by Janet Dailey
Remy looked too, and smiled mockingly back at him. "You know what they say—what goes up must come down."
"Ahh, but it's the come part of 'come down' I'm interested in," he said.
She pretended to be critical. "Once is never enough for you, is it?"
"Not with you, it seems."
And she understood exactly what he meant. No matter how well their bodies might know each other, it didn't seem that either she or Cole had exhausted the mysteries they discovered each time they made love.
"I really do have to meet Gabe," she said with reluctance.
His gray eyes lost their teasing look and turned needing and dark. "Stay with me, Remy."
"It's my first night back. I need to spend some time with my family."
His hands ceased their wandering and simply held her. "You're running true to form, Remy. Amnesia or not, your family still comes first with you."
"Let's not argue about this." The potential for it was there; she sensed it in the dead quiet of his voice.
"You're right. It would be useless anyway," he said dryly, then forced a smile.
Another kiss and a few more whispered words and she left, retrieving her purse from the living room on her way out.
On the banquette outside his apartment, Remy breathed in the air, scented with the thousands of aromas of the Quarter, everything from the mustiness of the past to the Cajun spices of today. The long slant of the sun's rays cast a mellow light over the old buildings. It was, Remy decided, an absolutely gorgeous day. She started walking.
As she rounded the corner onto Bourbon, a hand hooked her elbow. Reacting instinctively, Remy switched her clutch purse to the other hand and threw her weight into the would-be purse snatcher rather than away from him. Her shoulder connected with something solid, drawing a grunt of surprise and causing him to loosen his hold. She pulled her arm free, and at the same instant caught a glimpse of a heavily grizzled beard in her side vision. The man in the car outside her house—and at the museum!
She swung around to confront him. "Who are you? What do you want? Why are you following me?"
A dozen impressions registered at once: the neatly trimmed beard, heavily streaked with white, that failed to hide the thickness of the man's neck; the top-heavy quality of his build, with massive shoulders and chest tapering to boyishly slim hips; and the keenness of his pale-blue eyes, a keenness that immediately reminded her of Inspector Armand's.
"I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind, Miss Jardin," he said, unsmiling. "You are Remy Jardin, aren't you? I guessed it was you I saw on the balcony this morning."
"I repeat, who are you?"
"Howard Hanks." With two fingers, he produced a business card from his breast pocket and offered it to her. Remy glanced at it, then at the wallet that he flipped open to his identification. He was a licensed investigator—according to the card, working for an insurance company.
Remy looked at the business card again, conscious of the odd churning in the pit of her stomach and of the alarm bells going off in her head, warning her not to tell him anything. It was crazy—she didn't even know what he wanted from her. Whatever it was, why did she feel she needed to conceal information? What information?
She took the card from him, stalling for time until she could decide what to do. "Do you normally accost people on the street, Mr. Hanks?"
"Only those who refuse to accept—or return —my phone calls and claim to be indisposed when I come to their houses." He gestured toward the entrance of a nearby bar, a gold signet ring flashing on his left hand. "May I buy you a drink or a cup of coffee?"
She hesitated. "I have an appointment at four-thirty—"
"This shouldn't take long."
"All right—coffee, then." But it wasn't the quiet insistence in his voice warning her that he wouldn't take no for an answer that convinced her to accept—rather, it was the realization that she had to know what this was about, had to discover the reason for this feeling of danger she had.
Her low heels made a hollow sound on the dirty and old hardwood floor as she walked into the bar ahead of the investigator. The place smelled of beer, bourbon, and old cigarette butts; its atmosphere consisted of its lack of any pretension of class—with its dingy smoke-stained walls, round wooden tables with initials and dates carved into their tops, sturdy but cheap wire-backed chairs, and an old bar that was probably mahogany under its layers of grime.
Remy crossed to the table by the corner window. She sat down in the chair facing Bourbon Street, with her back to the view of Cole's apartment building. The bearded Howard Hanks sat down opposite her, on a seat still warm from his last occupation of it.
He held up two fingers to the bartender. "Coffee."
She laid her purse on the table and lightly clasped her hands together on top of it. "For your information, Mr. Hanks, I was out of the country until yesterday, so I wasn't avoiding your calls— as you implied. I simply wasn't here to accept them. I'm sure you were told that."
Remy was careful not to admit that she hadn't been informed of his calls. She could only guess that in all the anxiety and the relief of having her home, her family had simply failed to mention them. As for this morning, it was possible that she'd been in the shower when he came to the door. Nattie would have known that, and her mother might have heard the water running. But that didn't explain why she hadn't been told that he'd been there to see her.
"There was some mention of your being in France, but everyone was very vague about your exact whereabouts."
She could have told him that they hadn't known, but she was reluctant to say anything about her hospital stay or her amnesia. The bartender arrived with their coffee. Remy moved her purse aside as he set two mugs in front of them.
"Cream or sugar?" Hanks asked, holding up a hand to keep the bartender from walking off.
"Neither, thanks," she directed her answer to the bartender, who immediately returned to his station behind the bar. She wrapped both hands around the thick stoneware mug. "You said you wanted to ask me some questions, Mr. Hanks. What about?"
"The sinking of the Dragon"
The Dragon. She'd heard that name before. Marc Jardin had mentioned it this morning in the solarium. What had he said? Something about fearing the insurance company might go through with its threat to make this business about the Dragon public. Later, when she'd asked him about it, her uncle had dismissed it as a typical hassle with an insurance company over a claim they were attempting to get out of paying. But ... at the wharf, when she'd remembered the previous time Cole had shown her around the container ship, he'd said that the loss of the Dragon had been "a blessing in disguise"—that he'd used the insurance money to buy this ship. Had the insurance company paid the claim, or hadn't it?
"What about the sinking of the Dragon?" she asked, and took a sip of the chicory-strong coffee.
"What do you know about it?"
"Why should I know anything about it?"
"You are a stockholder and director of the Crescent Line, aren't you, Miss Jardin?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me what you know." "About what?"
He shot her a look that was both tolerant and wryly amused. "Spare us both the dumb-blonde act, Miss Jardin. I know you graduated cum laude from Newcomb College."
"If you've checked on me to that extent, Mr. Hanks, then you must know that my role as a company director is basically a titular one. I have very little knowledge of the company's operations. I've simply never bothered to involve myself in the family shipping business."
"In other words, you want me to believe you don't know anything about the Dragon" The skepticism in his voice was as thick as river fog.
"I'm aware that we lost a ship, and I'm also aware that the insurance company has been causing trouble over the claim."
"Wouldn't you, if you discovered that someone had fraudulently collected on a cargo that didn't exist, after deliberately sinking its container ship in deep water to conceal that fact?"
Stunned by the charge, she blurted, "That's ridiculous. Why would anybody do that?"
"Why, indeed, would anybody try to collect twice for the same cargo?"
"Collect twice?" She frowned, her mind racing at the implication of his words as she feigned confusion. "I'm afraid you've lost me, Mr. Hanks. Exactly what is it that you're saying?"
"That tanker was empty when it went down, Miss Jardin. At some point, between the time it was loaded here in New Orleans and when it sank in the Gulf, that cargo of crude was off-loaded. Once the tanker ran into the storm and heavy seas being reported in the Gulf of Mexico, it was sunk—probably with the aid of some strategically placed explosive charges."
"But you don't know that for a fact, do you?" The conversation she'd overheard in the solarium —she remembered that her father, Gabe, and Marc had been talking about finding out what proof the insurance company had, if any.
"Miss Jardin, there are basically only two ways to scuttle a ship—open the sea cocks and flood her, a process that could take as long as twenty-four hours, or blow out her bottom with explosive charges and send her to the sea floor within minutes."
"And you think that's what happened to the Dragon?" she managed to challenge him before taking a slow sip of her coffee, wondering if it was true and telling herself it couldn't possibly be. So that was why her family had sounded so worried. These were serious charges.
"I'd bet on it."
Remy shook her head in denial. "I'm sorry, but your theory doesn't make good sense—or good business. Why would we deliberately sink one of our ships simply to collect on a cargo that you claim wasn't on board?"
"The Dragon was an old tanker, Miss Jardin. I doubt she could have had more than a few voyages left in her before she would end up in a scrap heap. You probably collected more from the insurance company for the ship than you could have got if you'd tried to sell her . . . not to mention the tax losses the company will get out of it."
"But if she was that old and in such bad shape, then she could easily have broken up in the storm and gone down with her cargo of crude oil."
"Then why wasn't there any oil slick?"
"Maybe her tanks—or whatever you call them —weren't ruptured," Remy argued, then lowered her cup to the table, lacing her fingers tightly around it. "In any case, these charges against the Crescent Line are preposterous. My family would never involve itself in such dishonest activities."
"What about Cole Buchanan?" His quiet question hit her like a fist.
"Cole," she repeated dumbly, then tried to laugh off her shock, conscious of the sick feeling in her stomach. "Don't tell me you suspect he's behind this so-called insurance scheme?"
"Why not?"
"Because it's absurd. What would he have to gain?" At the moment Remy was too stunned to think it through for herself. She needed the insurance investigator to provide the answer.
"Money, of course."
"How? Where? Not from the insurance company. The claim money would be paid directly to the Crescent Line . . . unless you're about to suggest that he's stealing funds from the company."
"Not directly. But he could have sold the shipment of crude oil, off-loaded it onto barges waiting downriver—or into a pipeline—and pocketed the money himself. Your company wouldn't be losing anything, since it would be collecting on the shipment from the insurance."
"I don't believe that." Yet she found herself remembering the comment Gabe had made about Cole's name being linked with some shady dealings in the past.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't." She loved Cole. How could she believe that about him?—but then she wondered if it wouldn't be closer to the truth to say that she simply didn't want to believe it. She went on as if she had no doubts. "If that's what you think, you should confront Cole with your suspicions, not me."
"I have. Naturally, he denies everything."
"Then why are you talking to me? I've already told you I have nothing to do with the comp—"
"But you do have something to do with Cole Buchanan." He smiled. At least Remy thought he did. With that thick, silvery growth of whiskers above and below his mouth, it was difficult to tell. "I think it's safe to say you know Cole Buchanan quite well—certainly well enough to visit his apartment."
"It's no secret that Cole and I have been seeing each other, but I don't see what that has to do with this."
"I thought perhaps he might have said or done something unusual in the past few months— bought you an expensive present or been a little freer with money, maybe received some unusual phone calls . . . anything out of the ordinary."
"Nothing that I can remember." Which was the truth. Of course, she didn't tell him she could remember almost nothing about her past, including these last few months.
"Think about it. Maybe something will come back to you. If it does, my phone number's on the card. Be sure you call me. I wouldn't want to see you get into trouble over this."
"That almost sounds like a threat, Mr. Hanks."
"I'm sure you've heard the term accessory" He stood up, took a money clip from his pocket, peeled two one-dollar bills from it, and dropped them on the table. "I appreciate your time, Miss Jardin. Let's stay in touch."
Alone at the table, Remy let in the wash of questions she hadn't dared think about with the investigator looking on. Was it true? Was there an insurance fraud? Was this the trouble she'd sensed? Was Cole a part of it? Had she known that? Was that the reason she'd broken off with him? Had she seen something or heard something, as the bearded Mr. Hanks had suggested? Was that why it seemed so imperative that she be here?
"More coffee, Miss?"
Startled, she glanced at the stained-glass pot in the bartender's hand and quickly shook her head. "No—thank you," she said, breaking free of the questions whirling about in her mind and gathering up her purse.
By the time she reached La Louisiane, the shock of the information had worn off. She swept into the lounge and spotted Gabe at the large mahogany bar, the gleaming centerpiece of the elegantly appointed room. He'd obviously been watching for her. The instant he saw her, he picked up two drinks and gestured to a quiet corner table. She met him there.
"It's about time you got here," he said. "I was starting to worry about you. You realize you're almost fifteen minutes late?"
"I was detained."
"I gathered that."
She opened her purse, took out the investigator's business card, and laid it on the small cocktail table in front of her brother.
"What's this?" Idly he picked it up, then went still. "Where did you get this?" he asked, too casually.
"Mr. Hanks gave it to me personally."
"You've seen him?"
"Yes. He had some questions to ask me"—she closed her purse with a sharp snap—"about insurance and fraud—and the sinking of the Crescent Dragon. That was what you and Father and Uncle Marc were talking about this morning, wasn't it?" she said stiffly. "Why didn't you tell me about it then? Why did all of you pretend there was nothing to worry about, when you knew better? When you knew this man—"
"Remy, you've already been through enough this past week. We all agreed there was no need to tell you about this. And we were right. Look at the way you're trembling."
"It's because I'm mad," she said, and tried to cool the angry tremors of her hands by wrapping them around the cold, moisture-laden sides of the iced drink. "You should have told me."
"Maybe we should have, but you don't have any involvement in the company—"
"But I am involved with Cole—as Mr. Hanks was so quick to point out."
"What exactly did he say?"
"He all but accused Cole of being the one behind this fraud scheme, and he suggested that I might have seen or heard something suspicious."
"What did you say?"
"What could I say? The little I can remember might as well be nothing." An olive was impaled on a red plastic saber in her glass. Remy seized the miniature sword and began stabbing at the ice cubes.
"Is that what you told him?"
"I said I didn't remember anything unusual happening. I didn't tell him why."
"Is that all?"
"Why all the questions, Gabe?" she demanded. "Am I being cross-examined by you now?"
"Of course not." He smiled at her so gently that she felt churlish for having snapped at him. "I was curious, that's all. I hate seeing you all tense and upset like this. It's what we were trying to avoid."
"Is it true, Gabe?" She turned to him, earnestly, seriously. "Was the Dragon deliberately sunk? Is it fraud? Is Cole a part of it?"
"To tell you the truth, Remy, we don't know. Obviously we don't want to believe it, but ... I can't imagine that the insurance company would throw around accusations without having some proof of wrongdoing, though we haven't been able to find out what it is. And Cole's not talking." He paused for a fraction of a second. "Hanks didn't happen to reveal anything to you, did he?"
"No," she said, and sighed. "Unfortunately, I didn't ask whether he had any proof. . . . The more I think about it, though, most of what he said sounded like conjecture."
He absently rattled the ice cubes in his glass as if considering the possibility, then shrugged. "It could be they're just fishing," he conceded, taking a sip of his drink.
"Fishing? Why?"
"Insurance scams involving old—and supposedly fully loaded—ships on the high seas happen more frequently than any insurance company cares to admit, and they're next to impossible to prove with the evidence 'twenty thousand leagues under the sea,' so to speak. The Dragon might fit what they see as a pattern."
She didn't believe that, and she didn't think Gabe did either. He was only trying to play down the situation for her benefit. It wasn't working.
"What if Hanks is right, Gabe? What if I do know something?"
"About all this?" His glance was openly skeptical. "You would have told us, Remy. If not me, then Dad."
Maybe not. She might have kept silent—not necessarily to protect Cole, but to give him a chance to quietly rectify the situation. Maybe she had even threatened that if he didn't, she'd go to her family with what she knew and give them grounds to demand his resignation—or to break the contract and vote him out of office if he refused to resign. Yes, she could think of a dozen reasons why she might initially have kept silent. It might have been why she'd planned to go off by herself for a few days in France—to give herself time to think and decide what was the best thing to do.