Her voluptuous figure was flawless in the clinging, stark white dress she wore and her face was a vision. Every time Damon—tall, dark, and handsome in his uniform—made a joke, she stopped a full-on smile with a provocative bite to her rose-red lip. It was no wonder Damon was so smitten with her, and his pals, standing in a bewitched circle around them, were as well.
Several of the locals even leered at Damon’s date before turning back to their drinks. All in all, however, these civilians weren’t interested in the soldiers’ monkey business. Except one civilian. He fixed Damon’s date with a cold, hard stare. And that civilian, sitting by his lonesome behind the beer taps, was Bran Laurent.
“What’s wrong?” Barrett asked.
“Wrong?”
“You’re scowling like someone stole your last bite of chocolate cake.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t about to let my bad attitude—or my worries—ruin this weekend for Barrett. “It’s not important.”
Barrett’s smile could’ve turned night into day. “You know I don’t believe you, right?”
I huffed out a sigh. “After I dropped you off, I decided to drop in on Corinne and Ray. Ray wasn’t home.”
“Let me guess. Corinne wasn’t alone.”
“No, she wasn’t. That creep over there was keeping her company.”
Now, it was Barrett’s turn to scowl. Even though he hadn’t yet met Corinne and Ray, he knew how much they meant to me. Plus, Barrett’s own marriage had ended when his wife took up some extracurricular activities with a math teacher while he was under fire in that dangerous travel destination soldiers call the Sandbox.
“To be fair,” I said, “I can’t swear they were doing anything wrong.”
“But…”
“But.”
I told Barrett how I’d caught Bran sneaking down the stairs. About how Corinne had tried to divert me. And about their dumb shower repair story.
“It gets worse,” I added. “Bran is Ray’s new partner in the PI firm.”
“Apparently, he has a bright future in plumbing, too.”
“That’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry, honey.” Barrett covered my hand with his. “For the record, I don’t like the way he’s looking at Damon’s date.”
That made two of us. And Bran hadn’t stopped staring at her. He hadn’t moved from his spot, either. He continued to hold down the last barstool beside the little alcove that led to the restrooms. A pint of beer sat in front of him, but from where I sat, I could’ve sworn it had gone flat.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, snatching up Barrett’s empty glass and bounding to my feet.
In the blink of an eye, I crossed the saloon, plunked the tumbler on the bar top, and inserted myself between Bran Laurent and Damon’s beautiful companion.
As if I’d just bumped into a neighbor at the grocery store, I said, “Oh, hello, Bran. Hey, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
Irritation wrinkled Bran’s forehead, but he didn’t seem surprised to see me. Which meant he’d had the drop on me long before I’d spotted him. Still, he rose from his barstool and offered his seat to me just like his mama taught him.
“What’re you drinkin’, Jamie girl? I’d be glad to buy a round.”
His charming accent didn’t smooth over my attitude any.
“No, thanks,” I told him. “I’m not thirsty. Besides, I have to get back to my group. You know, that entire company of soldiers over there? I think you’ve noticed them.”
His eye flicked to the blonde and back. “I take it you haven’t, uh, talked to Ray.”
“Oh, I talked to Ray, all right. But not about hot blondes who date soldiers. And not about Corinne, either.”
A red rash flared on Bran’s high cheekbones. It wasn’t embarrassment, though. It was anger.
He invaded my space with one swift step. “Now, look here—”
“Is there a problem?” Barrett asked, suddenly materializing at my shoulder like my own personal bodyguard.
Bran froze, regarded Barrett warily. Heads turned. Nobody wanted to miss a good old-fashioned bar brawl on this good old-fashioned gambling boat.
“No,” I said, pleased as punch to have Barrett’s muscle backing me up. “I don’t think we’re going to have a problem after all. Do you, Bran?”
He frowned in answer.
“You have a lovely cruise,” I told him.
And with that, I turned on my heel, let Barrett steer me toward the saloon’s swinging doors. We passed a table where two ladies of a certain age, probably enjoying a girls’ night out, stole sly glances at Barrett and Bran. They giggled into their pink drinks.
Damon and his friends also watched us wind our way across the room. Their puzzled faces suggested they didn’t know what the hubbub had been about. But they were ready to back up Barrett all the same.
Damon called, “All right, sir?”
Barrett’s thumb and index finger came together in that universal sign for okay, but he didn’t stop to chat. He kept me marching for the deck outside. Damon’s date blinked at me as I waltzed by. She’d quit biting her lip to gnaw on her ruby-red fingernails, though she’d probably been oblivious to Bran’s eyeballing her, tucked back in the corner like he was. Now that I’d called him out, I doubted he’d have the chutzpah to bother her in a more personal way.
I should’ve felt a sense of accomplishment over that, but in reality, I knew my little display of bravado hadn’t achieved much of anything. I still felt lousy for Ray, and now the mortification of losing my cool in front of a boatload of Barrett’s subordinates dogged me. If things had gone differently and Bran had come out of his corner swinging…
Barrett would’ve been in the thick of it, thanks to me. And he didn’t need me to hand Durante another excuse to find fault with him. If Barrett got into any more trouble, the army would bury him and his career.
Barrett pushed through the saloon’s exit, held the door open for me. I cast one backward glance at Bran. He was gone, out through the casino probably.
But from a plaid armchair crammed against the bar’s fake fireplace another man smirked at me.
The guy’s navy sweater and tan chinos had seen better days, but they were pressed to perfection as if his valet had done it. He’d parted his unrealistically coal-black hair straight down the middle of his crown. As if he’d just come from work, he had a navy-blue nylon messenger bag parked at his feet. Of course, maybe he’d brought the satchel to haul his winnings home. If that were the case, he was something of an optimist. And judging by the beverage he was drinking, he was something of a daredevil, too, because his stubby fingers caressed the rim of a cordial glass, green with Chartreuse, absinthe, or crème de menthe, in some ridiculous concoction he’d probably instructed the bartender to make.
Before I could figure it out, he raised his glass and toasted me in a mock salute. I didn’t spare him a smile or a backward glance. But when Barrett and I reached the second deck, the man’s name popped into my mind.
Chapter 4
The man in the bar was Eddie Jepson.
And I was probably the last person on earth he wanted to see.
In another time and place, Eddie would’ve done very well in the court of an indolent king. But fifteen years ago, here in Beauville, Eddie had been a chronically underemployed barfly. His passions had been losing his shirt in the occasional backroom card game and fancying himself as something of a ladies’ man. Unfortunately, one lady in particular couldn’t quite picture Eddie that way. The night he ran afoul of her, Eddie ran afoul of me and Ray as well.
Back then, Eddie had believed in advertising. He’d place cheesy ads about love and friendship in the lonely hearts section of the newspaper and meet the women who responded for drinks. Over a glass or two of cheap chardonnay, Eddie would suggest they adjourn to a motel room where he’d be delighted to take off his pants and help them forget their troubles for an hour.
Surprisingly, some women accepted.
Of course, legality flew out the window every time Eddie suggested they indulge in round two in the shower. He’d send his lady love into the bath to start getting things steamed up. And the second she was out of sight, he’d go through her purse, empty her wallet, and hightail it from the motel, leaving the lady with more than she’d bargained for—or less, depending on how you looked at it.
Anyway, one night, Eddie performed his little bait-and-switch with the wrong woman. But she didn’t get mad about it. She got even.
Like most of the women Eddie had conned, Magnolia Duchenne Grendale wasn’t about to file a police report. Because she had a husband at home. An elderly, doddering, wealthy husband. And if he ever found out about her indiscretion, his lawyers would swoop in so fast, Maggie knew she’d break the sound barrier as they tossed her out of his mansion. Still, Maggie wasn’t about to let Eddie get away with his crime. She swept into Ray’s office with her expertly highlighted hair, her Jimmy Choo shoes, and a stack of crisp Ben Franklins in her Louis Vuitton handbag.
That evening, Ray and I tailed Eddie to a popular watering hole in the Grand Key Hotel, where I then got to play the part of a pretty, recreational drinker who just happened to have a camera in her purse. Perched on a barstool with a club soda in front of me, I got a good look at Eddie, and a few happy snaps of him with his intended victim. Once he made his move, and the two started for the elevator, I followed as discreetly as I could, taking photos all the way.
It had been my first stakeout.
Ray, in the meantime, called the Beauville PD. Fifteen minutes later, the police busted Eddie as he made his getaway down the backstairs. He had a smile on his face, a hitch in his step, four hundred dollars he couldn’t explain, and all the credit cards belonging to the woman he’d just, well, stiffed.
In the end, thanks to my photographic evidence, and the courtroom testimony Ray and I were called to give, Eddie served twenty-four months for multiple counts of credit card fraud, and racked up three years’ probation for soliciting and petty larceny convictions. Of course, by now, Eddie had paid his debt to society in full. But seeing him in the Lady Luck’s bar made me suspect he was up to his old tricks—and his toast convinced me he clearly remembered me, Ray, and the role we’d played in locking him away. But since I couldn’t prove he was up to no good, I had no other choice than to put him out of my mind. Especially when chimes called me, Barrett, and the rest of the 405th to the start of Dining Out.
Heavy brocade drapes, drawn back by bullion tassels, framed the doorway to the first of the Lady Luck’s private parlors—and stepping into it was like stepping back in time. Panels of rich, flocked velvet that Lord Byron would’ve adored decorated the walls. Gilt cherubs, clinging to the corners, greeted us. They draped golden garlands over wide windows that offered nighttime views of the Mississippi Gulf Coast as it slipped by. Servers in smart cerise waistcoats bustled about, putting the final touches on elegant tables crowded with flickering candles. They’d neglected nothing. And neither had the army.
The Durantes took their seats, and so did we, only to rise again for the entrance of the color guard bearing the Stars and Stripes, and the chaplain who offered the benediction. We suffered through speeches. Salads were served. The main course appeared. Coffee and dessert followed—and throughout it all, soldiers got sent to the grog.
Cradled in the bowl of a porcelain toilet acquired especially for the evening’s festivities, the grog was a potent brew made of every kind of liquor anyone had thought to dump into it. Typically, soldiers are sent to drink it as a kind of joking punishment for breaches of the mess rules, both real and imagined. Respected soldiers are sentenced to repeated trips—and no one was ordered to make the journey more often than Barrett.
With a left-handed salute and a pretty speech invented on the spot, Barrett paid his respects to the grog again and again. Each time, he drained his cup, upended it over his head just as tradition dictated. When he returned from his fourth excursion to the ladle and slid into his chair, I leaned close to him.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’m great,” he announced, a little too loudly.
That set off gales of laughter at our table. And admittedly, it was hard to dwell on the shortcomings of Eddie Jepson, Ray, Corinne, or even Bran Laurent when Barrett was so full of good cheer. If anyone deserved a little bit of levity, it was him.
After dinner, the dancing began. A jazz trio straight from New Orleans set up shop at the edge of a parquet dance floor. They struck up a cool tune and a lady in blue crooned into her microphone while the throb of the upright bass and the hiss of brushes on the drum kept her company. Couples drifted from their seats to sway in time to the music, and Barrett slipped an arm around my shoulders. Instead of inviting me to dance, however, he whispered in my ear.
“Would you like to take a stroll along the observation deck?”
I nodded. I was ready to shake off the official activities. And after weeks and weeks of late-night phone calls and whispered words of love and longing, I was more than ready to be alone with Barrett—or as alone as we could get on a crowded cruise.
At the prow of the boat, we again climbed the spiral staircase, but this time we emerged on the third level to find plenty of other sweethearts had done the same. And why not? It was a beautiful night. Ethereal clouds played hide-and-seek with the gibbous moon overhead, inviting lovers to wrap their arms around one another and turn their contented faces into the breeze that rippled across the short deck as the riverboat steamed into the night.
But that wasn’t for us.
Seeking solitude, Barrett and I made our way alongside the Lady Luck’s towering smokestacks and her tall pilothouse. Here, the moonlight couldn’t reach. When we crossed into the shadows, Barrett tugged me to him. He kissed me. And he didn’t stop there.
In an instant, four months of separation and frustration had us behaving like a pair of kids who’d escaped from the prom to make out in the janitor’s closet. But just when things started to get interesting, a match flared in the gloom at the far corner of the pilothouse. I jumped as if I’d been burned.
In the darkness, someone cupped his hands around the flame. He carried it to the cigarette dangling from his mouth. Orange light bathed his face. He was Eddie Jepson, and this time, I’d spotted him before he spotted me. His entire attention was on his smoke—and on a man and a woman locked in a tense discussion at the end of the deck.
The two should’ve been enjoying the view of the Gulf’s dark waters, or waving to friends lingering outside the private parlors below, but they weren’t.
The woman was Damon’s gorgeous date. There was no mistaking her dazzling white dress. It glowed in the starlight, showed off her curves against the night.
The man with her, however, wasn’t the tall, dark, and handsome Damon. This guy was blond and his thick hair swept his shoulders. He loomed over her like a thundercloud.
I didn’t know why Bran had cornered the beauty against the rail, or why Eddie had taken such an interest in their conversation, but I didn’t like it. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one. Eddie tossed his cigarette, sauntered toward the unhappy couple with his messenger bag swinging against his hip. Despite his easy stride, there was something menacing in his manner. I tried to ease from Barrett’s arms, tried to step into the moonlight.
But now that we were alone again, Barrett had other things on his mind.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking—”
“You’ve been drinking,” I reminded him.
“Mmm, true,” Barrett murmured.
At the end of the deck, Eddie tapped Bran on the shoulder as if he were a young buck at a sorority dance, cutting in on the dance floor. Bran must’ve told him to buzz off, but I couldn’t hear him over the distance and the swish of the paddle wheel churning through the Gulf waters two stories below. In any case, Eddie didn’t go anywhere.
&
nbsp; At my side, Barrett shook his head as if to clear it. “I swore I wouldn’t do this. Not this weekend.”
But a few yards from us, Eddie laughed in Bran’s face, jerked a thumb at Damon’s date. She shrank against the rail. And Bran’s hands fisted at his sides.
“Jamie,” Barrett said, taking my hands in his. “You know I love you.”
Damon appeared, cresting the broad staircase at the stern. He elbowed his way between Eddie and Bran. The girl shuddered and Eddie laughed even harder.
“Something’s wrong,” I said.
“Everything’s wrong,” Barrett replied, “but I’m going to get my career back on track. I’m going to find a way off Fort Donovan. I’m going to have something to offer you, Jamie—”
Barrett never got to finish that thought. At the end of the deck, Damon launched himself at Bran. He threw a haymaker that missed by a mile, and left him open to Bran’s uppercut to the gut.
The commotion drew Barrett’s notice. And through his alcohol-induced haze, his officer impulse kicked in. He stepped into the moonlight.
“Hey! Stand down, Specialist Maddox!”
Damon didn’t listen. He pivoted, punched Eddie square in the mouth. Eddie staggered backward.
His messenger bag slipped from his shoulder.
It hit the deck as if it were packed with bricks.
Colonel Durante bounded up the stairs. He grabbed Damon by the lapels, barked in the soldier’s face. Damon’s date trembled as if electrical current surged through her body. Bran turned tail. He buzzed past Barrett and me, bound for the front of the boat. I clutched at his sleeve to stop him, demanded to know what the hell he was doing. He shook me off and kept on going.
But he couldn’t go far. Not while we cruised the coastline. And neither could Eddie.
Eddie snatched up the strap of his fallen bag. He swung it like a pendulum, lobbed it off the observation platform toward the deck below. It was an odd thing to do. And every instinct at the base of my brain started screaming. In no uncertain terms, they told me to get my hands on Eddie’s satchel.
The Kill Radius Page 4