Down & Dead In Dixie (Down & Dead, Inc. Series)

by Vicki Hinze

  My smile faded. I knew what he meant. “It’s not crazy.”

  He lifted his gaze to mine. “It’s not?”

  “No.”

  “You feel it, too?”

  I nodded. “I don’t know what it is, but, yeah, I feel it, too.”

  “I’m glad, Lily.” He stood, drained his soda can, and then passed me a business card. “Here’s my number. If you need anything, call me at home or on my cell any time. Seriously.”

  “What should I wear for work? I have to buy clothes in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow, whatever you can find. After then, black slacks and white shirts. You’ll wear a white coat in the kitchen.”

  “Heels?”

  He looked down at her feet, his focus lingering on her bruises. “Sneakers.”

  “I really do like you.”

  “With a bum ankle, I knew you’d appreciate that. I’m trying to reclaim some hero points.” He flashed her a grin and opened the door then stepped outside. “Lock up now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Night.” I closed and locked the door behind him, my goofy heart fluttering like a teen’s. What was this connection between us?

  Lester’s voice cut through my emotional high. “Daisy girl, now ain’t the time to lose your head. Get yourself some rest while you can.”

  Good advice. Already, I was craving a hot bath and the sheer joy of crawling into a soft bed. Memories of the hard bench and the bus seat where I’d napped flashed too fresh in my mind.

  Half an hour later, I turned on the TV and checked all the local channels. News of Edward Marcello’s death was on every channel, but I didn’t spot so much as a mention on the disappearance of Daisy Grant. I guess Detective Keller was keeping the name of his murder witness under wraps for the moment and he hadn’t yet caught wind of my drowning. Whatever had come to light in Biloxi apparently had little effect. Simply put, a Biloxi hostess falling off a fishing boat into the gulf didn’t warrant air-time on TV in New Orleans.

  Relieved and saddened, I turned the TV off and went to bed. Settling in, I scrunched a fluffy pillow and inhaled the scent of fresh, clean sheets. Thank you, Mark. I sighed and let myself totally relax.

  The image of Edward Marcello being shot fired through my mind.

  I forced my thoughts from it. To Mark. To the look on his face when he awakened me on the bench. His regret at letting me leave Jameson Court with a check I couldn’t cash. The pain losing his family caused him, and his willingness to let me see it. Mark Jensen wasn’t a simple man and his hadn’t been a simple life. Not at all. Weighing it all out, the truth seemed as clear as a stubborn chin. I’d misjudged him based on Craig and Jackson’s constant attempts to hook us up. I thought something serious had to be wrong or some woman would have snatched up such a paragon. But now I knew for myself. He was a good and decent man. Too often used by others for their own gains, but still good and gentle. I loved that about him, and how he’d come looking for me.

  I’d had foster parents who had waited a day or two before reporting me missing. Some had been terrific, and I was grateful for them. But some shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near kids much less been paid to care for them. And Mark, a virtual stranger with only a thin thread of a mutual friend binding us, had come to find me right away.

  He’d given me a job, food, an advance and a place to stay. And most amazing, he’d opened his heart. He hadn’t said it, but I’d felt it. Surely he didn’t do this all the time. No, he’d said he didn’t. God had to be nudging him for him to be so generous with me. He sure was nudging me. Never in my life had I reacted like this to any man.

  A tender hitch formed in my chest. I’d surely kept the whole of heaven hopping today, but things had worked out every time. I wanted to pray my thanks, but I’d never really been taught to pray, so I don’t know how to do it properly, and in fifth grade, another orphan, Marta Boudreaux, had told me if you pray wrong, God gets mad, so I’d better not risk it.

  I carried that warning with me for the longest time, but the fact is life’s just too hard to face alone without faith. So I decided to risk praying. If I kept it short, I thought, there’d be less for me to mess up, but He’d still know me and that I believe in Him. Finally, I worked up the courage, knelt down in a cold sweat and got my voice to work. “Thank you,” I said.

  That was my prayer. It’s all I dared to speak direct for years, though I thought nearly everything deliberately, aware that He might just be listening.

  Years later, sitting on lawn chairs in the front yard one hot night, Lester and I got on the subject and I confessed my fear of insulting God. He snorted, gave me a Bible and said nowhere in the Good Book would I find God mad at His creation for opening her heart to Him. I read and learned and read some more, but that fear of upsetting Him never left me—until now.

  With everything going on, seeing Him working in my life and putting what I need in my path, I felt a powerful urge to risk saying more. Oh, I didn’t need to tell Him I’m scared to death. He knows that. But I did want to tell him I’m not hopeless. Who wouldn’t be grateful for not being hopeless? And I couldn’t be sure, but I wondered. Had He brought me to Mark for a reason beyond me needing him and his help?

  The possibility set my mind to racing. Mark’s so hurt inside and I totally understand hurt. I need his help, but maybe he needs my help, too. If that’s the case and what our connection’s all about, I want to let God know I’m willing—without making him mad, just in case Marta was right.

  My insides shook. Fear put an odd taste in my mouth and it dried out. But ready to take my leap on faith, I pushed on anyway and whispered inside my mind. Thank you, God, for everything. I’m willing for . . . whatever. I’m just willing. I swallowed hard and dared say what I’d yearned to say for a long, long time. Bless Jackson and Lester and keep them safe. Oh, and Emily, too. Help her with her eyes because she sure doesn’t need to be behind the wheel of her clunker without good vision. Amen.

  My heart pounded hard and fast. I braced for whatever came, but felt only the nighttime quiet. Maybe I hadn’t offended too much, or prayed too much the wrong way.

  Long, tense moments passed and finally my heart rate slowed down and I accepted that the world wasn’t going to come crashing down around my ears. Still, I had blown it. The certainty I had filled me. With everything going on, I thank God for not being hopeless? I winced.

  Clearly, I’ve got a lot of learning to do and a long way to go, but surely if He thought about it, He’d see my gratitude isn’t really that off-the-wall. Maybe to most it sounds dopey, but not to anyone who’s walked in my shoes. If I live to be a hundred I’ll never forget standing outside the Piggly Wiggly waiting for my mother to park the car and come join Jackson and me. Deep inside, I knew when she handed me the two Grant half-dollars that she wasn’t coming back, but I’d hoped and hoped, clinging onto it down to the tips of my nails. For hours, I stood there, holding Jackson’s hand. And then it started getting dark, and I had to accept it. My mom was gone forever.

  That moment, the one when hope died, was the most horrible moment I’ve ever had in my entire life. Not even knowing everyone wanted to kill me made me feel so empty and worthless. All the space inside me filled up with despair and when my entire body couldn’t hold it all, still more despair oozed out my pores . . .

  Remembering what I didn’t want to remember, I squeezed my eyes shut. If He knew my heart, He knew all that. Right or wrong, I prayed the best I knew how and that should be enough. It shouldn’t make Him mad enough to walk out on me, too. I flipped over onto my other side. I will not go there. Not today, and certainly not now.

  It had taken so long for hope of any kind to come back. If it hadn’t been for Jackson, it might never have returned. Well, until today.

  After today, with the way people like Jason and Ruth just seemed to cross my path and help me, and then Mark . . . well, how could I not have hope? And having stood in front of Piggly Wiggly how could I not be grateful to not be without hope? />
  Closing my eyes, I considered myself not abandoned and blessed.

  But when I drifted off to sleep, it wasn’t hope or Jason or Ruth or even Mark Jensen that filled my mind or my dreams. It was Edward Marcello, his angry father, Victor. It was Lou Boudin, and the Adrianos. Those perfectly creased slacks on Detective Keller, and him arguing with Special Agent Ted Johnson, pulling me back-and-forth in a tug-of-war. Those men all warred inside me and turned my dreams into nightmares.

  I ran and hid but they found me again and again. And they shot me and shot me and shot me.

  I awakened drenched in a cold sweat three times.

  The fourth time, I ran through a dark alley in the Quarter. Lou Boudin, the Adriano hit man, chased me, and for a big man, he moved fast! Hard on my heels. Clashes boomed like thunder. Loud. Louder. Persistent. They startled me awake, and I realized the noise wasn’t thunder at all.

  Someone stood banging on the door.

  Chapter 6

  I PEEKED OUT the window beside the door. A uniformed officer stood on the landing at the top of the stairs. What now? Was he a real cop? A fake? A mole?

  He knocked again, harder.

  “Who is it?” I asked. My heart pounded so hard, I doubted I’d hear his response.

  “NOPD. Open up,” he ordered. “I want to talk to Mark Jensen.”

  I rolled my gaze heavenward. Ninety beats a second slowed to sixty with the mention of Mark’s name. “It’s four in the morning. I’m not opening this door.”

  “Where’s Mark?”

  I spotted his business card. “You have a phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call him.”

  “Why? I’m standing right outside his door.” The cop’s irritation multiplied. “Does he know you’re here?”

  For some reason, that question made me feel better. If the man wanted to bust in, he’d have done so by now, wouldn’t he? “Of course, he knows I’m here. Would you just call him? He’ll vouch for me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend of his. Lily,” I said, deliberately avoiding giving him my last name. “Just call him.”

  I peeked through the hole. He was pulling out his phone. “Don’t you try running, you hear me? If I have to chase you down, you’ll regret it.”

  Even if I wanted to run, I had nowhere to go. “I have no reason to run. I work for Mark.” I let the man hear my exasperation. “Just call him, okay?” They must be friends. What cop who wasn’t a friend took this kind of personal interest?

  I heard mumbling on the other side of the door and held my breath.

  The cop spoke louder. “Okay, then. I saw you drive off a couple hours ago and then the lights went on and off. I figured I’d better check.”

  The cop was authentic. Had to be.

  “Hold on, Mark,” the cop said. “I’ll ask her.”

  I braced.

  He shouted through the door. “You okay, Miss Nichols?”

  Relief washed through me and I locked my knees to keep from crumpling to the floor. “I’m fine.” Fine? Not hardly.

  He mumbled something else to Mark and then spoke to me again. “Sorry to disturb you. Like I said, I saw Mark leave and then saw the lights come on and go off again.”

  “I had to go to the restroom.”

  “Sorry to disturb you,” the cop repeated. “Mark says you’ll be here a couple weeks. I told him I’d keep an eye out. If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thank you—what did you say your name was, Officer?”

  “Just call me Tank. Everybody does.”

  “Thank you, Tank.” He was probably built like one. Big, bulky, solid.

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.” I stepped away from the door, looked at the bed, then the clock. With all the adrenalin gushing through me, there’s no way I’d get back to sleep. In the kitchen, I found coffee and put on a pot, then sat down and checked the news on TV.

  This time, there was a mention.

  The Lucky Lady, a charter boat owned by Captain Dave, proved to be anything but lucky for Biloxi hostess, Daisy Grant. My driver’s license photo appeared on the screen. Miss Grant seems to have been suffering a streak of bad luck. Biloxi P.D. sources have unofficially confirmed that she witnessed the execution-style shooting of local businessman, Edward Marcello. At police headquarters, she photo-identified Lou Boudin and Tony Adriano as Marcello’s shooters. Warrants have been issued for their arrests but neither has been apprehended. Grant disappeared from the police station. It had been feared that she was kidnapped by this unidentified man. A grainy image of Lester in his ski-mask appeared on the screen. Reports are he forced her to withdraw maximum sums of cash at multiple ATM machines along the Gulf Coast, which is consistent with a kidnapping. But in an exclusive interview with WDSU, Captain Dave, owner of the Lucky Lady, insists she chartered his boat after the ATM withdrawals and that she was alone. She mentioned the Marcello shooting but said nothing about any kidnapping. As you know, early reports in such cases are often riddled with inaccuracies. We’ll sort through them and report our findings as soon as possible. Anyone with information on the unidentified man, Lou Boudin or Tony Adriano should contact Biloxi PD or 1-800-crimewatch. All three men are considered armed and dangerous.

  “Lester wasn’t armed.” I sipped from my cup.

  Captain Dave, owner of the Lucky Lady, reported that during the charter, Miss Grant fell overboard.

  Captain Dave’s face appeared on the screen. I radioed for help as soon as I could. Had a bad wire.”

  He stood next to his boat, careful not to block the view of the sign advertising his charter business. We searched until dark. All the fisherman, the Coast Guard, everyone with a boat, but we didn’t find any sign of her. We’ll start again at sunup.

  A fissure of guilt opened inside me. They needed to be working, earning to care for their families, and instead, they’d be searching for me.

  A second reporter, shouldered in front of the first and stuck a microphone in Captain Dave’s face. “You’re sure it was the same woman?”

  “Oh, yeah. She even told me she needed the boat ride to calm her nerves. Seeing a guy shot down like that really rattled her.”

  The in-studio anchor’s image returned to the screen. Miss Grant remains missing. The search will resume at dawn, and hopefully she’ll be found. Authorities say this is still a search and rescue mission. At this time, Miss Grant’s case hasn’t yet been reclassified to a recovery operation.

  I looked at the last flash of my driver’s license photo. It wasn’t half bad. I missed my blonde hair and—Jackson!

  I sucked in a sharp breath. If this much was on the news in New Orleans, it could be on in Dallas, too. According to Keller, the Marcellos and Adrianos were famous in the way organized criminals are, not that their fame mattered. If the Biloxi police information officer had told the media all of this, then Detective Keller had to have contacted Jackson, her next of kin.

  My poor brother, mourning me . . . and feeling orphaned.

  I cried between sips of hot coffee.

  And prayed Mark Jensen wasn’t up watching the news.

  Would he recognize me? Would Rachel or Jason or Ruth? What about the tour-bus driver, or even the mugger?

  I didn’t have a clue.

  * * *

  UNTIL MARK ARRIVED at Jameson Court looking well rested and glad to see me, I had knots in my stomach that had knots. If he’d discovered Lily Nichols and Daisy Grant were one and the same, he’d have been mortified. Finally, the fear and dread I’d been hauling around since seeing myself on the news began to ease up.

  Wearing black jeans, and a white shirt, he crossed the kitchen, creating a trail of fresh smelling soap, snagged a cup of coffee, then offered one to me. “Do you know anything about creating websites?”

  “A little.” I took the steaming mug. I’d had way too much coffee already and half-expected my stomach to slosh. “I’m not a techy, but I can handle the basics. Why?”

&
nbsp; “We need a website.”

  “For Jameson Court?”

  He nodded, set his cup down on a long stainless counter. “That’s got priority over kitchen help, if you can do it.”

  “Sure. I can come up with something. Whether or not it’ll be what you want, I don’t know.”

  “Anything’s better than the mess we’ve got right now, and I hate computers. See what you can do.”

  Rachel came into the kitchen and hung her purse on the rack by the backdoor. “The nuts are already filling the square this morning. Why it acts like a magnet for them, I have no idea.” She smoothed her slacks and reached for a cup, then poured herself coffee. “Mark, did you see the news?” she asked without looking back at him.

  “No, I haven’t had it on.”

  Rachel turned and frowned. “Edward Marcello was killed.”

  “Seriously?” Mark stilled. “What happened to him?”

  “I didn’t catch it all, but from what I heard, it sounded like the families are squabbling again.” Rachel blew into her cup. Steam lifted toward her face. “He was shot on the street in Biloxi—or was it Gulfport? Could have been Gulfport. I’m not sure.”

  “It was Biloxi,” I said before thinking. How did they know Edward Marcello? They weren’t supposed to know him. When Mark and Rachel swerved their gazes to look at me, I willed my heart rate to slow down and added, “Tank woke me up at the crack of dawn. I turned on the news.”

  “Sorry about that,” Mark said. “He’s been a good friend for a long time and keeps watch on the place.” Mark swiveled his gaze to Rachel. “Wow, an Adriano shot him.” He grunted. “I guess they’ll both be moving their operations bases again after this. I sure hope it isn’t back here.”

  “Do you know these people?” I asked Mark. I couldn’t imagine why he would, but he sounded familiar. So did Rachel.

  “We went to school with Edward in Gretna, just across the river. Then, the Adrianos ran their business on the east bank, and the Marcellos were across the river, on the west bank. They had a squabble—”