked up her glass, and nearly inhaled the contents of it. She set the glass back down, preparing to stand.

“I don’t think I can wait for the duck, Lieutenant. I’m so sorry.”

His hand curled over hers. “My name is Mark, Mark LaCrosse. If you’re going to walk out on me in the middle of dinner, you might want to address me by my given name.”

She tried to tug her hand away. His hold was firm; his gray eyes had a tighter hold upon her. This was ridiculous; she didn’t have to sit here.

“Duck!” Helena’s voice suddenly boomed with enthusiasm. The waitress was accompanied by a bus boy who collected their salad plates while Helena presented their main courses with a flourish.

Ann stayed seated. He still had her hand; it lay upon the table, covered with his own.

“Enjoy!” Helena said.

She left, followed by the bus boy. The restaurant suddenly seemed to be at the end of the earth. No sounds could be heard from the busy streets that lay just feet away. A beautifully landscaped garden sufficiently buffered the din and clatter.

He withdrew his hand and cut into his duck. “You do have to eat, Mrs. Marcel. You have to rest, and eat, and maintain your strength to go to battle.” He looked up at her as he cut. “Against me. You don’t intend to let me win, do you?”

“You’re obnoxious, Lieutenant.”

“I’m afraid that it comes with the territory.”

“Umm.”

“You do want to keep your wits about you.”

“Right. So I drink more wine in your presence.”

“Drink wine, eat duck, go home, get some sleep. It will help.”

She still continued to stare at him.

“Mrs. Marcel, I implore you, enjoy the duck. I will do my absolute best to refrain from being obnoxious for the next twenty minutes.”

Ann cut her duck. It was delicious; she was ravenous.

She ate it all. She didn’t look at him or acknowledge him in any way until she had finished with every morsel of food on her plate.

When she had eaten the last bite and sat back, she discovered that he was watching her once again. “Come on, I’ll take you home,” he told her.

She rose. “Aren’t you required to pay a check around here, Lieutenant.”

“No. This is a front for an illegal prostitution ring, and they buy my silence with duck,” he told her, rising as well.

“Seriously—”

“Seriously, I run a tab. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

He was done with her; they had eaten dinner. He had gotten what he wanted for the day. She spun around, and felt his hand upon her back once again as he guided her along the garden path. She wanted to walk more quickly and escape that touch. At the same time...

It wasn’t an intimate touch. They barely knew one another. It was a courteously masculine touch. She felt his warmth through it; his strength. He was, she thought, a very strong man. Strong-willed. He’d easily provide a good shoulder to cry upon.

And he’d be listening all the while.

They neared the street. Helena appeared again, her smile warm and genuine. “Did you enjoy everything?” she inquired.

“The food was excellent,” Ann said.

“I’m so glad. You’ve got more color in your cheeks already.” She flushed slightly herself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be personal, or offensive. But the newspapers, you know. Don’t be surprised when you find strangers staring. Ignore them. Time will take care of things.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” Ann said.

“Bye, kid,” Mark LaCrosse said to Helena. He kissed her on the cheek. The warmth between them spurred Ann into action.

“Lieutenant, thank you for the magnificent dinner—and scintillating conversation. If you don’t mind, I’m not terribly far from home, and I’d like to walk—alone—for a while. Good night.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned and walked as quickly as possible and hurried out to the street. She walked faster and faster. A block past the restaurant, she looked back.

He wasn’t following her.

She was relieved.

And maybe she was just a little bit disappointed.

She paused a moment, watching, waiting. He really wasn’t coming.

She was only a few blocks from Jackson Square, and she began wandering in that direction. The clubs were beginning to grow busier with the coming of twilight; through many an open doorway, jazz strains were beginning to fill the streets, creating the unique atmosphere that was New Orleans. She turned onto Chartes Street, simply walking, aware of the city around her, paying it little heed.

She still felt so tired, yet tense. She should go back to the hospital, she thought. But she’d already spent hours with Jon, staring at Jon, and talking to Jon because the nurses were absolutely convinced that it would help if she talked.

So she had talked and stared.

And spent time eating delicious duck and not being grilled by Lieutenant Mark LaCrosse.

Standing up to his questions, Ann determined, was one thing. She wasn’t changing the situation any. They had a dead girl, and Jon’s blood. And proof that Jon had slept with the dead girl. It wouldn’t have looked good in Jack the Ripper’s day, and now, with modern forensic technology, it was all simply damning.

Proving Jon’s innocence would be next to impossible.

Unless she could prove someone else’s guilt.

She had reached Jackson Square, she realized, and was staring up at the magnificent statue of the warrior/president that graced the place.

Take Jackson, she thought.

The man had been the hero of New Orleans, rallying his own troops, city folk, and even the pirates to come to the defense of the city against the British. However, to the many Indians he subdued and decimated, he couldn’t have been much better than a heinous murderer.

But Jackson’s past was not disputed. It was merely varied. He had saved New Orleans; he had also ordered the slaughter and upheaval of countless Indians.

She sighed.

“Great statue.”

She whirled around.

He had followed her. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he might have had to hurry a bit to catch up with her. He didn’t seem to be breathing too heavily. His silver-gray eyes were somewhat masked by twilight and the false light of street lamps that came with it. Tall, straight, hands on his hips, head slightly cocked, he stared up at the statue.

“If you like Jackson,” she said.

A smile curved his lip. “Well, he was a military genius.”

“He was talented and determined, but certainly not always politically popular.”

“No. But he did do enough to cause the name of this common ground to be changed to Jackson Square from Place d’Armes.”

“Oh?” she queried, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You’re not a native child.”

“No.”

“You’re from?”

“Atlanta.”

“Good city.”

“You’re too kind.”

“No, really.”

“A good city, but not as good as New Orleans?”

“A different city.” He grinned. “Nothing is as good as New Orleans.” His smile broadened as he swept his arm out. “This was a military parade ground. The French and Spaniards rather resented the intrusion of the Americans after the Louisiana Purchase. Change came slowly. It hasn’t come altogether yet. That’s half the charm of the place. But then, sometimes that’s hard to explain to non-natives.”

“Ah...” She whirled around, looking at St. Louis Cathedral. “The cathedral! Named for the French king who undertook two Crusades! Still the oldest active cathedral in the United States. And the statue, where on the side facing the cathedral you will find printed, ‘The Union must and shall be preserved!’—a message from the Yanks when they took the city. And the square—yes it was a parade ground. It was also the site of public executions, including—throughout the years—burning at the stake, hanging, beheading—and my personal favorite for most pathetic and gruesome—breaking on the wheel. Luckily, I can thank God for small favors. All that was in the past. You’re not going to be able to publicly burn Jon at the stake, or chop off his head, here in this place.”

She thought he would respond angrily to her taunt.

He just stared at her, eyes glittering silver in the growth of night light as the moon, nearly full, rose behind him.

But he didn’t reply angrily. He didn’t reply for quite a while. Then he simply shrugged and said, “Darn! No public burning at the stake?”

She turned, walking away from the statue.

“Mrs. Marcel!”

She kept walking.

“Dammit, Ann!”

She was startled when he caught her elbow, swinging her around to face him. “I’ll see you to your place.”

“I know the way.”

“I’ll see you home.”

“It’s easy to walk from here.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

“Well, I won’t walk with you.”

“Fine, I’ll walk behind you.”

Ann started walking. She passed a number of artists she knew, working in the square. She offered each a forced smile and hurried on past, faster and faster, determined not to pause.

But he stayed right behind her.

“This isn’t necessary.”

“I think it is.”

“Lieutenant, I live here. I walk these streets daily. I’m not afraid—”

“I am.”

She paused, spinning back to him. He was so close, she nearly collided with him.

Instead, she smelled him. He smelled good. Darned good. Too good. She felt ridiculously dizzy, so close to the man. He set his hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes.

“I’ll see you home,” he said determinedly. “And I’ll check out your place.”

“Lieutenant, I already left you for the evening.”

“I’m back.”

“And I’m out for an evening’s stroll now. And you’re not invited.”

“It’s a public street. And I intend to see you through it.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just a precaution.”

“I don’t need—”

“I do.”

“Wait a minute, you don’t even know what I was going to say. What is it that I’m so certain that I don’t need and you’re so certain you do?”

“You.”

“What?”

“I need to watch out for you, Mrs. Marcel.”

“Why?”

His teeth grated. He let out a sigh of great impatience. “I need you alive.”

“Oh, you do. Why, Lieutenant?”

“It’s my job to keep you alive.”

“I haven’t been threatened.”

“The situation is threatening.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do!”

“Why?”

“Because I am going to look after you whether you need me to do so, want me to do so, or not!”

“Why?” she demanded one last time with total exasperation.

“Because, Mrs. Marcel, you aren’t telling me the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth. You do know something.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. And you’re going to tell me.”

“The hell I am.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “You admit you do know something.”

She studied his eyes, so sharp and intent upon her. The breeze lifted strands of dark hair across his forehead. His shoulders seemed broad and powerful in the moonlight. She felt the most absurd temptation to lean against him.

He was trying to hang Jon.

He would probably love to see Jon burned to cinders in the middle of Jackson Square.

She smiled sweetly. “Lieutenant.”

“Yes?”

“Go to hell.”

She turned yet again. And walked.

And she didn’t look back once.

Yet she was aware...

His footsteps followed her home. To her door.

She entered her second-floor dwelling from the hallway; he followed before she could close the door.

He didn’t speak. He checked out the bedrooms and closets—and left again.

Yet, she remained aware.

And she knew that even when she was in bed, the doors locked, the lights out...

He was still with her.

He stood in the street below.

Gray eyes intently fixed upon her windows...

seven

A
PRIL FELT EYES.

They came out of the darkness.

Odd, she’d never felt the least unnerved leaving the club before. She knew her stomping grounds; this was her neighborhood. She and Marty had an apartment right around from the river, and she had spent her three years working at the club walking home to that apartment every time she was off duty. New Orleans could be scary; stomping grounds or not, everybody knew that. Came with the territory. New York City could be scary, L.A. could be scary, any city could be scary. Safety was in knowing the terrain. She avoided the streets the restaurateurs warned the tourists to avoid; she walked in light. She carried Mace.

She usually left the club with Marty.

Not tonight. Marty was working another few hours; she wanted to get home. Gregory had intended to leave early, she knew, and she’d planned to go the distance with him. But Harry had called Gregory back in, and she’d hesitated. When Shelly, working the bar, had told her that Gregory would be at least another twenty minutes, she’d weighed her fear against her urgent desire to get home to her baby, and relieve her sister. They had a good deal going; she watched Jessy’s baby by day, and Jessy watched her baby by night.

BOOK: Heather Graham
5.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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