by Rita Herron
Jean-Paul gritted his teeth as she waved past the photo of him and Lucinda. Britta narrowed her eyes, obviously curious about the woman, but she didn’t ask and he didn’t offer the information.
How many times had he questioned his decision? Some men had lost their jobs because they’d left their posts to save their families. He’d saved strangers, kept his job, but lost his wife.
“And here’s Damon, my next-to-the-oldest son,” his mother continued. “Damon works for the FBI. Always the serious one, tough like Jean-Paul, but reserved, a methodical thinker.” Her face beamed with pride. “And this is Antwaun, my youngest boy. He’s hot-headed, temperamental like his papa, unpredictable.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “He’s too quick to jump into things sometimes, but ahh, a good boy at heart, he is.”
“You have a beautiful family,” Britta said quietly.
Her tone sounded so sad that Jean-Paul squeezed her hand beneath the table. A gesture of silent thanks for being so tolerant? The realization that he was sorry for whoever had hurt her?
“Now please, Britta, try some of my famous white-bread pudding.” His mother pushed a dish toward Britta and she accepted it graciously.
“It’s delicious.” Britta sipped her latte. “In fact, everything looks wonderful. And the smells…I’m sure customers are drawn in from the streets because of the tantalizing aromas.”
“Oh, thank you,” his mother gushed. “You must come by for lunch. I work so hard to get the freshest ingredients and Catherine here, Jean-Paul’s youngest sister, she helps me create the desserts.”
“My daughter, Chrissy, likes to bake, too,” Catherine said with a grin. “I think she might grow up to be a pastry chef herself.”
“Yeah, but she usually wears more flour than goes into the dough.” Jean-Paul ruffled his five-year-old niece’s hair and smiled as she popped part of an éclair into her mouth and the cream oozed down her chin.
“So how long have you known my big brother?” Catherine asked.
Britta squirmed in her seat. “Actually we just met.”
Stephanie, his dark-haired sister and the bookkeeper for the café, raised a brow. “Papa said you’re helping Jean-Paul with a case?”
Britta nodded, but refrained from elaborating.
“What is it you do?” Catherine asked. “Are you a detective?”
“Or one of those psychic investigators?” Stephanie asked.
Jean-Paul rolled his eyes. “The festival has everyone’s imagination running on overload, doesn’t it?”
Stephanie shrugged. “I know you don’t believe in anything supernatural, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
Catherine cleared her throat. “That’s right. Just like love. Just because it’s not a tangible thing, doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
Jean-Paul glared at them to stop the matchmaking. They both knew he’d vowed never to marry again, that he had no desire to get involved with another woman.
Britta cleared her throat. “Actually, I’m not gifted or a detective. I’m an editor for a magazine.”
Stephanie’s dark eyes lit up as recognition dawned. “Britta Berger. That’s right. You edit that Secret Confessions column, don’t you?” She stirred sweetener into her coffee. “I love that column. It’s exciting to see the diversity of confessions. Do you have a difficult time choosing which ones to print?”
Britta shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“I met the owner, R.J. Justice,” Stephanie continued. “He’s handsome. I bet he’s interesting to work for.”
Jean-Paul frowned at his sister as he finished his last bite of gumbo. He didn’t want Stephanie anywhere near Justice, but if he told her so, she’d probably make it a point to see the man.
“The magazine, that’s one reason we stopped by,” Jean-Paul said. “We had a murder-rape case today, and the killer sent Britta a photograph of the crime.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s horrible,” Catherine whispered.
“Why did he send it to you?” Stephanie asked.
“I think he wanted me to print it.”
“But we’re not playing his game,” Jean-Paul declared.
His maman looked appalled. “Who did this awful thing?”
“We have no idea who the killer is yet. That means you all have to be careful.” Jean-Paul fixed his sisters with a look that had intimidated cut-throat killers but didn’t faze them. “Absolutely no going out alone at night. Hell, not even during the day.”
“Have you talked to your brothers?” his mother asked.
“Not yet, but I will.”
Catherine tapped her nails on her chin. “We can take care of ourselves, Jean-Paul.”
Stephanie slicked her long dark hair behind one ear and angled her head toward Britta in a conspiratorial tone. “Honestly, our brothers can be so protective it’s nauseating.”
His maman waved a napkin, swatting at her daughters. “You girls listen to Jean-Paul. He knows the streets and works hard to keep us safe.” She turned to Britta. “Your family would say the same thing to you, wouldn’t they?”
Britta nearly choked on her coffee.
His mother patted her on the back. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Fine, thank you.” Her eyes caught Jean-Paul’s for a moment, and he detected a wariness that made him more curious about her past and what she wasn’t saying.
He lowered his voice, aware of the restaurant patrons. “Don’t take this lightly, ladies. Trust me, this guy is one sicko. You don’t want to wind up like the young woman we found.” A shudder nearly tore through him at the very thought.
Catherine and Stephanie exchanged a silent sisterly look as if they were preparing to gang up on him. He didn’t give a damn. Better they be mad at him and alive than the contrary. Tonight, he’d call Catherine’s husband, explain the situation. Not that he’d have to force the man to protect her. In spite of Cat’s protests, Shawn guarded her and their daughter like a watchdog. And he’d sic his other brothers on Miss Independent Stephanie. At least Steph carried a gun.
“Tell us more,” Stephanie said over the rattle of silverware and dishes at the neighboring table. “The only thing the news reported was that a woman had been killed in the bayou.”
“We haven’t identified her yet or released any information, so I can’t talk about it.” Jean-Paul threw some money on the table, then did the usual dance with his mother about not paying.
“Maman, we’ve been over this before. I won’t eat here free.”
She huffed but kissed her pinched fingers, then placed her fingers on his cheek. “We will go to church Sunday and pray for the girl and her family, oui?”
“I’ll try to make it, Maman.”
“Bring Britta, too.” She slanted Britta a sideways wink. “We always have room for one more at our table.”
Britta shook her head. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Dubois, but I couldn’t impose.”
“Impose?” His maman waved the napkin again, this time at Jean-Paul. “You tell her she could never impose. We love company. Now, you bring her, Jean-Paul.”
“We’ll see,” he said softly. He lay his hand over his maman’s for a moment and squeezed, his gaze catching the odd look on Britta’s face. Did she think it was strange that he and his family showed their affection in public? Or did the family scene make her uncomfortable?
Why did he care what she thought? When the hurricane had stolen his parents’ home and business, they’d banded together to rebuild their lives.
The tragedies had taught him about what was most important. Material things could be replaced, but loved ones couldn’t. But he didn’t want his family getting the wrong idea about their relationship.
Besides, a madman might be after Britta. He’d protect her with his life but he refused to lead the killer back to his own family’s door.
His cell phone jangled and he pressed the phone to his ear to hear over the din of laughter and voices. “Detective Dubois.”
“Dubois, it’s Carson. Listen,
there’s a bartender down here at the House of Love who recognizes our victim.”
A break they needed. “I’ll be right there.” He stood and gestured toward Britta. “We need to go.”
“Always working,” his mother hissed.
Stephanie punched his arm. “Stay safe, brother.”
Catherine hugged him. “Yeah, watch your back. You’re not invincible either, you know.”
He nodded, then slid his hand to Britta’s waist as they left the restaurant. It was out of the way to walk her home, but the House of Love was a divey bar with nasty floors, cheap strippers and raunchy patrons.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as they stepped into the cloying humidity.
“My partner found someone who recognizes our victim. I’ll take you home, then I’ll go talk to him.”
She lifted her hair off her neck to cool herself, drawing his gaze to a tiny scar beneath her right earlobe. “That’s right around the corner.”
“I know, but it’s not the kind of place I usually take a woman.”
Emotions flickered in her eyes…relief, surprise. Then she shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve seen worse,” she said. “Besides I’m not the sweet, domestic type like your little sisters. This is about the case. It’s not personal.”
He shook his head, but his body hardened at the way her eyes darkened in the moonlight. “No, not personal at all.”
And he would keep reminding himself of that, even if she decided to turn her seductive powers on him.
After all, she wasn’t shy or the wholesome girl next door like his sisters. She didn’t seem to like the family scene, either. And she had refused his mother’s invitation to dinner as if a homey gathering would bore her.
Worse, she printed erotic confessions in a magazine. Watching a performer take money for stripping probably wouldn’t even faze her.
* * *
THE NIGHT FELT as if it would never end.
Britta entered the wall-to-wall packed House of Love, fighting the memories that rose from the depths of the forgotten to haunt her. Thick smoke, sweat, beer and the stench of tawdry sex filled the air; the hint of drunken lust added a layer of tension over the sea of anonymous faces.
Nausea filled her. She’d grown up in places just like this. Had watched her mother entertain night after night. Then seen her duck into the curtained-off areas to perform private lap dances….
“It’s not a bad way to make a living,” her mother had told her one night when she’d caught Britta staring through the curtain. “It’s just sex, nothing more.”
No emotions. Just the simple exchange of bodily fluids and money.
Disgust gnawed at Britta’s throat as she banished the images. She’d hated seeing her mother degrade herself. Hated even more the strange men’s grunts and groans at night, watching her mother delve into booze and drugs, knowing filthy hands touched her….
“Come on,” Jean-Paul mumbled, “I see the bartender over there.”
The strobe light blinked to the beat of the contemporary rock music, the center stage occupied with two busty half-naked women gyrating and dancing around poles. A slender black girl tossed off her spangled top and double-Ds swayed as she rode the pole, tassels of silver and bright yellow twirling as she bounced her breasts. Beside her a brunette with three-inch red nails—and red stilettos to match—tossed her gold top into the groping milieu of men. Catcalls erupted as her pasties followed. Playing to the audience’s excitement, she crawled across the stage on hands and knees, slithering her ass upward. The black girl shimmied, then began to slowly peel away her G-string, inch by inch, teasing the men thrusting dollar bills toward her.
Jean-Paul coaxed Britta through the crowd toward the opposite end of the bar, casting only a quick glance at the stage. “It’s a damn shame girls turn to that kind of lifestyle. Didn’t their mothers teach them any better?”
The censure in his voice raised her defenses. “Not every girl comes from a Cosby home like yours, Detective Dubois.”
He slanted a frown over his shoulder. “Not everyone who has problems turns to drugs, alcohol or hooking, either.”
The jab hit home and Britta clamped her mouth shut, humiliation heating her face. How could he possibly know what drove some people to make the choices they did? She’d never understood her mother, but she claimed she’d worked at the bars for Britta, so they could survive.
“You’re a bad girl, Britta. Just like your mama.”
The words echoed in her ear, reminding her of her roots and the vast difference between her and this cop. She wondered about his personal life, about the woman in the photo at his parents’ restaurant. His girlfriend? Lover? Wife? Where was she now?
He wasn’t wearing a ring. And his family would have mentioned if he was married. And the woman…she’d looked so sweet, delicate. Nothing like Britta.
Jean-Paul Dubois would not understand her childhood. Or what she had done later that had marked her for life.
He flicked his hand toward a man at the door. “That’s my partner, Carson Graves.”
She nodded, not bothering to try to speak above the noise. Jean-Paul shouldered his way through the mob, then up to the counter. A beefy man reached out and pinched her ass, and she flipped around and nearly swung at him. “Keep your hands off, buddy,” Britta snapped.
Jean-Paul gave the man a lethal look, then slipped his arm around her waist, keeping her pressed close to him as they sidled up to the counter. Heat emanated from his hands and broad chest, and they were so close his breath brushed her neck. His protective gesture was subtle yet comforting, but after his comment Britta refused to allow herself to enjoy the feel of his hard chest against her back. She could stand on her own. She always had and always would.
He introduced her to his partner, who seemed to assess her the way the drunks in the room had when she’d entered. He was shorter than Jean-Paul, but still close to six feet, and handsome with short dark brown hair. When he shook her hand, she noticed an odd tattoo.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Berger. And that—” He indicated the three-ringed marking on his hand. “Was a gang tattoo,” he explained without seeming offended. “I came up through the trenches but I finally got my head on straight.”
She felt an immediate connection with him personally.
“Britta,” she said automatically.
“I heard you’ve had a rough day, Britta,” he said in a Southern drawl.
She shrugged. “Not as rough as the poor girl in that picture.”
He conceded with a nod. Jean-Paul cleared his throat, his voice gruff when he spoke. “You have information on our victim?”
Carson pivoted toward Jean-Paul. “Yeah, this bartender says he’s seen her. His name’s Moe Leery.”
Carson waved the thin, thirtysomething bartender over and Moe leaned across the bar and wiped the counter.
“What can you tell us about this woman?” Jean-Paul flashed the picture again.
The guy winced and pushed the photo away. “Her real name is Elvira Erickson. But she went by Pooky.”
“She was a stripper?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Yeah, but she’d only been working here a couple of weeks. Told me she needed tuition money for school. Said she was planning to go to Tulane.”
A muscle ticked in Jean-Paul’s jaw and Britta saw the wheels turning in his mind. He was thinking about his sisters.
“Do you have an address?”
Moe scribbled on a napkin. “I think she lived in an apartment near the university.”
“We’ll check it out,” Carson said. “Did she have a boyfriend?”
Moe smirked and grabbed two mugs to fill an order. “If she did, she sure as hell didn’t bring him in here. Wouldn’t be good for business or her tips.”
Jean-Paul gave him a clipped nod. “Did you notice any guy hanging with her? Say two nights ago?”
Moe shook his head. “Naw, man. The girls come and go. I try to keep my head down. I don’t want their pimps’ wrath on me.”
“How about any strange men who might have been watching her?” Jean-Paul asked. “A stalker maybe?”
Moe indicated the crowd. “Half the guys in here fit in that category.”
Jean-Paul grimaced and Britta searched the mob of lust-starved, dollar-holding men, remembering similar scenes with her mother. More than once, a customer had jumped on stage and tried to drag her off with him.
Across the room, a man in a gray suit and wire-rims caught her attention. He seemed familiar, so she tilted her head to study him, then remembered that she’d seen him in the market. She’d thought he was watching her.
Always looking for ghosts from her past. In New Orleans, they were all around her….
He flashed some money at the black dancer, then spotted her and his eyes widened as if he was a deer trapped in a set of headlights.
Britta tapped Jean-Paul on the shoulder to get his attention, but by the time he turned around the man had disappeared back into the crowd again as if he’d never existed.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL INCHED CLOSER to her. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought I recognized a man in the crowd,” she said in a shaky voice.
Jean-Paul immediately scanned the smoky room. “Who? What does he look like?”
“He’s gone now. But I saw him in the market earlier.” A strand of her red hair fell across her cheek. “I guess it was nothing.”
“Was it that photographer?”
“No, another man. It’s probably my imagination.”
“You’re smart to stay alert,” he said, itching to touch her hair and tuck it back into place. “We don’t know that he wasn’t the man who broke into your place. Or the killer.”
“If he was after me, why not just approach me?”
Jean-Paul lifted an eyebrow. “In a crowded bar? No way.” He stroked her arm gently, and a small tremor rippled through his body, stirring protective instincts. Dammit, the Dubois men were always suckers for a woman in trouble. “If he made me for a cop, he’d definitely run.”
His logic made sense but only heightened her anxiety level.