by Wendy Rosnau
“Now you’re talkin’, Superman.” God offered Ry a toothless grin, then ducked back into the alley. Sidestepping the homeless vagrants snoring in each another’s faces, he led the way to the Toucan’s back door.
The hardy aroma of bisque and spicy crawfish teased their palates as the two men stepped inside the lounge. While large fans moved the rich scent into the dark corners of the dining room, the dim lighting and exotic decor set the mood for an evening of some of the best food and entertainment in the French Quarter.
As Goddard scanned the booths along the south wall, he asked in a hushed tone, “We gonna meet tomorrow?”
“You already planning your noon meal?” Ry teased.
The older man looked at Ry and grinned. “Tony’s Thursday special is gumbo. All-you-can-eat gumbo. I like gumbo.”
“All right,” Ry agreed. “See what you can come up with between now and then, and I’ll see you around noon.”
Goddard spotted an empty booth half-hidden by a potted palm, and without any further conversation, shuffled his bird-like legs across the red brick floor.
Ry watched his snitch wedge the cardboard bed into the foot space beneath the table, then sit down on the purple-and-green leather seat. Seconds later, he reached for the menu.
The smell of steamed shrimp stirred his own hunger, but instead of finding his usual table, Ry took stock of his surroundings—more specifically, the small stage where Margo duFray sang five nights out of seven. The stage was dark, and that both surprised and disappointed him.
“Hey, mon ami, it’s Wednesday. You got your days mixed up, no?”
The voice calling to him from behind the bar drew Ry’s attention, and he turned to face the Toucan’s owner. “I know what day it is, Tony.”
“Then you’re workin’, oui?”
“That’s right.”
“Nasty night for it.”
“Is the grill still on?” Ry asked.
“Yeah, sure.” The big black man motioned to Ry’s wet shirt. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you’ve looked better. You oughtta go home and dry out with a bottle of cha-cha. Maybe curl up with somethin’ soft.”
Tony’s suggestion sounded good, at least the drying-out part, but Ry didn’t need or want the distraction of booze or an easy woman. Booze had never been able to do the job it promised where he was concerned, and he had no interest in an easy woman whose name he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
“What’s that partner of yours doing these days?” Tony’s grin fed the mischief in his heavy-lidded chocolate eyes.
“You know damn well what he’s doing,” Ry grumbled. “Not a damn thing.”
“I guess I heard somethin’ about that. Words between him and Chief Blais, somebody said. Suspended for two weeks, right?” Tony’s grin opened up.
Ry shook his head. “You’d think by now Jackson would know to keep his opinions to himself. He’s been suspended three times in the past year.”
“You ain’t turned your back on him, though. The two before you quit the first time Jackson said somethin’ they didn’t like.”
That was understandable. Jackson had a knack for irritating the hell out of people, saying what he damn well pleased any old time he felt like it. But on the other side of that coin was the fact that Jackson was the best damn cop Ry had ever worked with. He was the fastest thinker, the sharpest marksman, and downright ugly mean when it was called for. No, contrary to rumor, Jackson Ward was the man every cop wanted watching his back, whether they knew it or not.
“You hear about the suit? Got himself kilt tonight.”
Ry nodded without answering.
Tony leaned close and whispered. “That’s why you’re here, right? You’re on the case, ain’tcha?”
“Looks like it.” Ry ran a tired hand through his cropped sandy-brown hair, scattering rain drops, then hitched his jeans-clad backside on a barstool. “What’s hot and ready, Tony? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Catfish in ten. Shrimp in five.” Tony nodded toward a booth in the far corner. “Charmaine in two, if’n that look she’s givin’ the back of your head means what I think it do. She could dry you out real fast, mon ami.”
Ry curled his long legs around the metal rungs on the stool and glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was Char running her pink tongue around the rim of her wineglass and watching him with those electric-green eyes that promised trouble. In no mood to baby-sit the judge’s daughter, Ry turned back to Tony. “I’ll take the safe bet, give me the shrimp and a cold beer.”
Tony chuckled, his sharp eyes shifting to where Goddard sat clutching the menu. “You payin’ for God?”
“That’s right. Whatever he wants. As much as he wants,” Ry added.
Tony flagged one of his waitresses to wait on Goddard, then turned to his grill and the shrimp Ry had ordered.
In a matter of minutes the familiar scent of gardenias drifted across the bar. Ry turned his head in time to watch Charmaine Stewart hoist her curvy hip onto the high barstool next to him. She looked as good as always, dressed fit to kill, out spending her daddy’s money on trouble and anything else she could find. “I heard there was a shooting in Algiers tonight,” she purred. “Need an ear? I’m a real good listener.”
Ry dug into his pocket looking for a cigarette, then remembered he was out. Swearing, he said, “Why do shrinks and women always assume talking about your problems solves anything?”
“If you’re not interested in talking, we don’t have to. I’m good at other things, too.”
Ry knew what she was good at—causing grief for her daddy. “I came here to eat, Char. That’s all.”
“Ouch. Aren’t we in a nasty mood tonight?” She smiled, not at all daunted. “Come on, Ry, I’m a sure thing, and I know I could improve your mood. Say yes—” she paused, her frosty lips parting “—say yes, then take me home with you.”
She had one of those refined Southern accents, the kind that easily attracted men. And Char had attracted plenty—the primary reason the judge was taking ulcer medication and seeing a shrink twice a week, Ry determined. “Shouldn’t you be home? Your daddy—”
“Thinks you’re wonderful.” She reached out and ran a manicured finger over the back of his hand where it rested on the bar. “For the first time in just ever, Daddy and I agree on something.” She giggled and leaned close. “You’re our favorite detective, Detective Archard.”
What she said about the judge approving of him was true enough. But Ry also knew there was a simple explanation behind that approval—if Char was seeing a big bad cop, the rest of the men making a nuisance of themselves might think twice. Judge Stewart was a shrewd old Creole. Ry didn’t blame him for scheming to keep his wild, scandal-seeking daughter out of the newspaper. Only, he had no intentions of being her baby-sitter or anything else. They had already settled that months ago.
Char ran her finger further up Ry’s arm. “You look like you’ve lost your dog and best friend all in one night. I can be anything you want, Ry. A lap dog suits me fine. You can stroke me or I’ll stroke you. You name the game and I’m willing to play.”
“You’re wrong, as usual, Char. Tonight all I need is a hot meal and a few extra hours of sleep.”
At Ry’s mention of food, Tony came to the rescue with a plate of shrimp and a tall beer. “There you go, mon ami. Seconds are on the house. Jus’ holler.”
Ry shed Char’s warm touch and picked up the fork next to his plate. He stabbed a plump shrimp, shoved it into his mouth and chewed vigorously. Unwilling to be ignored, she inched closer. “Remember the night I slipped through that hole in your hedge and found you asleep in that big hammock on your veranda? Remember how I woke you? The day’s heat was nothing like what we sparked, and nothing has compared since, I’m not ashamed to say.”
“Remembering that night doesn’t do either of us any good,” Ry drawled, reminded that when she’d arrived that night he’d been deep into one of his favorite dreams, a dream so potent and real t
hat he’d almost made love to Charmaine Stewart thinking she was someone else.
She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “If you’re tired I’ll do all the work. Promise and—” slowly she traced an invisible X across her chest with a hot-pink manicured nail “—cross my heart.”
Ry didn’t doubt Char would be good at her word, she’d had enough practice. His gaze drifted to her full breasts, then lower to the rounded curve of her hips beneath her pink silk T-shirt dress. A man would have to be crazy not to take what she was offering.
He stood, dug two twenties out of his back pocket and laid them on the bar beside his half-eaten food. Out of habit, he glanced toward the stage where the piano sat idle. He still thought it odd Margo wasn’t there. A creature of habit, she was as dependable as she was loyal. The only thing that would make her take a night off was if she was sick.
Ry’s gaze went back to Char. “Want me to call you a cab?”
“I take it that means you’re turning me down again.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re a stubborn man, Detective Archard. But, lucky for you, so am I.”
It was still raining when Ry left the Toucan and turned his green Blazer toward the Garden District, and his thoughts back to the Burelly case. It went without saying he was committed to finding Mickey’s killer. Even though there wasn’t much to go on at the moment, the crime hadn’t been perfect. Along with Mickey’s body, he’d found evidence that someone else, possibly two other people, had been with Mickey at the time of the shooting. A blood trail leading to the end of the pier suggested that they had attempted to escape by jumping into the river.
Would the Harbor Patrol find their bodies in the next few days? Or had their escape been successful? The odds were slim that, wounded and fighting the river’s current at night, a person could survive. That is, unless their wounds weren’t serious and they were good swimmers who knew the area. Ry had learned that a slim chance was better than none. Until he explored every possibility, he would assume there were witnesses out there who could shed some light on his case.
He punched in the cigarette lighter, again recalling Mickey boasting about getting his picture on the front page of the newspaper. Well, he was going to make the front page, all right. Cursing the waste, then reminded that he was out of cigarettes once the lighter popped, Ry gunned the engine and sped past the Lafayette Cemetery. As he turned onto Chestnut Street, the red brick two-story came into view, and he hit the remote and watched the lacy iron gate open.
The rain had diminished to a fine sheeting mist, Ry noted as he killed the engine and climbed out of his Blazer. As he walked toward the rear entrance of the house, he could smell the night-blooming jasmine that grew tight to the veranda. He walked past a towering oak dripping with Spanish moss and strolled up the concrete steps. The iron railing felt warm to the touch—the day’s incessant heat still evident after midnight.
On the veranda Ry passed by the rope hammock, gave it a push, then opened the back door that he never bothered to lock.
Back in Texas the ranch house had always been left open to friends and neighbors, the coffeepot full and hot, along with a radio playing as a form of welcome. When Ry had moved to New Orleans, he had promised himself that once he’d gotten his own home he would keep the same tradition alive. And though no one ever came around much except for Jackson, he’d kept his promise.
Inside, he switched on the light, then pulled his sodden blue shirt from his jeans and tossed it over a chair at the kitchen table. The tape playing softly in the boom box was a blend of flute and guitar, a Native American arrangement that fit his somber mood as well as his Texas roots. He left it on and turned off the automatic coffeemaker and emptied the two inches in the bottom. Efficiently he prepared tomorrow’s brew, reset the timer, then turned the light off and left the kitchen.
A stairway just before the living room led to the second story. Tired, anxious to get some sleep, Ry climbed the steps, loosening his belt to remove his .38 Special from the compact holster tucked into the small of his back. At the top of the stairs, he turned left once more and stepped into the bathroom, his hand finding the wall switch a second later.
“What the hell!”
Ry quickly flipped off the safety of his .38 as he surveyed the room. There was blood in the sink and bloody fingerprints on the mirror. The closet door stood open. A small trail of blood led to the shower.
He eased into the room, checked behind the door, then warily crept to the shower and shoved open the slider. The white marble shower stood empty except for a white towel stained red that lay next to the drain.
Back in the hall, aided by the glow from the bathroom light, Ry took inventory of his surroundings. His closed bedroom door drew his attention and he arched a knowing brow—he never bothered to close doors in his house. Why should he? He lived alone.
The floorboards beneath his boots barely creaked as he took his position outside his bedroom. Then, silently counting to three, going in low and fast, Ry burst into the room.
The door hit the wall with a resounding boom, and in one fluid motion he flicked on the overhead light switch, then did a fast spin-around on his boot heels—his gun-hand outstretched, ready for whatever moved.
The force of the door smacking the wall brought the sleeping beauty lying on his bed awake. She jerked upright, at the same time her eyes went wide—familiar velvet-brown eyes that complemented sleek black hair and a pair of overripe, full lips. Ry’s heart slammed against his chest as he remembered what it felt like to kiss those lips, how he had loved running his fingers through all that thick silky hair. Not wanting to go there, he quickly drove the memory out of his head and focused on the blood-stained towel wrapped around Margo duFray’s arm.
Before he could speak, she said, “This isn’t the usual way to ask a favor, I’m aware of that, Ry, but under the circumstances…” Her words stalled. She rested her back against his mahogany headboard. “I know what you’re thinking. I know I swore I’d never ask anything of you ever again. They say you should never say never, and now I know why.”
She looked beautiful as ever. Her voice a bit shaky, but her chin was up, which meant whatever had happened to her hadn’t gotten the best of her.
“Say something, Ry. You know I was never any good at reading your thoughts. You’ve always been more complicated than yeast. I’m a simple girl, remember? And right now, simple is all I can handle. So answer me, dammit. Have I humbled myself for nothing? You wouldn’t turn me away. Or would you?”
Chapter 2
“What the hell happened, Margo? There’s blood everywhere in the bathroom.”
She had been waiting for him to speak. Now that he had, Margo hardly recognized the man behind the volatile voice. Louder than normal, with a biting edge to it, this was in no way the cool, collected detective she’d known a few years ago.
“Does that black look mean you’re going to turn me out into the street, Detective Archard?”
“Cut the detective crap.” He disengaged his gun, and in four long strides stood next to the bed, his jaw set as hard as granite.
Margo ignored the intimidation and braced herself against the headboard. She didn’t want to reveal the degree of pain she was in—her pride stung enough, having given in to Blu’s suggestion to show up on Ry’s doorstep had taken every ounce of courage she owned.
Somehow she’d made it to the Nightwing after she and Blu had jumped off the pier, but what had happened after that was pretty much a blur. All she remembered was Brodie hauling her into the boat, then swearing crudely the minute he laid eyes on her arm. Seconds later they were on the move, the Nightwing flying across the river to New Orleans as if it had grown wings.
Margo’s gaze drifted over Ry’s handsome face. She had always loved looking at him—appreciated the mix of both hard and soft features sculpted over leather-tough Texas skin. He had the bluest eyes of anyone she knew, and the intensity of those magnetic eyes and his rich smoky drawl were a deadly combination. Never mind that his drawl
wasn’t as smoky just now, or his eyes as gentle as they could be.
She flinched as he sat down beside her. “The blood in the bathroom suggests this is more than a scratch, Margo. I need to see what we’re dealing with.”
“Sorry about the mess in your bathroom. I thought I could doctor myself. When I almost passed out, I gave up and went looking for a bed.”
“You were never any good at dealing with blood, especially your own. How did you get here?”
Margo hesitated, not sure what to say.
He looked up. “Margo? Who brought you here?”
“No one,” she lied. “I…I took a cab.” She broke eye contact, feeling uncomfortable under his intense gaze. Absently she studied the generous bedroom decorated in navy and yellow. She’d heard he had moved into a house of his own, but it hadn’t registered just how nice a place until Brodie had delivered her to the two-story Creole cottage in the Garden District. The rumor she’d heard of him selling his share of the family ranch back in Texas must have been true. It would certainly explain the influx of money that would allow him such a beautiful home.
“I’m going to remove the towel now,” he told her.
His tone had softened, reminding Margo of the old days. His touch, too, brought back memories she had worked hard to forget. To someone who knew the history she and Ry shared, it would seem unlikely that she would seek refuge in his home. But Blu’s idea had been ingenious. Well, she hadn’t thought so at first, but later, when she’d had time to consider the few options left open to her, she’d had to agree with her brother. Who would ever think to look for her in the home of one of the most respected homicide detectives in the city of New Orleans?
And they were looking for her. Brodie had pointed to several spotlights combing the river as they fled Algiers.
It had been more than four hours since she’d slipped into Ry’s house like a thief, squeezing through a hole in the hedge Brodie had stumbled on. Once she was standing at the door, supported against the iron railing that wrapped a wide veranda on all sides of his home, she’d urged Brodie to go back to the Nightwing and search for Blu. Of course he hadn’t wanted to leave her, but they both knew Blu needed him at that moment more than she did.