No Hero (4 page)

Rick dug in his pockets until he eventually came out with a cigarette butt. “Got a light, bud?” he rasped.

Dev produced a lighter and held it, wondering how Rick managed not to burn his dreads as he leaned in toward the flame. “Hey man,” Dev muttered. “Anything happening down here?”

“Tons,” Rick said out of the corner of his mouth as he puffed on the butt. “There was a kid hanging around, bragging that he knew the dead teen. Haven’t seen him before. Head shaved. Torn ear.”

Dev tensed. “Right ear?”

Rick coughed like a man with catarrh. “Know him?”

Dev grimaced. “Scrawny? Loads of attitude? He’s a slummer. Probably not eighteen yet. His name’s Elliott. He likes hanging out at the center with the homeless kids.”

“A slummer.” Rick spat the word like a piece of spoiled food. “Want me to feel him out?”

“Nah. I’ll let Givens know. He can drag him in for questioning—and put the fear of God into him. Elliott’s too puny to take down a kid like Darnell by himself. He might know something, though. Thanks for the tip.” Dev expected Rick to slink back into the shadows, but the smaller man spoke again.

“So, the redhead you were getting so cozy with over there. Isn’t she the one who—”

“Ripped me a new one on her show and got me suspended from the force for three months? That’s her.”

“Wow. She must really have a bug up her butt to climb out of bed at this hour. How’d she get past the police tape?”

Dev rolled his eyes. “She’s pretty sneaky.”

Rick snorted. “What’d she want?”

“To tell me she had a DVD I needed to see.”

Rick flicked cigarette ash. “From one of her shows?”

“I guess. Apparently an interview she did with that scumbag Gerard Fontenot.”

Rick shot him a sidelong look.

“She believes he said something I need to hear,” Dev said impassively. “I sent Stevens with her to get it.”

“Stevens?” Rick puffed on the stubby cigarette, and coughed again. “You mean that Stevens? The one coming this way with his tail between his legs?”

Dev looked up and cursed. “Son-of-a-bitch. Now what?”

Rick snorted. “Guess she gave him the slip.” He started to amble away, then stopped. He spoke without turning around. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If she wanted you to see that DVD so badly, why didn’t she want to give it to Stevens?” With that, he disappeared into the shadows.

“Uh, Detective,” Stevens said, his voice apologetic.

“What happened?” Dev barked. “Didn’t I tell you—” he stopped. There was no reason to beat up Stevens just because Connor had pulled a number on the guy. Had Dev really expected anything different?

Stevens swallowed audibly. “Ms. Connor disappeared while I was rounding up a car. Want me to find out where she lives and—”

Dev leveled him a quelling look. “Never mind. Get that crowd dispersed.”

“Yes, sir.” Stevens slunk away.

Dev stood there a while longer, watching the deceptively calm surface of the treacherous Mississippi River and mulling over the meager facts of the case. Two kids connected to the center, dead within less than two weeks. Same weapon, same MO. No leads.

He considered Connor and her DVD. Rick obviously thought the same thing he did. For whatever reason, the reporter considered the DVD important. But if she wanted Dev to see it, why give Stevens the slip? And what the hell had Rick been implying?

Dev rubbed his forehead as Thibaud’s voice echoed in his head.
People’s a lot like the river, cher. There’s the surface, and then there’s the depths. What you see on the surface is one thing. But it’s the depths you need to study. Don’ make the mistake of judging somebody ‘thout looking at him from the inside out.

He silently acknowledged the wisdom of the man who had saved his life. Then he turned and headed back to the crime scene to offer his help to Givens.

Tomorrow he’d go see Connor and find out what was so damned important on that DVD.

…

Two hours later, Dev unlocked the door to the Thibaud Johnson Center for Homeless Teens, wearily flexing his shoulders. It had been a long night. He doubled his fist and lightly punched at the wall, showing, he thought, admirable restraint. He itched to connect with the wood paneling at about ninety miles per hour, but Thibaud’s name shining from the plaque just inside the door stopped him. Etched into the brass were the words,
It don’t help to run when you’re hauling around what you’re running from.
The words reminded him of the promise he’d made to the man. He hadn’t always kept that promise, but he always remembered it.

You’re strong and you’re smart, youngster,
Thibaud had told him time and again,
and those black eyes of your’n are damned intimidatin’, I’ll guarantee. When you grow into that temper, you’re gonna be a mighty big man. So be sure you’re as big inside as you are outside. Be right before you begin. Think, son, before you hurt somebody.

“Give me a few more years, Thibaud,” he whispered, rubbing an imaginary smudge off the plaque with his thumb. “Maybe I’ll get better at being the man you thought I could be.”

Old grief mingled with new to gnaw at his gut as he looked around the big front room. In the glow of the night-lights he saw a few kids sacked out on the couches or curled up on the floor with blankets. That meant the upstairs was full. He’d converted the second floor into a large dorm room that held four bunk beds for the males. His bedroom, and the suite where Penn, his “surrogate” sister, and her daughter lived, were on the third floor, along with a room that held three single beds for females, plus another room with a double bed and two fold-up cots.

He wondered how many of the kids knew about Darnell. If they didn’t yet, they would soon. Information traveled fast in this close-knit community of kids who felt safer on the streets than in their parents’ homes.

He’d talk to them sometime today, unless Penn volunteered to do it. The center was paying for her to get a degree in social work, and she was already using her knowledge and compassion to help the kids. He glanced at the stairs, wondering if she was awake.

He vaulted up the steps. As he reached the third floor, he saw a dim light shining through the transom over Penn’s door. He knocked quietly. Within seconds, she opened up. She was dressed in an oversized T-shirt and bicycle shorts. Reading glasses perched on her short nose, and her finger was stuck in a book—her sociology text.

“You’re up early,” he said.

She gave him an indulgent smile. “Apparently you haven’t been paying attention during my last seven semesters. I’m up early every morning. When do you think I study?” she asked, indicating the textbook. “Want some coffee? I was about to make some.”

“Nah.” Dev shut the door behind him and flopped down on her threadbare couch. “If I drank a cup of your coffee after being up all night, it would probably eat a hole in what’s left of my stomach.”

She pulled a bottle of water out of a mini-refrigerator. “How about this?”

“Great, thanks.” He lifted and drained it, then wiped his mouth. Leaning his head back against the couch, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I haven’t seen Katie in a couple of days. She okay?”

Penn sat down in a recliner and crossed her legs in a half-lotus. “She’s fine. She wants to try out for a part in a play the community center is putting on, so Tracy’s been helping her study lines.” Katie was Penn’s daughter, and Tracy was one of the new kids at the center. Penn set her book aside and pulled her braid around, methodically undoing it and combing her hair out with her fingers.

“Katie really likes her a lot, doesn’t she?” Tracy had shown up during the two months Dev had spent in Seattle. Penn and Katie had taken to her right away, and it was obvious that Tracy adored ten-year-old Katie.

Penn nodded. “Tracy’s great with her. She brought her a harmonica and she’s teaching her how to play it.” For a moment she didn’t say anything and Dev was happy to sit quietly. She rebraided her hair and tossed the braid over her shoulder, then grinned at him. “I am so glad you’re back.”

He eyed her with affection. “Me too. Two months away from the center was much too long, and I still say all of the paperwork and depositions could have been handled from here. I shouldn’t have had to be in Seattle but for a couple of weeks for the judiciary hearing.”

“Do you realize that’s the first time I haven’t had my
brother
around since you and Thibaud rescued Katie and me?”

“I guess that’s true,” Dev said as he tried to rub the ache out of his eyes.

Penn’s expression turned worried. “So what was the call about? Please tell me it wasn’t—” She paused.

“Body pulled out of the river down by the Alabo Street Wharf,” Dev said. “It was Darnell.”

“Darnell? Oh no.” Her eyes filled with tears. “First Brian and now Darnell? I’m so sorry.” Beneath the pain she looked thoughtful. “Didn’t Darnell just qualify for a scholarship?”

“He and Brian were my first two kids who qualified.” The brand-new federally funded Safefutures Scholarships were designated for college tuition for qualified eighteen-year-olds who were homeless. “Two kids in less than two weeks, and both just received scholarships—it doesn’t make sense.”

“How did Darnell die?” Penn asked.

Dev stood and paced, rolling the plastic water bottle between his hands. “Would you believe he was killed in the same exact way as Brian?”

“No! His throat was slit, too?” Penn’s voice was hushed.

He nodded grimly. “Something sharp. One neat slice, right across the carotid artery. Then into the river, just like Brian.”

“Who do you think could be doing such a thing?”

“I wish I knew. Givens thinks it’s one of the other kids.”

“Did you tell him that’s ridiculous?” Penn retorted. “These kids care about each other. They wouldn’t—”

Dev held up a hand. “I know. I’ve been going over each and every one of them in my mind. I can’t see it.”

“I can’t either,” Penn said. “These kids aren’t bad, they’ve just had a hard time. Who knows that better than we do?” She threw up her hands. “No. I can’t think of a single one who could do something like that.”

Dev didn’t answer.

“Are you all right?” Penn asked.

“I failed them, Penn,” he said sadly. “Brian and Darnell. They trusted me to keep them safe and I didn’t.”

“Come on, Dev. This is not your fault. Not even you can be everywhere. All you can do is the best you can.” She paused for a moment. “Have you been eating?”

He stopped massaging his temples to stare at her. “What?”

“You know what I mean. You’re exhausted. And I know you. When you worry, you don’t eat. The stress is wearing the meat off your bones. You’re losing weight, you’re not sleeping, you’re probably living on coffee and nothing else. Consider this. If you don’t take care of yourself, how can you possibly take care of the kids?”

Dev grimaced. “I’ll go you one better. If I don’t care about them, then nobody does. You of all people should understand that. Not to mention when I opened this center, I promised each and every kid who walked through that door that I would protect them. That they would be safe here.”

“You give them a place to go when they have nothing, just like Thibaud did for you and me. You do everything you can to ensure their safety. But you can’t spend your life seeing your sister in every abused kid. Even you can’t save them all, Mr. Superhero.” She softened her words with a smile.

“My sister never had a chance,” he muttered. “If I’d realized what was going on—”

“Stop beating yourself up,” Penn said. “You were twelve years old, for God’s sake. She was barely a year older, and helpless against your stepfather. You did what you had to do to protect her.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“No, it wasn’t, Dev. And it will never be. How many more years is it going to take for you to forgive yourself? You were a child. Thank God you managed to hit the bastard hard enough to crush his skull, or he’d have killed you, too.”

Dev rubbed his eyes.

“You need to go to bed,” she continued, “and in your bedroom, not down in the office. I changed your sheets today, though I don’t know why I bother. You never sleep in there.”

“I don’t think I can sleep. I’ll go down and do some paperwork,” he said, standing.

Penn threw up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But eat something. There’s sandwich stuff in the refrigerator if the kids haven’t already inhaled it. And drink milk, not coffee. I’m going to get in another hour of study before Katie wakes up.”

Dev leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Night, Penn.”

“Morning, Dev,” she said, then called out, “Milk.”

He smiled as he headed down the hall to his bedroom. The king-sized bed was made and the room smelled like fresh linen. With a longing glance toward the bed and its promise of cool, clean sheets, he grabbed a pair of sweatpants and headed down the hall to the bathroom for a quick, hot shower. Under the refreshing spray, he found himself thinking about Reghan Connor. That red hair and the determined lift to her chin were as intriguing and sexy as her slender yet curvy body. He was surprised at how easily and quickly his own body reacted to his thoughts. But then, his body was fickle. It didn’t care that she’d ripped into the web of lies that Thibaud had spun to protect Dev from having to face his past. His flesh still wanted her with a burning desire that only grew hotter the more he tried to tamp it down. He turned off the hot water and endured the cold spray for a few seconds before finishing up his shower and drying off.

He pulled the sweatpants over his damp legs and walked downstairs. After scowling at the mess of papers piled on the desk, he lay down on the couch. When his head hit the cushion, he winced at the tension in his neck and the renewed throbbing in his temple.

He closed his eyes, hoping he could relax and maybe nap for a while. But no such luck. As soon as his eyelids closed, Brian’s and Darnell’s broken, limp bodies rose in his inner vision. He’d started the center to give these teens what he’d never had until he’d found himself in New Orleans.

Today, he was thankfully a thousand miles and twenty years away from the frightened, desperate twelve-year-old who’d run as far as he could to escape the awful reality of what he’d done. Still, the memories bombarded his exhausted brain and his ears rang again—they always would, he suspected—with the horrible crunching sound of wood against bone. His fingers would always tingle from the force of the deadly blow he had dealt. Thibaud had been right all those years ago.
It don’t help to run when you’re hauling around what you’re running from.