Heather Graham (9 page)

“I’ll betcha he would,” Gregory agreed morosely. He pressed his glass toward Louis the bartender so that Louis could refill it. Jack Daniels Black. Cindy wondered if she’d be able to get Gregory to slow down a bit.

Cindy watched him drink, gnawing on her lower lip. Gregory had been Gina’s friend, no more, but he had really loved her.

“Odd thing was that...”

“What?” Cindy demanded.

“I had dinner with her. Just before it happened. I was with her...I heard her meeting someone when I left.”

“Who?” Cindy gasped out, incredulous.

Gregory shrugged. “Must have been Jon Marcel.”

“It might have been someone else,” Cindy insisted. “It could have been Harry—”

“Right. And if the wrong people knew that I’d been with her, it could have been me. I was with her.”

“That good-looking, swine-bucket kin of hers was still coming after her now and then.”

“Jacques?”

“Jacques.” Seeing the confusion in his eyes, Cindy sighed. “Oh, come on, Gregory! They were distant cousins. Their mothers were third cousins or the like. Gregory, she slept with him. He held something over her.”

Gregory stared at her, shrugged, drank down more of his bourbon.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not.”

“They say Marcel did it, and Marcel is in a coma now.”

“A coma?” Cindy whispered.

Gregory nodded sorrowfully. He sipped from his glass again, then spun around to look at her hard. “Whether we want to believe it or not, it looks like the verdict is in.”

“They’ve proven it?”

He shrugged. “More or less. There’s lots of rumor going around. Where there’s smoke, you know. Oh, hell, Cindy, haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

He proceeded to tell her the latest.

The club’s main office sat a level up from the ground floor and overlooked the stage, bar and entry from a large, see-through-one-way window. It was a spacious area with a huge modern desk, comfortable black leather sofa, numerous black leather wing chairs, refrigerator, wet bar, and complete entertainment system.

It was Harry Duval’s favorite place. It was such a far cry from the mud and dirt and thatch of the poor home where he’d grown up that to this day, he still sometimes came up and just sat, and sometimes he just cried out with the pleasure of what was his—what he had done, what he had become, what he had acquired. What the snot-nosed Old Guard of Louisiana might say about him didn’t matter. That some called him a pimp was foolish—those who did so too obtrusively often wound up followed by shadow-thugs and beaten in dark alleys. Never cut up, never too badly hurt, never maimed.

The poor bastards might be suspicious, but they could never prove he’d lifted a finger against them.

Hey, it was a tough world. Shit happened.

But then...

Then there was what had happened to Gina.

He frowned, looking out the window, shaking his head. Gina. The brightest and the best of them. Gina, with her laughter. Her smile. The optimism that must have been with her until her dying breath.

Oh, God, yes, there was what had happened to Gina. Gina who got too involved with people. Gina who was just so blinded by her own beliefs that she couldn’t see what havoc passion and emotion played upon others.

Gina. Who had refused to see evil.

April, bless her, was diligently moving on stage. Now there was a fine, good girl. More beautiful than heaven, more luscious than sin. Minding her own business, making it her own way. April was going to come out of things okay.

He walked over to his desk, ran his hand over the highly polished wood. He shrugged to himself, admitting he might be a little weird himself.

On edge.

Lascivious.

One of the last times he’d been with Gina...

Had been here. Feeling the imported leather beneath his flesh; watching her move on the highly polished wood. She’d caught him unaware that day. Come in when he’d just shed his clothing. He hadn’t known that the door was unlocked. She hadn’t expected quite what she found.

God, it had been one hell of an afternoon.

He strode to the wet bar, poured himself a bourbon. Drank it down, poured another. Hell, that was one thing he could do. Drink. When he finally died, they wouldn’t need to embalm him; he’d be so completely pickled by then. Wouldn’t matter none. He liked his life. He had achieved the unbelievable. The leather was his to feel against his naked skin. The girls were his, too. He didn’t own them. He didn’t need to. They came to him. Because they liked leather, too. Champagne, silk, and all that money had to offer. And hell, some of the girls were kinkier than the damned guys. Some of them knew how to
get down
. It was a good life. When the lights went out, he’d be ready. He wouldn’t expect mercy, he wouldn’t expect heaven, and he wouldn’t be afraid of hell. He’d known both on earth already.

He walked back to the window, holding his drink in one hand so that he could shed his jacket and his shirt as he watched the stage.

His frown suddenly deepened.

Gregory and Cindy were at the bar, his dark head almost against her pale one. It looked like they were a pair of old geezers crying into their beers.

Talking. Still talking.

He shook his head.

Hell, some people never learned.

The cops might be holding the artist. They might even have enough circumstantial and forensic evidence to pin it on him.

But Gina was
dead
.

And talk was dangerous.

Fools.

Talk could be just so damned dangerous...

Harry Duval pondered whether or not Gregory knew anything.

If he had seen anything.

He wondered what the hell he was saying.

Indeed, if he had anything at all to say...

Ann was afraid that he would take her someplace far too obvious. She was known by most of the cafe people close to her own home off of Bourbon Street, and she desperately wanted to be out without being recognized. The hospital people were all as kind as they could be to her, but they pitied her. They would fight to keep Jon alive, but they, like the rest of the city, had condemned him without a trial.

Okay, she admitted as they drove. So maybe, if you didn’t know Jon, he did appear to be guilty. She could admit that much. But she could also hope that someone out there would realize that Jon had been seriously attacked as well, and that the murder weapon had yet to appear. Of course, she had supposedly hidden the murder weapon. No one had yet appeared with a search warrant for her home, but then again, she had left her house with police crawling all over it—doors wide open—when she had gone to the hospital with Jon.

He parked his car in a private garage just outside the French Quarter, or Vieux Carre—
Old Square
. He led her along a side street she’d never seen herself, down a walkway, and back into a cafe with a private garden setting.

The waitress’s name was Helena. She knew Mark; she was a pretty woman of about thirty who greeted him with a warm kiss on the cheek. “You’re off the beaten path today,” Helena said, leading them to a white-washed wrought-iron table to the side of a delicate little fountain featuring the Greek goddess Athena with her owl upon her shoulders.

“We need a little privacy,” Mark told Helena.

“Ah,” Helena said. She looked at Ann for a moment, offered her a warm smile and added, “Tough day, huh? I suggest the Duck a l’Orange. What can I get you to drink?”

“Two café au laits with a few of those great house baguettes, Helena, to start. I’ll see if I can talk my friend here into the duck.”

Helena smiled and disappeared through a garden trail into the old house to the side of the garden cafe setting.

“Did she recognize me?” Ann asked, curious about Helena’s manner.

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “You didn’t read the paper today?”

“Yes, I read the paper,” she said dryly.

“You must have missed your picture in the Arts section.”

“My picture—”

“Jon Marcel was front page news, but he wasn’t missed by the critics. That show of his work that opened last night apparently raked in a fortune. You were included in the article. There was a great photo of you in it.”

“So that’s why Helena recognized me.”

“Unless she’s a closet art critic herself and knows you from elsewhere.”

“Let’s hope there aren’t too many critics in the city, then,” Ann murmured. “I don’t want to be recognized. I don’t want people pitying me, or pointing at me, or whispering behind my back that Jon is a guilty sleaze-bag and that I’m a fool for defending him.”

“Well, actually,
I
think you’re being a fool.”

“At least you say it to my face. And you don’t seem to be offended—at least you don’t get mad and go away—when I tell you that you’re a complete ass in return.”

He grinned, looking down at the table. Helena arrived with their coffees and the basket of baguettes. “Have we decided on duck yet?” she asked.

“You have to eat,” he told Ann.

“I—all right, duck,” Ann agreed. When the waitress was gone she told him, “Dutch treat.”

“Dinner’s on me.”

“Or on the department and the taxpayers. Am I supposed to say something incriminating? I’m not going to. You can just save your duck if that’s what you think.”

“Dinner’s on me. And not because I think you’re going to say something incriminating. Defense attorneys could make chopped duck out of me for plying you with food and drink to get you to say something. Entrapment, you know.”

Ann bit into a baguette. It was crispy on the outside, warm, delicious, melting on the inside. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. A sip of the café au lait was delicious, too. Sustaining, somehow.

He’d been right. She needed out of the hospital.

“Can cops afford duck?” she asked. “Maybe I should be treating you if we’re not dining on the taxpayers.”

“I can afford dinner.”

“A high-paid cop?”

“I’ve been in it a very long time. I’ve made some good investments.”

“Ah.” She set her bread down suddenly. She was almost enjoying herself.

And Jon was in a coma. Dying. Katie was in the Amazon, maybe losing her father. Not even knowing it.

She was startled when his fingers curled around her hand. His eyes were on hers, very intensely silver-gray. “You haven’t lost him. He will most likely pull through.”

“He’s in a coma.”

“His vital signs are good and steady; he’s receiving the necessary blood. His color is good. His body sustained tremendous shock; without the immediate medical treatment he received, he would have died. But he’s not going to die now.”

“Did you go to medical school, Lieutenant?” she asked coolly.

His hand withdrew from hers. He sat back in his chair, watching her, the hue of his eyes taking on a steely color. “I’ve seen too many injured or wounded people lying in hospitals. There are things cops learn the hard way. When the victim’s brain is affected, there’s almost no hope. ‘Brain dead,’ Mrs. Marcel, and it’s time to pray to heaven, and hope that the afflicted made out donor cards. Jon Marcel has slipped into a coma, but his vitals aren’t just steady, they’re good. He’s going to pull through.”

“And then you’re going to arrest him.”

“Probably.”

She was furious. Shaking. She wasn’t quite sure why his candor was making her quite so angry—it wasn’t as if he was saying anything she hadn’t figured out on her own. Still aware of those ruthless gray eyes watching her, she buttered her bread with a vengeance.

“Cops!” she hissed. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing some kind of investigative work? You’ve got Jon pinned—but you don’t have a murder weapon! Wouldn’t it make more sense if you looked for whoever had stabbed them both?”

He hesitated a long time. “Mrs. Marcel, we’ve gotten some of the lab information back.”

“Yes?”

“They’ll be doing more thorough DNA testing, of course, but so far, the evidence suggests that your husband did have sex with Miss L’Aveau the day that she was killed. Her blood was definitely on his person; his blood was on hers.”

Again, he was watching her very intently.

“Are you trying to shock me, Lieutenant, anger me?”

“I’m trying to give you the facts.”

“Fact, then, Lieutenant. It’s not considered a crime for a divorced man to have sex with a woman he’s seeing. Actually, it’s not a
crime
for a married man—or woman—to have sex with another party. Actually—”

He sighed with deep impatience. “And I don’t suppose it’s a crime for you to remain in love with the man, Mrs. Marcel. But you’re going to have to face facts—”

“Whether I am or am not ‘in love’ with my ex-husband is my own concern, Lieutenant. So far, the only fact I see is that the police are being incredibly lazy. You have two stabbed people. No knife.”

“The knife will turn up.”

“Umm. In my apartment.”

“There’s no search warrant out for your apartment, Mrs. Marcel.”

“Why should there be? I left that apartment with the door open and cops all over it.”

“You don’t have much faith in cops.”

“I haven’t had much experience with them. From what I am discovering, some cops seem to have the capacity to be fairly blind.”

“Then again, there are those who aren’t blind, but who refuse to see,” he reminded her.

“Why did you bring me out if you were so determined to torture me?” Ann demanded.

“You needed to eat.”

“Is it your job to make sure that the ex-wives of the murderers you’re trying to arrest eat.”

“
Alleged
murderers,” he reminded her.

She was about to lash out an angry reply, but she bit back her words because Helena was weaving her way toward them through the cafe tables with their salads.

“I’m so sorry, I forgot to ask. Would you like wine now that you’ve chosen to have dinner?”

“No, thanks,” Ann said.

“Yes, please,” he corrected.

“I don’t drink wine,” Ann lied.

His smiled broadened. “The hell you don’t. Helena, I’d like a half carafe of the house rosé. Mrs. Marcel can join me if the urge overtakes her.”

Helena left them. Ann dug savagely into her lettuce. “Are cops supposed to drink on duty?”