Heather Graham (4 page)

The doctor sighed. “Look, I know you boys have a rough time trying to do your jobs, but you’ve got to understand mine. I’m sworn to save lives. There are already a bunch of uniforms in the hallway, watching your man. Trust me—he isn’t going to get up and walk away tonight to avoid questioning.”

“What is his condition?” Mark asked.

“He was stabbed several times, but no irreparable damage was done to any vital organ. The loss of blood was tremendous.”

“She must have fought him fiercely,” Jimmy murmured.

“Someone fought him fiercely,” the doctor commented.

Jimmy made an impatient sound. “Doctor, Jon Marcel dripped blood from the alley to the front door of that apartment! Sir—”

“The doctor’s right,” Mark said, his tone slightly dry. “This is America. A man is innocent until proven guilty.”

“Right. Even if he’s caught with a smoking gun and a dead man at his feet.”

The doctor smiled wryly. “It must feel pretty rotten for you guys at times, but think back. Men—and women—have been executed in the past for crimes they didn’t commit. You can’t dig up a corpse and say, ‘Hey, we’re sorry!’ Sometimes the legal system sucks, but in a way, it works better than can be expected with society what it is, huh?”

“Doctor, you’re right,” Mark said. “It’s just been a tough night, a long night. And we risk our lives to apprehend criminals who walk—and then head right back into the street to wreak havoc. Anyway, the D.A.’s office probably will put out an arrest warrant for Marcel; I believe we’ve sufficient evidence to hand him over to the district attorney. Rest assured, Marcel will get a fair trial. If he lives—since it seems his fate is up to God at the moment—his future will be decided by a jury of his peers.”

“She’s back,” Jimmy muttered suddenly.

Mark’s gaze instantly followed the direction in which Jimmy stared.

“She?” the doctor queried blankly.

Mark indicated Ann Marcel, who had now returned to the waiting room. She had sunk into a chair beside the rookie policewoman whose job it was to keep her calm and mollified until the detectives had their chance to talk to her. Ann Marcel still seemed to have it together. The young policewoman looked like frazzled hell.

“Oh, my God!” the doctor said indignantly. “You don’t think that—”

“No, Doctor, we don’t think that the wife had anything to do with this,” Mark assured him.

“Oh, thank God! She’s an incredible woman,” the doctor said. “But you just never know these days. I’ve heard of husbands who shot their wives over changing the damned channel on the television. And vice versa, of course. You just never do know. Maybe the Brits have got it right. The Brits say we’ve caused a lot of our own problems, with our ‘right to bear arms.’ They may have a good point. The London bobbies don’t carry firearms, except in special cases.”

Mark and Jimmy exchanged a glance. Nice thought. Mark knew he sure as hell didn’t want to be sent out into the streets of New Orleans unarmed.

“Well, sir,” Jimmy said to the doctor, “Jon Marcel was stabbed. No gun involved. At the moment, it appears that he slit the throat of a prostitute in a dark alley and that she had her own weapon and fought back.”

“How far from the wife’s place?” the doctor asked.

“Three blocks,” Mark said. “You know the French Quarter. Tight spaces. Good streets right next to shady lanes.”

“Amazing,” the doctor murmured. “He bled all the way into her arms.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about Jon Marcel’s wounds, Doctor?” Mark asked.

“There were five to his abdomen and chest. Serrated knife, caused a lot of ripping. Thrust with a great deal of strength.”

“She was fighting for her life,” Mark muttered. Jimmy stared at him, his eyes narrowed.

“Jon Marcel has a fifty-fifty chance. As I said, no vital organ suffered irreversible damage; it’s the blood loss we’re fighting to combat now.”

Mark produced a card. “Doctor, if there’s anything—”

“Call you. Yes, Lieutenant LaCrosse, I certainly will.” He inclined his head toward Ann Marcel. “If you need to talk to Mrs. Marcel, you should do so soon. The woman has gone through a lot this evening. She kept her husband alive before the paramedics responded to her 911. Gentlemen, good evening. I’ll do my absolute very best to keep Marcel alive as well, I assure you.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mark said. They watched him walk back through a pair of swinging doors.

“The wife,” Jimmy murmured.

“Umm,” Mark agreed.

They walked forward, toward the group of hospital-generic chairs in the hospital-generic waiting room. Mark nodded imperceptibly to the young policewoman, who sighed visibly with her relief. “Mrs. Marcel, Lieutenant LaCrosse and Detective Deveaux are here now to speak with you. They’ll take care of you, but if I can help you in any way...

Ann Marcel’s eyes were extraordinarily green—framed in red as they were from her tears. She set her small hand with its neatly clipped, filed nails on the policewoman’s. “Thank you, Holly, you’ve been a tremendous help. I don’t need anyone to take care of me—I just want to see Jon’s attacker caught.”

Mark and Jimmy glanced quickly at one another again. Jimmy shrugged and inched slightly to the background to watch the exchange as Mark hunkered down in front of Ann Marcel. “Mrs. Marcel, I need you to tell me exactly what happened this evening.”

She swallowed, nodded. Her eyes started to fill with tears again. She blinked them away and sat tall and straight, composed. “I was waiting...I admit, I didn’t think much of Jon’s determination to paint strippers at first, but my God, his work was so good! I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rambling, but it’s all important in this, I think, my point being that when tonight started, I was thinking that I had been wrong. I had been worried about him, about the people he was meeting, the places he was going, but tonight, I’d decided that his paintings of the ‘ladies’ are so very good, that he was perhaps right in pursuing these young women to understand more about their lives. But he must have become involved with some very wrong people while he was working on those paintings. Tonight, I was waiting for him. We were going to go and see a special showing of his
Red Light Ladies
. I thought that he was running late. The next thing I knew, he was banging on the door, falling down, bleeding...

Mark cleared his throat. “So, Mrs. Marcel, you were aware of his connections with...er, certain club women?”

She stared at him blankly for a moment. The hint of a smile twitched at her lips. “Club women? Strippers, Lieutenant? Prostitutes?” Absurdly, he felt himself redden. She lowered her eyes for a moment, then said, “Well, of course. I’ve already seen some of the paintings. Oh, God, I just pray that the fact that his movements are very well known will help you catch his attacker. Jon must know who hurt him so badly, but... She inhaled, a catch in her breath. Mark was afraid she’d burst into tears, but she controlled herself. “First,” she said in a level tone, “I’ve just got to pray that he lives.”

“Mrs. Marcel, did he say anything to you? Did he give you anything, drop anything in your apartment?” Mark asked.

“Give me anything? Like what?”

“He didn’t give you anything?”

“Lieutenant, he fell against my door and crashed down to the floor. No, he didn’t give me anything.”

“Did he say anything to you when you just went in to see him?” Mark demanded.

“Say anything about what?” she queried in turn, obviously becoming suspicious of his motives in questioning her.

“About tonight. About what happened.”

She shook her head, wetting her lips. She was lying, and she wasn’t good at lying. She didn’t like lying. But she was like a mother bear with an injured cub. She was going to protect her man. And it appeared that she thought the police were totally out of line.

“For God’s sake,” Jimmy suddenly blurted out, “you must know something! You do, and he must have said something when he reached you, dropped something!”

“Like what?” she snapped.

“Jimmy!” Mark warned.

Too late. “Like a murder weapon,” Jimmy said.

“Murder weapon?” she repeated, stunned. “What is the matter with the two of you!” She shook her head in disgust. “Officer—” she began angrily.

“Detective,” Jimmy sighed.

“Detective, sir,” she said pointedly and impatiently, “Jon came into my apartment like a spigot spewing blood. He was the one attacked—he wasn’t carrying a murder weapon. You two definitely seem to be missing the main point here. Pay attention, comprehend! Jon was attacked. Nearly killed. And he’s fighting for his life right now.”

Jimmy was about to erupt with angry words; a glance at Mark stopped him. He lifted a hand in aggravation and defeat, leaving the explanation of the situation up to Mark.

“Mrs. Marcel, I’m afraid that you haven’t been apprised of the full situation as of yet.”

She was tense, careful. “What
full
situation?”

He watched her closely, pausing only a second. “Mrs. Marcel, a young woman—a stripper—was killed just a few blocks from your home. The trail of your husband’s blood led from the corpse of the murdered girl straight to your doorway.”

She stood, nearly knocking him backward in her abrupt movement. He just caught himself, coming to his feet as well.

“You wretched bastards!” she hissed softly. “I thought you’d come here to help apprehend the person who did this to Jon—”

“Mrs. Marcel—”

“And all you want to do is take the easy way out. Accuse him of a crime he didn’t commit!”

“Mrs. Marcel!” Mark grated. “You must realize, the facts are what they are. A young woman is dead—”

“Jon is half-dead!”

“He left a trail of blood—”

“Yes! His blood.”

Jimmy cleared his throat. “The blood has yet to be analyzed, but by the visual evidence, it seems that we’ll be finding matches with your husband’s blood and the dead woman’s along the trail.”

Ann Marcel’s perfect porcelain-doll features were sheet white. Mark thought that she was going to fall. He reached out a hand to steady her. She slapped it away.

“Jon didn’t kill anyone. Talk about your visual evidence! I haven’t seen any of it, and it’s plain to me that someone killed your young woman, Jon tried to stop the attack, and was nearly killed himself in the effort!”

“Mrs. Marcel—” Jimmy began placatingly.

“He didn’t do it.”

“If you could just help us—” Mark tried.

“The wife is always the last to know,” Jimmy muttered beneath his breath. Audibly.

“Don’t be such an ass, officer!” Ann Marcel said indignantly. “What, you have no interest in doing your jobs? Go for the obvious?”

Mark gave Jimmy a warning glare. She’d be complaining to the D.A.’s office about police badgering. He wanted this one by the book. “Mrs. Marcel, I’m afraid when evidence is obvious, we’ve no choice but to use it. We have no reason to wish Mr. Marcel any ill—I’m afraid that at the moment, evidence does point in his direction.”

“You’ve already got him hanged.”

“We don’t hang people in Louisiana—they die by lethal injection!” Jimmy said indignantly.

A gasp escaped her.

“Jimmy,” Mark said quietly.

The woman spun on Mark. “He’s innocent, and he’ll be proven innocent. You—bastard!”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“Does police brutality work two ways?” Jimmy demanded. “She’s awfully damned brutal!”

“Oh, hell!” Mark muttered.

But the diminutive blonde was staring at him again, small shoulders squared, her stance rigid and proud. An absolute wall of defense and indignation. “Jon is innocent. He told me so.”

“What?” Mark demanded harshly. “Then you did know—”

She shook her head, pale flesh reddening, lashes flicking over her deep green eyes. “When he reached my apartment, just before he lost consciousness, he said, ‘I didn’t do it.’ I’d no idea what he was talking about. Of course, now I do. And he must have known that
lazy
policemen would immediately try to charge him with murder. And I’m telling you, I know Jon. He must have been trying to save her life!”

“Perhaps you could let us in on what else he said?” Jimmy drawled,

“That’s it. I’ve told you. Oh, no, wait a minute. I think he also said, ‘Oh, God! I didn’t do it.’ But that’s it. Do you want to arrest me? I’m covered in blood.”

“Mrs. Marcel—” Mark tried.

“I am covered in blood! Doesn’t that make me guilty?” she demanded again.

“Mrs. Marcel, if you don’t tell us everything you know, you just may be guilty of complicity in murder,” Mark heard himself lash out suddenly. “And, yes, we damned well may arrest you if—”

“Mark!”

It was Jimmy’s turn to caution him. What the hell was the matter with him?

Women!

Ten deep breaths. He had been at riot situations where people screamed and spit at him—he’d handled that with dead calm. Earlier he’d wanted to take this vision into his arms and comfort her; now he itched to slap her.

She stretched out her arms. “Lieutenant, go ahead. Arrest me. Cuff me.” She offered him a challenging smile, her eyes bright emerald daggers. “My attorneys will have you in jail before you can blink, Lieutenant.”

“Will they?”

“He didn’t do it,” she insisted quietly.

He exhaled, watching her. Even covered in blood, tear-stained, she was still all too appealing.

There didn’t seem to be any justice in the world. He had to find a killer. The killer was most probably her husband. She was going to fight him all the way.

Gina L’Aveau had been a stripper and prostitute, yet Gina L’Aveau deserved justice the same as anyone else. And he was going to see to it that she got it.

“Did Jon Marcel say anything else to you, Mrs. Marcel?” he demanded. “Did he speak to you when you just went in to see him.”

She stared at him. Green eyes wide on his. “No,” she said flatly.

She was lying. He knew it.

There was no way he could prove it tonight.

“Can we see you home, Mrs. Marcel?”

“No, thank you.”

“The streets can be dangerous this late at night.”

“How could they be, Lieutenant, with you and your partner out in them?”

“We’ll see you home—”