by Mallory Kane
He nodded. “Jumped on that first guy. Got him with a screwdriver.” He looked at her. “The other one, the one with the nose. He’s one of Beau’s men.”
She nodded. “You struggled for his gun. You were shot. They had to go in and get the bullet out.”
“My back?” he asked, moving his shoulder gingerly.
“It hit a rib.”
He nodded and sank back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
Lusinda watched him. He was getting a little color back into his face, but despite the lean, toned muscles of his bare arms and torso, he looked too frail, too human in the hospital bed, surrounded by the tubes and wires and beeping monitors. Her eyes stung and she blinked away the tears that wanted to fall. She was not going to cry. She realized his eyes were open and he was studying her again.
“What were you doing there?”
Lusinda shook her head in exasperation. “That’s too long a story for tonight. You need to sleep.” She stood up and made a pretense of straightening his covers, which were already straight. “Want another sip of water?”
“Talk to me. Tell me.”
“You are a stubborn man. Beau called me to meet him at his office. He runs background checks on everybody, so he knew I was a cop. He sent me to T-Gros’s club. They were going to kill me and frame T-Gros for it. They’d already made sure there was contaminated heroin in some of his warehouses.”
“Beau did it.”
“Yes. To frame T-Gros. Beau tried to buy him out but that didn’t work. So T-Gros has told the police he’ll give them anything they want, but he’d never dealt in contaminated heroin. He’s confessed to distribution and will go to prison.”
“What about Beau? Is Wayne going to flip?”
“From what I understand, he got his instructions at a post office box that’s registered to his name. He’s swearing he has no idea who was behind Carlos’s or Johnny’s deaths.”
Rick met her gaze. “So Beau put the bad dope on the streets?”
She wanted to refuse to tell him anything more. Wanted to tell him to rest, but there was an intensity, a hunger in him that she understood. He had started this determined to stop the person who had killed his brother.
“Beau did it after all,” he whispered. “He killed all those people. He killed Johnny.”
“You stopped the bad dope, Rick. It’s already disappearing from the streets.”
He closed his eyes and she saw his jaw muscles working. “They can’t touch Beau, can they? They can’t tie the contaminated heroin to him.”
“You don’t need to think about all that right now. You need to rest. You’ve talked too much.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I’ll call the nurse to give you another dose of pain medicine.”
He looked toward the window, then down at his hand, where the IV tubing was taped. “I dreamed about Johnny.”
Lusinda’s eyes began to sting again. She swallowed. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “He was a good man. I was too proud, too selfish.”
“Don’t.” Lusinda put her hand on top of his. “He loved you. He was proud of you. You’re a good man too.”
He shook his head. “No. You…” His eyes drifted shut. After a few seconds, he was breathing evenly and the heart monitor’s beep slowed down.
Lusinda watched him for a long time. She cried a little. She even dozed for a while. When she woke, he was still sleeping and someone had been in, because there was a new plastic container filled with ice. They must have given him another dose of pain medicine.
She put her hand over his. “I’m sorry, Rick for being so wrong. I thought I was so smart. I thought I had you all figured out, but I didn’t.” She stopped and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from starting up again. “I didn’t know—nobody knew the demons you were battling, or why you were so desperate to work this assignment. Nobody knew why you risked your life to chase that armed drug dealer. I was prejudiced when I took the job. I was too willing to believe all the bad. But you are nothing but good. Your determination tells me that. No one could ever make me believe otherwise. I love you, Rick. I wish I had the nerve to tell you when you’re awake, but at least I can say it out loud while you’re asleep. I love you, I love you, I love—” Her voice broke. She took a breath. “If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay. It really is—” Her voice broke again. “But you need to let someone love you. And you need to love them back, because every knight in shining armor needs a damsel to rescue. Thank you for rescuing me.”
She pulled her hand away and stood. There were tissues on the tray table. She took one and wiped her wet eyes and face.
“Hey, Lusinda,” Rick whispered.
She turned to find him smiling at her. “Hey, yourself,” she said, smiling back at him. “You look like you feel better.”
He nodded. “I feel better except for this damn thing.” He looked down at the bandage.
“Want something to drink? Orange juice?”
He shook his head. “I need to tell you something.” His voice sounded hoarse and strained.
“Are you sure? Because you sound tired. Why don’t you take another nap and—”
“Hey,” he muttered. “Stop it.”
Lusinda’s pulse skittered. “Okay,” she said as lightly as she could. Be strong. No matter what he said, she could handle it. She could.
“I don’t want a damsel in distress,” he muttered.
He’d heard her. “Rick, I—”
He held up his hand. “Let me finish. Damsels are so whiny. Always wanting you to step in and save them. It gets annoying. I need you.”
Lusinda’s heart thumped so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She put her hand over her mouth to stop the sob that was about to escape.
“You make me better. You expect way too much of me but you make me want to be the person you think I am.” He laid his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “Come here.”
“What?” Lusinda asked, too stunned by his words to think.
“Come closer.”
She stood and leaned over the bed.
“Closer.”
She started to put her ear near his lips, but he turned his head and caught her mouth with his.
“I’m going to need somebody to help me. Shh, don’t say anything.” He took a deep breath. “I need somebody who can put up with me.”
“But—”
“How long do you think you could last?”
“Last?”
He nodded. “Putting up with me. How long?”
“I—oh, a while,” she said, a smile beginning to curve her lips.
“A while as in days or a while as in weeks?”
She looked at him and saw a sparkle in his dark gaze. She smiled. “You’re not going to remember this. You’re still under the effects of the anesthesia.”
“Trust me, I’ll remember, I promise.”
Then Lusinda did the hardest thing she’d ever done. She opened her heart to the man who’d had the courage to open his to her first. “Okay, if you’re sure, then I’d say a while as in years. Years and years and years.”
“Good,” he said. “Because that’s how long I’m going to need you. For years and years and years.”
Lusinda felt the tears start and spill over and run down her cheeks and yet she couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m holding you to it,” she said. “No claiming you were not of sound mind because of the anesthesia.”
He shook his head. “You’re going to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”
“No,” she said. “You’ll be just fine. After all, you’re a saint.”
Epilogue
A year later
Lusinda Easterling held her husband Rick’s hand as Detective Devereux Gautier spoke to the large crowd. She saw the muscles in her husband’s jaw working and knew he was nervous. He didn’t like being the center of attention. It was one of the traits that had made him a great undercover agent.
She understood the reason, or reasons,
he was so nervous now. She squeezed his hand and concentrated on Dev Gautier’s words.
“Because of his concern for the lost children of the New Orleans area, and because of his great generosity, there will be a second Center for Homeless Teens.” Dev paused for applause. “This one will be named the Jack Adams/Thibaud Johnson Center for Homeless Teens, and will be located on Tchoupitoulas Street.
“And, Rick,” Dev said with a sparkle in his eye, “since you did not want any personal recognition for the generous donation that is making this possible, there will be a small plaque over the front door, just like the one over the door of the original center. Only this one will say, Made possible by a donation from Jack Adams and Richard and Lusinda Easterling. So there.” Dev started applauding, which caused the front room of the Thibaud Johnson Center to explode into applause and cheers.
“Damn it,” Rick muttered. “I told him not to—”
“Stop it,” Lusinda said. “Stop being so stubborn and go up there and graciously accept the adulation of the masses.”
Rick glared at her and she grinned. “I’ll go with you.”
“Yeah. Like you can walk up those steps,” Rick said.
“Watch me.” Lusinda put a hand on the side of her ridiculously large belly.
“At least you’re not wearing high heels.”
“Don’t start with me.”
Rick helped Lusinda up the stairs and to the podium. “I’ll get you for this,” he said to Dev, who just grinned.
“Thank you all for being here today,” Rick said into the microphone. “I want to publicly not thank my wife, Lusinda. We had an agreement. She promised she would start labor this morning before I had to be here, so I wouldn’t have to speak in public. But it’s looking like the kid is going to be just as stubborn as she is.”
Laughter and applause echoed through the room.
Rick held up his hand. “I do want to say something. My brother, Jack Adams, didn’t become a child advocate after he graduated from law school. He saved his first kid when he was only fourteen. Me. I was eleven years old. I didn’t have sense enough to know it at the time, but my brother was a role model, a true hero and a saint. I never got to know him while he was alive, because of my own stubbornness. But right here, right now, Lusinda and I pledge to do our best to make the new center a success and to save as many kids as we can. My brother made it possible to break ground and build this center, but it’s going to take a lot of work, a lot of money, and a lot of faith to keep it going. Thank you all for being here today.” As Rick finished talking, he heard a gasp and murmurs from the audience.
He glanced over at Lusinda, who was staring at him in horror. Beside her, Reghan Gautier, Dev’s wife, was laughing and reaching out to hug Lusinda. Then the applause and cheers from the audience rose to new heights.
Lusinda spread her hands. “My water broke,” she mouthed to Rick.
“What!” he cried, then said, “Oh crap. What do I do now?”
Dev took his place at the podium. “Okay, Rick, that’s enough out of you. Everyone, please enjoy the refreshments, and if you are so inclined, fill out one of the pledge forms to donate to the new Jack Adams/Thibaud Johnson Center. Meanwhile, looks like we’ve got to get these two brand new parents to the hospital, because they obviously have no idea what to do. Thank you.”
Dev put an arm around Rick’s shoulders and led him down the stairs behind their wives. “Don’t worry,” he muttered. “Parenthood is easy. She does all the work. And if you believe that…”
The End
The Louisiana Lawmen series
No Hero
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No Hero
Book 1 in The Louisiana Lawmen Series
Mallory Kane
Copyright © 2014
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She knew who the killer was. The thought slammed into Reghan Connor’s sleep-hazed brain, bringing her wide awake. Her fist clenched around the cell phone she held.
“Reghan? Did you fall asleep? Hello?”
She threw back the bedcovers and squinted at the clock. Four-thirty in the morning. She flicked off the alarm, which was set for five o’clock, and rubbed her eyes. “No, Annie, I’m here,” she said on a yawn. “Where did they find the body?”
“Near an abandoned warehouse on the Alabo Street Wharf. That’s—”
“Within a couple of miles of where the first kid was found.” Ten days before, floating in the river, his throat slit. Annie had called her then, too. Not in the middle of the night. She’d called later in the day, once she’d found out that the dead teenager had been a resident at the Thibaud Johnson Center for Homeless Teens. “What about cause of death?”
“His throat was slit.”
“Oh Annie, are you sure? Just like the other boy?” A nauseating surge of adrenaline made Reghan’s fingers tingle and her scalp burn. The wounds were the same. This could be the second kid from the Johnson Center who’d been washed up by the river in less than two weeks. It was no coincidence. Or maybe it was. Kids died all the time in New Orleans. It was tragic, a waste of young lives, but it was true.
Maybe the deaths were drug- or gang-related—dozens of those happened in New Orleans every year. But no. She couldn’t let herself off the hook that easily.
“Is Detective Gautier there?” she asked Annie, trying her best to put a casual note into her voice. If she had talked to Dev Gautier last week, would there be one less dead kid in New Orleans tonight?
“I don’t know,” Annie replied. “I notified Detective Givens, since he caught the first case. But I’ll bet Givens called Gautier to ID the body because of the similarity of the wounds.”
Annie was probably right. “Call me if you hear anything else.”
“I can’t. This is my last break. And please. The cause of death is being withheld from the media, so please don’t say anything about it to anyone. I could lose my job.”
“Who am I going to tell? Givens?” Reghan put a smile in her voice. “No way. I’m not ratting out my best informant.” Through the phone, she could hear the metallic buzz of chatter from police radios. Annie was back at the switchboard. “I’ll let you go.”
“You’re not thinking about going down there, are you?”
“I guarantee you I won’t be the only reporter on the scene.”
“No,” Annie shot back. “Just the only one with a personal vendetta against Detective Gautier. Please, Reghan—”
“I do not have a personal vendetta against him. I just see him for who he really is. You see him as some kind of a hero. Apparently, it means nothing to you that his entire life was a lie.” She swung her legs off the bed and looked around for the jeans she’d taken off last night.
“You told me to call you with anything about him,” Annie said.
Reghan almost laughed. “And if he’d been spotted taking a bribe or roughing up a drunk, would we be talking right now?”
“What is wrong with you?” Annie snapped. “In the first place, he would never do that. And in the second, Detective Devereux Gautier is a hero to a lot of people. I’ll bet that poor boy they pulled out of the river tonight thought of him as a hero.”
“Okay, okay. I give up. I need to go. I’ve—” Reghan paused. “I’ve got to read over my questions and notes for my show this morning. I was planning to get up at five anyway.”
She knew that Annie had a thing for any man in uniform. Her friend positively worshipped cops. She also knew Annie was wrong about Gautier. He was no hero.
But he might be the target of a maniac.
She said good-bye, and for a couple of seconds after hanging up she looked at her smart tablet. But she just wasn’t able to concentrate. Annie had asked her what was wrong with her. It had been a frustrated rhetorical question, but Reghan considered it now.
What was wrong with her? Nothin
g. The better question was, what was wrong with the world? Annie’s outlook was pitifully naïve. She believed that men like Devereux Gautier became police officers for heroic, altruistic reasons. But Reghan knew better. There are no heroes, she wanted to tell her friend. Heroes and knights in shining armor were for kids’ fairy tales. In real life, people never lived up to expectations. That’s why they called it real life.
She headed into the bathroom, still arguing with herself about the coincidence of the two boys’ deaths. Was she going crazy, or had convicted murderer Gerard Fontenot actually told her back in February that these teenagers were going to die? She cringed, thinking about Fontenot’s eerie eyes and slithery voice. After brushing her teeth and splashing her face liberally with cold water, she buried her nose in a towel. The day had already promised to be long and stressful, even before Annie called. And Reghan still had to go over her notes before the morning’s show.
She was interviewing a city councilman about his outspoken opinions of what should and should not be taught in public schools. Her TV news program, The Real Story, was famous for being controversial, topical, with no punches pulled. But yesterday afternoon she’d gotten a tip that had ratcheted this segment up from merely contentious to downright scandalous. The councilman, who had run on a platform of decency and family values, was about to be sued for sexual harassment.
It had taken her hours to verify the information. She was comfortable with her research and sources, but before she confronted him on the air, she wanted to double-check everything one last time. She had no intention of being surprised by a single tidbit that she’d missed.
On her show, she did the blindsiding.
She tossed the towel down and pulled her hair back, anchoring it with a barrette. Back in the bedroom, she picked up her watch from the bedside table and checked the time. Almost five. She had to be at the WACT studio by six in order to be ready to go on the air at nine. She grabbed her tablet, and stuck it and her phone into her purse.
Who was she kidding? She hadn’t fooled Annie, and she wasn’t fooling herself. Her notes would keep until right before the show, because right now she was headed down to the Alabo Street Wharf. She needed to see for herself what had happened to the teenaged boy who’d been pulled out of the river.