Remember the Night

by Linda Castillo

  “Where the hell are you?” he growled in the silence.

  The thought of her going to jail tore him up. He’d been inside women’s prisons before. He knew firsthand how the female inmates were treated. He didn’t want to think about that. There was still time to solve the case. Still time to clear her name. To save her life.

  Restless and angry, Philip left the car and took the steps two at a time to the door. He knocked, but he knew she wasn’t home. It took him less than two minutes to pick the lock. He knew better, but a flimsy little lock wasn’t the kind of thing that could keep him from a woman who left him half-insane with the need to touch her just to make sure she was real.

  The apartment held her essence. Philip felt it as powerfully as her presence. He walked through the foyer to the living room, listening, soaking up the sensation of being close to her. A scratch pad lay facedown on the coffee table. Planning to leave her a note, he picked up the pad and froze.

  The names and phone numbers of three car rental agencies were scribbled on the left side of the sheet in Michelle’s handwriting. At the bottom, the name Bayou Lafourche was written in bold lettering, then crossed out.

  “I’ll be damned.” Reaching for the phone, Philip hit the redial button. A woman answered with the name of a car rental agency. He hung up without speaking.

  Bayou Lafourche was the last place he’d expected her to go. He wondered what she hoped to find there, besides demons.

  He stared at the pad, knowing he didn’t have a choice but to go after her. He wasn’t going to let her become a fugitive. He doubted she knew about the warrant, but it wouldn’t look good if the NOPD found out she’d left town. Some hot-headed cop with more bravado than brains might think she’d decided to run.

  Michelle felt the stares like pinpricks the moment she walked through the door. Located on the south side of town, at the edge of the slowly moving bayou, the Black Tattoo Tavern wasn’t the kind of place she would normally venture. But it was exactly the kind of place she’d find her brother. She tried to shrug off the stares as she made her way to the bar, where a man with shoulders the size of truck tires wiped glasses with an off-white towel.

  Squaring her shoulders, she expelled a breath and approached him. “Excuse me, I’m wondering if you know where I might find Nicolas Pelletier.” Her voice withered to a squeak as narrowed aquamarine eyes swept the length of her.

  “This his lucky day or somethin’?” The bartender grinned, exposing hit-or-miss teeth and a flash of gold.

  She didn’t want to pass on more information than necessary, but she thought the man might be more apt to help her if he knew she was family. Bayou Lafourche was tightly knit, the people family oriented, though she wondered if the concept had reached all the way to the Black Tattoo. “I’m his sister.”

  “Non, il est pas là.” No, he’s not here.

  “Ça c’est malheureux.” That’s too bad. She watched his eyes widen, and almost smiled, knowing he’d expected his Cajun French to deter her. “Do you expect him?” she fired back in rapid French.

  “He’ll be in ’fore closing.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “He’s trouble, that one.”

  Lord, how she knew that. “Thank—”

  “Must run in the family.” Betancourt’s voice cut through the air like a gunshot.

  Michelle spun, an odd mix of shock, pleasure and dread rippling through her. The late afternoon sun streaming in through the window silhouetted his imposing form. Faded jeans hugged his long legs, accentuating a part of his body she didn’t want to think about. A black leather jacket lent him the look of a renegade instead of a cop. The frown etched into his features told her he wasn’t happy to be there. The word dangerous came to mind, but she quickly shoved it aside. She could handle Betancourt.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost, Michelle. What’s the matter? Not expecting me?” he asked in a low, even voice.

  “How did you find me?” She wondered if he’d followed her as a man who cared, or a cop who needed to bring in a suspect.

  “I broke into your apartment.” He smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly one. “You’d think a woman on the run would be more careful with her notes.”

  Anger glided through her, and she clung to it. Anything was better than the quick jab of attraction that had her head spinning. She knew she shouldn’t have run out on him. But the way she figured, she hadn’t had a choice. “You had no right—”

  “Oh, hell, yes I did.” Without warning, he grasped her hand and guided her toward a corner booth. “You’re a suspect in a murder investigation. You can’t leave town on a whim.”

  “I’m not going to sit around New Orleans and wait for you to arrest me.”

  His flinch was barely discernible, but Michelle saw it and felt a chill creep over her. Had he come here to arrest her? “I have to know why Armon did the things you say he did,” she said. “I deserve to know.”

  He eased her into the booth, then slid in opposite her. Dark gray eyes settled on hers, bored into her. “I’m off the case, Michelle.”

  “Off the case?” Trepidation vibrated through her. “Why?”

  “Misconduct.” His jaw tightened. “Sexual misconduct. Montgomery put me on administrative leave.”

  She gasped. “Sexual…” After what they’d done back at his house, she couldn’t finish the sentence. Her cheeks heated. “But how could they—”

  “Someone supplied the commander with photos.”

  The air left her lungs in a rush. “Photos?”

  “Of us. Together. The night after the funeral.”

  The night she’d writhed wantonly in his arms while he stroked her to climax. “Oh, no.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean for this to happen—”

  “No, dammit, it’s not your fault. I was reckless. I knew better….”

  “We both did.” Left unsaid was the fact that they’d been helpless to resist the power of the attraction between them. Every time she saw him, all she could think of was how right it felt to be in his arms. Now he was going to pay the price.

  “What’s going to happen with your career?” she asked.

  “I’ll survive, but they won’t make it easy on me. Montgomery doesn’t want any negative PR. But the damage is done.”

  Lowering her head, she rubbed at her temples. “Betancourt, you give me a headache every time I talk to you.”

  “Obviously, I’ve been giving someone else a headache, too.”

  The tone of his voice snapped her gaze to his.

  “Something about this case stinks, Michelle. Someone wanted me to go away. That same someone wants you to fry.”

  It took several seconds for the words to register. “You think someone’s framing me?”

  “I should have seen it a long time ago.”

  The ramifications of such a theory were enormous. But foremost in her mind was the realization that Philip no longer doubted her. Hope swirled through her. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been looking in all the wrong places. That’s why nothing’s adding up.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, looked at her over the tops of his fingers. “We’ve got a more pressing problem.”

  She’d never seen such a penetrating gaze. His intensity was palpable. “I don’t see what could be more pressing—”

  “A judge issued a felony warrant for you.”

  The words echoed in her head like a scream. The reality of jail time stabbed through her with such ferocity that for a moment she couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. Panic rose in her chest, but she choked it back, swearing she wouldn’t succumb.

  “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  Reaching across the table, Philip took her hand. “We’ve got a little time. We’ll work through this.”

  She wanted to explain to him that there was no working through the old scars, but she didn’t. She hadn’t told him about Deputy Frank Blanchard or the pain he’d caused her. She couldn’t expect Philip to understand.


  “Someone wanted me off the case. Someone who knew you and I had gotten…close. So they hired a grunt to dig up dirt.”

  “What about your partner?”

  “No way. I trust Cory with my life.”

  “Someone in the department?”

  “Or someone in a position to pull strings.” He turned her hand over, rubbed his fingers over her palm. “I think someone in a position of power murdered Armon Landsteiner. I think they knew about your relationship with him, and capitalized on it, knowing you would be an easy frame.”

  “Because of my background,” she concluded.

  He nodded. “I won’t let them get away with it.”

  “You’re off the case,” she pointed out.

  “A technicality. I can work around it.” A grimace tightened his jaw. “The logical suspects are his children. Do you think any of them are capable of murder?”

  The way they’d treated her the day after Armon’s murder scrolled through her mind. The extent of their hostility had shocked her, but she still couldn’t reconcile herself to them committing murder. “No. Not their own father. Not in cold blood. Besides, all of them are successful in their own right. They’re financially set. What would they have to gain?”

  “The one thing nobody ever seems to have enough of.”

  The thought disgusted her. “Money.”

  “You’d be surprised what people will do for it.”

  “What about the firm?”

  His eyes narrowed. “In this case that’s probably more feasible than the money angle.”

  Outrage that Armon’s life might have been snuffed out in the name of greed rolled slowly through her. “I hate this.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re being framed.” He brooded for a moment. “Did any of them have a grudge against you?”

  “Danielle never liked me. If Baldwin or Derek held a grudge, I certainly wasn’t aware of it.” She paused, mentally recounting the scene in the conference room. “Danielle seemed to take Armon’s death particularly hard.”

  “She was also the first to sink the knife in your back.”

  “Baldwin argued with Armon occasionally. More than the other two.”

  “What about Derek?”

  Michelle shook her head. “He’s the last person I’d ever suspect of murder. He’s low-key and has a very kind heart. He’s probably more like his father than the other two. And he really cares about the firm.”

  “I’ll bet,” Philip said darkly.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, culminating with the patter of rain against the tin roof. Michelle looked out the window at the rain coming through branches of a cypress and tried to remember how long it had been since she’d heard the sound of a bayou storm.

  “Do you miss it?”

  The question caught her off guard. For a moment, she just stared at him, amazed by his ability to read her thoughts. “I love New Orleans.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  She wasn’t sure why she’d danced around the question. Too many mixed feelings about where she was from, she supposed. “On days like this, yes, I miss it a lot. The beauty. The peace. I miss the people most.”

  “You’ve been running for a long time, Michelle.”

  She considered the statement, realized with some surprise it was true. “Maybe.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  She glanced at him sharply. “Come on, Betancourt. It may be beautiful here, and the people may be friendly, but poverty has a way of wreaking havoc on people’s lives.”

  “Is that why you left?”

  He wasn’t going to let it go, she realized, and wondered how long she’d be able to keep the truth from him. “Let’s just say my dreams were too big.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with big dreams.”

  “As long as they don’t get crushed.”

  “Did yours get crushed?”

  She didn’t want to talk about her past. Fearing his perceptivity, and what might show in her eyes, she looked out the window. “You know, my mama had dreams. I remember her talking about getting out of Bayou Lafourche, and moving to Shreveport or New Orleans. But it never happened. As the years passed, she stopped talking about it. Her dreams just dwindled until they were nothing. Life just…crushed her.” She paused, remembering, trying not to feel the desperation that had been part of her for as long as she could recall. “I saw my own fate when I looked into her eyes. And I knew if it was the last thing I ever did, I’d get out.”

  “You’ve come a long way. That’s admirable.”

  “I got out. That’s what matters.”

  “But it took some time. You went to work at the Fortrex Plant after you graduated from high school.”

  Michelle’s nerves jumped. He’d done more than just a cursory background check on her, she realized. “You did your homework, Betancourt.”

  “I always do.”

  “What else do you know about me?”

  “Not enough.” His smile eased some of the tension that had crept over her. “Tell me about the plant where you worked.”

  She looked down at her hands, stilled them. “After Mama died, I went to work at Fortrex. I hated it. I hated everything about the place, but I especially hated the smell.” She hadn’t smelled that thick, sweet stink since she’d been back, but the breeze was westerly. When it shifted around from the south…

  “I worked the solvent vats for almost five years, did some assembly work, mostly third shift. I made a living, but most of it went for Mama’s hospital bills. It was sort of like trying to dig your way out of a hole, only to have the walls keep caving in.” The old pain tightened like a clamp around her chest. It surprised her that she was still vulnerable to it. Here she was, a year away from taking the bar exam, yet she still felt threatened by her past, as if it were a living thing, rising up to swallow her whole.

  “You went to the community college while you worked.”

  She nodded, caught up in memories.

  “You never stopped trying. Even with the odds stacked against you, you never gave up.” He squeezed her hand. “Why are you so hard on yourself? That’s admirable. You realize that, don’t you?”

  His hand covered hers completely. Warm. Strong. Steady. For the first time ever, Michelle fully realized just how far she’d come. She’d managed to gain some semblance of control over her life; she was on the verge of truly making it. But now, everything she’d worked for—her dreams, even her freedom—lay in the balance.

  “If it hadn’t been for Armon…” Her voice trailed off when the front door of the tavern swung open. Sheets of rain lashed at the plank floor. Michelle stiffened, felt her blood run cold when a vaguely familiar figure stepped inside.

  Nicolas.

  Reckoning day at last.

  Chapter 11

  Michelle had imagined a reunion with her brother happening a number of ways. Sitting here in this dank little bar with a cop sitting across from her and an unsolved murder on her mind wasn’t one of them.

  Everything inside her went still and cold as Nicolas slammed the door behind him and headed for the bar. There was an inherent wildness about him, from the graceful way he moved to the cunning in his eyes. He was taller than she remembered, and a hell of a lot bigger. Not just in size, but in the way he filled the room.

  Michelle watched him, taking in the catlike grace of his stride, the inscrutable eyes. Rain dripped from the brim of a crumpled cap onto shoulders as wide as a cypress trunk. It was cold outside, but he wasn’t wearing a coat, and he didn’t seem bothered by the inclement weather. A tattoo of a woman’s breast stood out starkly on his left biceps.

  At the bar, he ordered a drink, leaning forward when the bartender spoke to him. His body stiffened slightly, then he turned and looked right at her.

  Michelle’s heart stuttered, rolled, then beat out an ever-increasing staccato rhythm. But she maintained eye contact, not missing the insolence or the quiet hostility shimmering in his gaze. A silent communicat
ion passed between them. The message was unmistakable: you don’t belong here.

  Across the table, Betancourt shifted in his chair. “From the way you just started shaking, I’d say that’s Nicolas.”

  She swallowed. “Yes, that’s my brother.”

  “Easy. Stay cool.”

  Nicolas started toward them.

  Giving her hand a final squeeze, Betancourt released her. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  She nodded jerkily. “I don’t have a choice.”

  Nicolas reached the table, flicked a dismissive glance at Betancourt, then sneered at Michelle. “T’as du gout.” You’ve got a lot of nerve.

  She met his hostile gaze with one of her own. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “Funny, you didn’t have anything important to discuss with me for ten years, now you come all the way to Bayou Lafourche, chèrie? You must want somethin’ pretty bad.”

  Michelle felt her face flush, but she didn’t look away. “I tried to visit you in Angola, but you refused.”

  “I must have been busy that day.” A dark smile curved the corner of his mouth. “You never came back, though, did you, chèrie?”

  She wouldn’t let him make her feel guilty for not visiting him in prison. They both knew it would have been hypocritical of her. After all, she’d been the one to put him there. “I don’t have any regrets, Nicolas. Do you?” It was a lie; she had plenty of regrets, and they’d almost hollowed her out over the years. But he didn’t need to know that.

  “Oh, yeah, I got regrets. The only difference ’tween you and me is I ain’t afraid to admit them.” He smiled, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “You still got that light in you, Michelle, you know?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That light in those go-to-hell eyes of yours that says I’m out of this dump, and damn the world.”

  “Sit down, Pelletier. We want to talk to you.” Betancourt’s voice cut through the tension with the finesse of a blowtorch.