The Curse of a Single Red Rose (Haunted Hearts Series Book 7) (10 page)

Mary Pat appeared to consider the offer. She returned Elsa’s smile, which was a miracle, and crossed the room to the door. “No, thank you. I’m going to go. He is obviously sick…” She tossed Collin an indignant glare. “Even though he won’t admit it. I’m counting on you to take care of him. He seems to think you’d be a better nurse than his own mother. Please ask him to bring you over for a visit soon…when he’s feeling better and he’s ready to introduce you to me properly.”

Elsa tilted her head. Her eyebrows drew across the bridge of her nose. Then her expression cleared as if a dark mystery had been illuminated. “Of course. I’d love to come for a visit.”

The two women left him and the shuffle of feet headed toward the front of the house. Muted conversation floated toward him from the living area, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying to each other. The
swish
of the closing front door soon followed.

Elsa stood in the doorway of his bedroom with her hands on her hips. “You told her we were dating, didn’t you?”

He dared to stare straight into her eyes. “I couldn’t tell her that Dallas Thoreau’s car ran into me. Or that there was a dead woman in the trunk.” He shoved up on his elbows. Adding to his aggravation, he kept slipping down the mattress. “And I certainly didn’t want to tell her I have a concussion. She would have never left.”

“She’s your mother, Collin.” The razor’s edge of reproach sharpened Elsa’s statement of the obvious.

“Yes, she’s my mother. I love her as much as any man loves his own mother, I do. But I also know her very, very well. What Mary Pat McVey doesn’t know she can’t repeat to someone else, and right now, there are certain things that don’t need to be spread all over the neighborhood.”

Elsa dropped onto the side of his bed, and he edged over to make more room for her. She settled into the larger space and rubbed a wrinkle out of the blanket. “I don’t know much about mothers.”

Sympathy swelled inside him. “You were kind of young when you lost yours.”

“I used to be jealous of kids that had mothers. I mean living mothers. Not just mother memories. Like mine.” She licked her lips. “I still am…jealous…a little, I guess.”

Ah, he got it. Elsa had an idealized version of motherhood because she’d never experienced a relationship with her own mother. “So you can’t understand how I can treat my mother that way.” He reached out and took Elsa’s hand. “My mother expects me to react a certain way to her behavior. If I don’t, she thinks something is wrong. I wouldn’t hurt her on purpose for anything in the world. Sometimes though, a person has to stand up to her or else she’ll take charge of a thing. And she knows that.”

“Are we dating, Collin?”

Her question zoomed at him seemingly out of nowhere, but then, he should have expected her to question his insinuations about his relationship with her.

He squeezed her hand. “We could be. If you want. I was going to ask you out.”

She smiled. “You still can.”

“Okay, then. When I’m recuperated.” He flinched from a stab of pain.

She rose from the bed. “It’s time for another pain med.”

Thank God. His head was about to explode. She gave him the painkiller and then left him alone with his thoughts.

Before they went out again, he’d have to tell her about his agreement with Nick Moreau. The awkwardness in the ER when he had kept some things from Moreau and some things from Elsa, and through it all had tried to remember which was which with a pounding headache, had exhausted him. He had to tell one of them everything or he’d go nuts, so he chose to tell Elsa. Later. When his head didn’t feel like it was about to fall off his neck.

Chapter Eight

The story went that Dallas Thoreau’s father Jasper came home from a business trip to Dallas one night in a very amorous mood with the unmistakable scent of floral perfume on his person. His wife Claudette accommodated his husbandly expectations because…well, that’s what Claudette did. Her momma had raised her to be an old-fashioned sort of wife, and she’d seen that refusing Jasper Thoreau anything had disastrous results.

Claudette wasn’t the kind to take an insult lying down.

Her son had been born while Jasper had been out of town on yet another business trip. Claudette had named the boy Dallas on purpose, just to let Jasper know that she knew what he’d done. This bit of family history was common knowledge to those in the know in New Orleans, and a discussion of his mother’s bold public sarcasm was a touchy subject for Dallas Thoreau.

But then the Thoreau family was no stranger to scandal. A typical crime family tended to fly low beneath the radar, but not the Thoreaus. Socially, the entire clan seemed to invade every segment of New Orleans’s elite society, having roots in the city sprawling everywhere beneath the shallow Louisiana soil. Approaching Dallas Thoreau took a significant amount of guts. So when Nick Moreau tracked Dallas to the bar in his club, he had prepared exactly what he would say before he got there.

Thoreau turned his gaze from the glass in his hand. No doubt, the man was drinking his usual single malt scotch. They’d never met, but Nick was certain the man could sniff out a cop from ten miles away.

Dallas glanced toward his companion, and the man left the bar. The other man seemed familiar, but Nick didn’t take the time to analyze the impression. He had business with Thoreau.

“How can I help you, detective?”

Nick slipped a business card out of his wallet and slid it across the bar toward Thoreau. “Detective Moreau.”

Thoreau glanced at the card but didn’t touch it. “Homicide? I don’t know anything about any homicides.” He had offered his standard answer when questioned about mysterious disappearances in the ranks of his rivals. “So how can I help you?”

“Actually, I’m here to help you.”

Thoreau smiled, but his eyes clearly revealed the man doubted Nick’s assertion.

“We’ve located your car.”

Thoreau chuckled. “Which one?” He obviously enjoyed flaunting his wealth. Who needed more than one car?

“Your Audi.”

Thoreau swirled the liquid in his glass. “Where did you find it?”

The Audi R8 was an expensive vehicle. If Nick owned one, he’d know where the car was at any given moment. He couldn’t imagine being so nonchalant about such a valuable machine.

“Smashed into the fender of a Chevy truck on Magazine Street.”

Mentioning Magazine was a bold move on Nick’s part. Thoreau steered clear of the neighborhood once he’d made enough money to live in a fancier location in the New Orleans metropolitan area. That didn’t mean he didn’t control the criminal activity in the area or that he hadn’t met considerable opposition from the combined McVey-O’Grady clan who were still firmly entrenched in the Irish Channel.

Thoreau rubbed his chin. “Really? I didn’t know it was missing. I haven’t driven a car in over a week. Maybe two.” He took another sip of his scotch. “You’re a homicide detective? Why are you telling me about this instead of a street cop?”

Nick smiled. “Because of the dead body we found in the trunk.” Discovery of Audrey’s body was even more gruesome than it might have been because the trunk of the R8 is located in the front of the car.

Thoreau glanced around the almost empty bar and then nodded toward a quiet corner. “Let’s talk over there.”

Cute. Why was he pretending he didn’t want his image tarnished? Everyone knew who he was and what he really did for a living.

Once they were seated in a couple of deep, red leather chairs, Thoreau finally addressed the fact of a dead body in a vehicle he owned. “I haven’t driven that car in a month or more. Like I said, I didn’t even know it was missing. It’s obvious someone stole the car and then wrecked it. You should be looking for a car thief. One that specializes in Audis.” An authoritative expression crossed his features. Thoreau was used to being the boss and controlling the situation. “You’re wasting your time. You’re not going to find a connection between me and a dead body.” The New Orleans police seldom did. Thoreau covered his part in his criminal activities quite well.

Nick leaned back and crossed his arms. “Really? Are you sure?”

Thoreau grinned. “I’m sure, detective. I haven’t seen any dead bodies in a very long time.”

That was an assertion Nick could have disputed had he wanted to. “So you’re saying you have no idea who Audrey St. Clair is?”

Thoreau’s right hand jerked into a fist, but otherwise, there was no physical reaction. Nick wouldn’t have known the name had affected Dallas Thoreau were it not for that tiny tell.

“So you’re saying you have no idea how Audrey St. Clair ended up in the trunk of your car?”

Thoreau shook his head.

He hadn’t denied knowing who she was. Interesting. Was the man that flustered? At this point, he should be denying any knowledge of Audrey.

Nick stood to his feet. “I’ve just begun my investigation into her death. If I have more questions about how and when a dead body managed to find its way into your car, I’ll be in touch.” He moved a couple of paces away. “Oh, don’t leave town until I clear you as a person of interest in this case.”

He left the guy before Thoreau could respond, hoping his abrupt departure would rattle the usually unflappable Dallas Thoreau even further. When a person of interest panicked, they usually made horrendous mistakes.

When he’d first recognized Audrey St. Clair’s battered face in the car trunk, his hopes of finding an inroad into the Thoreau family business had vanished as if it had never existed until he realized Thoreau had never been this sloppy about getting rid of his problems. The dead body in Thoreau’s car gave Nick an extraordinary opportunity to dig into Thoreau’s business that he might not have had otherwise.

As Nick slid into the driver’s seat of his car, his cell phone demanded his attention. He glanced at the display and groaned when he saw his partner’s name. He should have brought Petrie along with him, but he’d been in too much of a hurry to adhere to protocol.

When Petrie found out, he wouldn’t be happy. His excited voice came across the airwaves and assaulted Nick’s eardrum. “We got the fingerprint analysis on the prints lifted from the Audi. You’re not gonna believe this.”

Anything was possible. “So whose fingerprints match the ones lifted from Dallas Thoreau’s car?” Did they even have Thoreau’s prints in the AFIS database? The man was careful what he touched…very careful.

“They match a guy that’s been dead almost a year.”

Stranger things had happened. He cranked up the heat, suddenly chilled. “Yeah, who?”

“Brandon Wakefield.”

Impossible. That particular Wakefield was dead. Nick was well aware of that fact. “So how did his prints end up in Dallas Thoreau’s car?”

“That’s a very good question.”

Of course, Petrie wouldn’t have the answer. Nick hadn’t expected one.

Maybe Brandon had driven the car before his death? That was a long time for fingerprints to remain on a steering wheel. “Where was the print located?”

“Whoever cleaned the car forgot to wipe the rearview mirror. Nice big thumb print on the back right where he would have placed his hand to adjust it.”

Oh, that was significant.

As Nick stopped at the sign before entering the road outside the club’s spacious grounds, he rubbed his eyes. Weary. He’d grown weary of the case already.

When the traffic cleared enough to give him a car’s length space, he shot out onto the busy roadway to the blare of someone’s car horn. “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

But maybe he should. Hadn’t he thought he’d seen Brandon Wakefield hovering around the edges of the crowd when the emergency vehicles had surrounded Dallas Thoreau’s car where it had smashed into Collin McVey’s truck? He’d thought his eyes were playing tricks on him in the semi-dark of the streetlights along Magazine. When he’d made a move toward the look alike, the man had disappeared down a side street. In no mood to give chase to a ghost, Nick had refocused his attention on the dead body in Thoreau’s trunk.

Maybe he should have pursued the man who looked so much like a dead man. After all, everything about the Wakefield family was inexplicable. Maybe the man
was
Brandon Wakefield. Maybe it was someone who looked like him. Maybe it was someone else named Wakefield. Maybe it was a ghost.

He’d never actually seen the new Les Wakefield, had he? Perhaps it was time to pay Les Wakefield IV a visit. If the Wakefield DNA could pass from one individual to another, then might it also have the power to transform someone’s physical appearance? If so, how would Nick ever truly know whom he was dealing with?

He had a picture of Brandon Wakefield, so he needed a picture of Les Wakefield. Just so he could put them side-by-side. Just for comparison.

He’d almost forgotten he still had Petrie on the phone. The other detective hit him with one more excellent question. “So how does Dallas Thoreau know Brandon Wakefield? Why would he have a dead guy’s prints in his car?”

Those were questions for which Nick might never find the real answers, and if he did, he might not be able to include the truth in any official police report.

He could put off the inevitable no longer. It was time to consult his Uncle Ed about the case while Ed was still his captain in the Homicide Unit. Ed had grown accustomed to Nick introducing a paranormal aspect into an investigation, but Ed had never accepted the fact that some things couldn’t be explained in the natural realm. Ed had a particular distaste for things that went bump in the night, and he never could quite understand how someone could foresee something happening before it did.

****

After several days of babysitting, Elsa had grown so restless that Collin had felt utter relief when she announced she’d found a temporary position filling in for someone on another renovation job. He’d all but pushed her out the door so that he could get a little rest from her constantly high level of energy.

She was always doing something: smoothing his sheets, offering to get him a glass of water, discussing something she’d seen on the internet, cleaning his bathroom, telling him in detail how she’d prepared dinner, asking him endless questions about his family and his childhood. He needed a break. Not that he didn’t enjoy her company. They had actually fallen into a rather pleasant routine. It’s just that she never gave him any time to himself. Despite coming from a large, very social family, he’d gotten used to living alone, enjoying the down time from other human beings. Sure, being around other people usually energized him, but sometimes, there was such a thing as too much of a good thing.

He clicked the power button on the remote and surfed the channels, hoping to find anything mildly amusing. He’d finally come to the place where he could watch television without getting a pounding headache, but he still couldn’t do much on his laptop. The small computer screen blurred after a while and a headache soon followed. Getting out of bed had stopped making him dizzy, but making the trip from the bedroom to the living room was usually a chore.

After running through the channels a few times, he tossed the remote aside. As usual, there was nothing worth watching. Just as he started searching his mind for something to do to fill the hours before Elsa returned, a knock rattled his front door. Every muscle in his body tightened. The only visitor he’d had besides Elsa was his mother. Even his uncle and his cousins had stayed away at his request. He knew for a fact that Mary Pat was at the hall helping her neighbors plan the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade.

Could someone have waited until Elsa left to harass him? Could that someone be the person who had left the rose on the passenger seat of his truck? He hadn’t dared tell Elsa, but the previous day, he’d gone into the living room while she was out, just for a change of scenery, and found a single red rose lying on his coffee table. Whoever had left the rose had come and gone without alerting him.

He forced his legs off the side of the bed. The trip to the front door seemed endless, but finally, he was close enough he could yell at the person who had knocked yet a second time.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Dylan.”

He muttered to no one in particular and then replied with a booming voice. “Give me a minute, would you?”

He braced on the archway between the kitchen and living room and sucked in a deep fortifying breath. It took another minute to make it all the way to the door. Once he had opened it, Dylan sized him up in one glance.

“What are you doing out of bed? You look like hell.”

Collin straightened his backbone, trying to stand tall. “Someone knocked on my front door.”

Dylan’s eyes drew together over the bridge of his nose and then his confusion cleared. “Yeah. Guess I should have called first, huh?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Come in.”

Collin stepped aside to let the other man enter, wishing with his mind, soul, and spirit that he could crash back onto the bed.