by JoAnn Ross
"You don't have to be sarcastic." Her voice was coated in enough ice to cover Jupiter several times over.
"Sorry. But it might help if you remember that you were the one who was shot at last night. The one whose sister just happens to be dead, whether by her own hands or.. . damn."
"What?"
"You got me so hot earlier, I forgot to call Remy back."
He reached for his phone. And without warning, the world exploded.
28
THE FIREBALL ROCKED THE SUV, THE EXPLOSION strong enough to nearly overturn the vehicle. The resultant flash of light was so blindingly bright, Kate's lids closed instinctively.
"Aw, shit," Nick groaned.
Kate opened her eyes as he scrubbed a hand down' his face.
"You don't think.. ."
Her voice broke off, trapped by the horribly painful' lump in her throat, as she turned and looked out the rear window to see a towering plume of smoke rising from the ferry terminal.
"Yeah," he said grimly, "I suspect that was meant for us."
"Oh, my God."
She was a cop. Although she'd never fired her gun anywhere but the police range, she'd seen death. Up close and personal.
But this was too up close. And way too personal.
"There would've been people on the boat."
"Some," he conceded. "But not as many as there tonight have been. They probably didn't let anyone board until they got the car off, so it would've been just the crew."
"Just the crew? We have to go see if we can help."
"Dammit, Kate—"
"We both have EMT training. If people are injured, it's our moral responsibility."
"Even if it means getting killed? What if the guy stayed around to witness his handiwork?"
"He probably did. But if he was willing to shoot us in public, he could've done it on the ferry. We need to help."
"Hell." Instead of continuing away from the river, Nick made a U-turn as sirens began screaming. "This is so not a good idea."
It could have been worse. Thanks to the rain, those walk-on passengers forced to bide their time until the car could be moved off the ferry were waiting inside the terminal, which had protected them from flying glass and pieces of steel.
Drivers and passengers had gotten out of the cars waiting in line and were staring at the ferry with unified expressions of disbelief.
Kate breathed a sigh of relief as she viewed the tow truck still waiting to be brought on board. And on the deck, three men clad in rain gear were spraying foam at the blazing hunk of steel.
"I don't think they need us," Nick said as they cruised slowly by the scene.
"No. It appears not. Everyone certainly seems calm."
"I suspect if we'd been here fifteen months ago, we'd have seen an entirely different reaction. My guess is that those folks who've had to deal with the hurricane and the aftermath have probably developed a fatalistic view of life."
"I suppose so." She thought about that. "Have you seen that behavior before? In war zones?"
"And during natural disasters, yeah." The sirens were getting closer. "Are you satisfied?"
"I suppose so." She leaned back against the leather seat and willed her heart to settle to something resembling a normal rhythm. "He could have killed so many people."
"Unintentionally. There's no way he could have known the car would be left on the ferry. And there was no point in blowing it up if we weren't in it."
"He could've been trying to send a message."
"If he wanted to send a message, he would've called Western fucking Union. No, the bastard made that bomb to kill. It was probably on a timer set up to allow for the boat's docking, because if he blew it up while it was out on the river, he'd go up, too."
"I don't understand." She was starting to put the pieces together, but there was one niggling piece that didn't quite fit. "Why would anyone go to such lengths to kill me? If he's the same person who killed Tara, she must have been involved in something really serious."
While taking her shower that morning, Kate had wondered if her sister could have been killed by a lover. After all, boyfriends and husbands were the first suspects police always looked at. For a reason. Because they were, more often than not, the guilty parties.
Then she'd wondered if Tara could have been killed by her pimp. Heaven knows, if she'd stayed true to form, it would not be a great stretch to believe she'd been holding back money. And Kate had certainly seen prostitutes killed for less reason than that.
She also could have been doing tricks on the side in her apartment. Which, again, wouldn't have been real popular with her pimp. But it also could've put her at risk with some whacked-out John.
As a black-and-white police car screamed past them on the way to the terminal, followed by a fire truck, the missing piece clicked into place.
"You know, don't you?"
"Know what?"
"Why Tara was killed."
She'd expected him to lie. Once again he surprised her.
"I have an idea. But nothing concrete."
She folded her arms, welcoming the irritation that steamrollered her earlier horror. "And you were going to share your idea with me when?"
"Later."
"Anytime in this decade?"
He shot her a look. "Anyone ever tell you that you're kind of sexy when you get sarcastic, chère?"
"No. But that may be because not every man has sex on the brain."
"Sounds as if some guys need to prioritize. And yeah, I was going to tell you last night. But you looked wiped out. So I figured it could wait. Then I was going to tell you on the ferry, but the Hulk showed up."
"So you figured it could wait."
"Until after we got off that boat in one piece, mais, yeah." He glanced up in the rearview mirror. "I had every intention of telling you tonight."
"Why don't you tell me now"?"
"Because right now I have to call Remy. Because I doubt he was calling just to shoot the breeze."
Without giving her a chance to argue, he pulled the phone off his belt and thumbed in the auto-dial.
"Hey, cher. So, what's up?"
Nick Broussard was the best she'd ever seen at hiding his thoughts. But she was pretty good at watching for tells, too. And it was only because she was watching him so carefully that Kate caught the slight lift of his dark brow.
"Okay. Yeah, I'll tell her. I'm sure she'll want to be there."
"Where will I want to be?" she asked as he snapped the phone closed.
"Your maman's house."
"She's back?" Kate couldn't decide if she was glad about that or not.
"So it seems." He thrust a hand through his hair, looking, for the first time since she'd met him, uncomfortable. "There's something else."
"They've got Tara's autopsy report back," she guessed.
"Not yet. Remy said they're pushing the doc and I hey're hopeful they'll be getting it sometime late afternoon. Tomorrow morning, latest."
"Then what is it?"
"They picked up your shooter."
"You're kidding." Having witnessed the condition of the city, she'd had the feeling last night's attack was destined to get buried in some file cabinet, never to be looked at again. "Who?"
"Oh, the guy who actually pulled it off was just some low-level wiseguy. But the thing is, he was professional muscle."
"So who hired him?"
"You're not going to like this answer."
"News flash, Broussard. I don't like getting shot at, either. So why don't you fill me in? Or do I have to call Detective Landreaux myself?"
"Okay. According to this guy, and it hasn't checked Out yet, but it would be unlikely for him to have been ;il)le to just pull the name out of a hat, the guy who paid him a thousand bucks up front, with another fifteen hundred to be paid when the job was done, was Joseph Shinski."
29
"JOSEPH SHINSKI?"
My Joe? Kate was glad she was sitting down. Because the shock was so great, she
wasn't sure her legs would have held her.
"Apparently so. Seems you weren't exaggerating when you said you had lousy taste in men. Present company excluded, that is."
"Is Detective Landreaux positive? I mean, I know Joe was furious at me, but to hire a killer—"
"Is extreme," he said. "But not impossible. Hell, you just happen to be in the city that got its nickname, the Big Sleazy, the old-fashioned way. By earning it.
"In fact, there was a really bad period of time from '92 to '95 when no less than sixty NOPD cops were charged with a variety of crimes. One female cop even landed in prison for the murder of another cop in the strong-armed robbery of a local restaurant."
"But how would Joe even know how to find anyone like that here?" As soon as she heard the words leave her mouth, Kate knew how naive they sounded. "I guess it's not that difficult for one crooked cop to locate another."
"They're like a fraternity."
"Sounds as if you know a lot about the subject."
Including the statistics, which she found a little strange. Then again, the city's police department's bad behavior had been all over the news after Katrina; it wasn't impossible to believe that those statistics he'd just cited had been reported by local media.
"It's not exactly a secret," he said, confirming her thoughts.
"So, are they going to arrest Joe?"
"Like I said, according to Remy, they haven't finished checking it out yet. Obviously they're trying to keep the investigation low-key, because they don't want word to get out to Shinski so he can take off, but he expects the guy to be picked up in the next day or so."
"That is so hard to believe."
Her hand was not as steady as she would have liked. In fact, it was shaking like a damn leaf as she lifted her fingers to her temple, where a killer headache was threatening to blow off the top of her head.
"Like I said, I know Joe was furious at me, but—"
"Furious enough to threaten to kill you?"
"It was just his temper talking."
I could fucking kill you, bitch, was actually what he'd said. But Kate didn't feel Nick needed to hear the details.
"You said, and some of the articles written about the case stated, you got other death threats."
"Yes. I did. But I would have recognized Joe's voice."
"Doesn't mean he wasn't in on it. Or maybe he was working on his own, and paying some other guys to make the calls from throwaway phones."
The same way he'd allegedly paid that motorcyclist to shoot her? Kate wondered.
"I suppose anything's possible," she said glumly. "And you know, as ridiculous as it sounds, I can't decide what's pissing me off more. Getting shot at. Or having been stupid enough to sleep with a guy who's now trying to kill me."
"You made a mistake." Nick shrugged. "So did he. The difference is, you're going to get on with your life. He will, too. But his life for the next several years will be behind bars. In solitary confinement in a maximum-security prison."
Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, Nick proved her wrong.
"There's something else."
''Yeah, I know. My mother. And as much as I'm so not looking forward to it, I appreciate your former partner letting me be there when he questions her."
"Makes sense, since as a grifter, she's made a lifetime career of lying, and even though you've been apart for a lot of years, there's a good chance you're still a lot better at reading her tells than Remy, who's never met her, will be."
"She's especially good with men," Kate confirmed. "Or at least she used to be."
"That's what I figured, given those sweetheart cons. But I wasn't talking about her. I meant there's something I need to tell you about the Hulk."
"What about him?"
"I'm pretty sure he was after me."
"I believe we've determined that."
"Yeah. But here's the thing."
He shoved a hand through his hair. He was clearly uncomfortable. Which, Kate suspected, was a first lor him.
"I'm not positive, since I've got a few irons in LeBlane's fire, but I'm guessing he sent his goon to kill me because of your sister's and my relationship."
Tara was wiping off the countertop after lunch when Father What-A-Waste, aka Father Michael Xavier Gannon, aka Father Mike, came into the kitchen.
"That was a great meal," he told her. "Best crab cakes I've ever had. And bein' from South Carolina's Low-country, I've tasted a lot of crab cakes."
"The breading probably made it too heavy on the carbs." She wrung the dishrag out and hung it over the faucet to dry. "And the pie would've been better if I'd had real key limes, instead of the ordinary store-bought ones." She shrugged. "But you've got to work with what you've got."
"And isn't that the case?"
He turned a wooden ladder-back chair around and straddled it. "I appreciate you taking over the cooking."
"It's no problem. It makes me feel good to be useful."
That was the first absolutely truthful thing she'd told him since arriving here the night Kels had been killed. She'd always loved to cook, having taught herself out of necessity. Kate, who'd never been the slightest bit domestic, could've happily existed on cornflakes three times a day.
As for their mother, well, Antoinette had always had a great many more important fish to fry.
"Well, everyone else is a lot happier, since most of the time they were stuck with me, and my culinary skills mostly consist of spaghetti with jar sauce and peanut butter sandwiches."
"Yeah. I saw all those jars. If another hurricane shows up, you're pretty much prepared to ride it out on PB&J."
"As I said, while I have many talents, cooking isn't one of them."
His grin was quick and warm and, dammit, as unconsciously sexy as hell. In fact, it was partly that he didn't seem to have any idea of the effect it had on women that made it so fucking sexy.
Father Mike was, hands down, the best-looking man Tara had ever met. And considering how many men . ..
Don't go there.
Anyway, this priest named for an archangel brought to mind a fallen angel, one who might have washed off the ceiling of St. Louis Cathedral. Lush black hair framed a narrow, aesthetic face; his eyes, set above high, slashing cheekbones, were a riveting, intense, almost neon blue, and his beautifully sculptured lips had been designed to tempt both sinner and saint.
Technically, Tara had no proof about his appeal to saints. But she could definitely, categorically state that he was damn tempting to this sinner.
"Anyway, that got me thinking," he said. "I have this friend, Chelsea Lamoreaux, who owns a restaurant over on Royal."
"Good for her."
She'd heard of Chelsea Lamoreaux. Who hadn't? Not only was the blonde drop-dead gorgeous, she was part of New Orleans society, one of those blonde Garden District trust-fund bitches who were obviously all frigid, if the fact that so many of their husbands were willing to pay Tara for sex was any indication.
Not that she'd met Mr. Lamoreaux. But just because he didn't appear to dip his wick away from home and hearth didn't mean that his wife wasn't like all the others.
"What with so many workers scattered after Katrina, she's been shorthanded."
"Lot of that going around."
"I was thinking that as much as I'd hate to lose you, St. Jude's is, after all, meant to be a temporary solution. To give women and children a chance to get back on their feet."
"And I appreciate it, Padre."
"Well." His smile lit up his eyes like sunshine on a mountain lake. "Now that we seem to have a mutual appreciation society going, what do you think?"
That you're absolutely delicious and if I hadn't already given my heart to Toussaint Jannise, I could eat you up with a spoon. That's what I'm thinking.
"About what?"
"She's desperate for a dinner chef. She's been doing all the cooking herself, which pretty much has her working from dawn to nearly midnight, which is not the best thing for her little gir
ls."
Tara remembered seeing the Lamoreaux girls' first communion picture in the paper a few months ago. Though she normally didn't have any interest in kids, the fact that they were twins had captured her attention and made her think about how much she missed Kate.
Their dresses had been white lace, covered with seed pearls, and with their tulle veils they'd looked like miniature brides. They were smiling at the camera as if they didn't have a care in the world, which they probably didn't.
Tara had fucking hated them.
"Life's a bitch"—she slammed the cupboard door a little too hard after putting away the salt and pepper— "and then you die."
"Well, that's a pessimistic view."
"Maybe you ought to come down from your fucking celibate religious ivory tower and look around once in a while, Padre," Tara said in a flare of temper. "There's not a whole helluva lot to be optimistic about out there."
"You're a glass-half-empty person, then."
"Now, see, that's where you're wrong." She leaned back against the counter and folded her arms over her heavily padded chest. "I'm a glass-bone-dry girl."
"And isn't that a shame?" Was that compassion in his gaze? Or pity? Whichever, she hated it. Just like she lulled him. "Because you deserve far better."
He stood up, turned the chair around, and slid it back under the table. Then dug deep into the pocket of Ins faded jeans and pulled out a slip of paper, which he held out to her.
When she continued to stand there, her face an expressionless mask she'd learned to wear early in life, he reached out, took her hand, pressed the paper into it, then folded her fingers to hold it tight.
"There's her number. Like I said, she's there most of the time and is waiting to hear from you.
"Give it some thought," he said mildly. "I think if you quit beating up on yourself and give yourself the break you—we all—are entitled to, you'll see that it's a win-win situation for both you and Chelsea.
"And if you're worried about her being one of those icy, stick-up-the-ass, judgmental society types, you're wrong. Because not only did she establish this shelter, and continues to fund it—"