“She didn’t do this.” Nearly all of the cops shook their heads, disgusted.
“You gotta be kidding,” Amon said, losing all pretense of respecting Cam’s rank. “Even you’ve got to see she’s out of control.”
“No.” He needed them to know, to believe, so they wouldn’t be gunning for her. “She wasn’t there. This is a mistake—she—”
“Seriously?” a big cop, Eric, snapped. He was the kind of man whose idea of “subtle” was refraining from shooting someone, and he unraveled as he stepped between Amon and Cam, getting into Cam’s face, actually looking down into Cam’s eyes, which put his height over six-four. He outweighed Cam by at least seventy-five pounds. “I think you’re too damned close.”
“Back down,” Cam instructed, but the man—who had been mentored by Benoit—made no sign of hearing him.
“That’s your friend in there,” the big man gestured toward the surgery wing, “and you’re still defending her! You’re blind, man. You always help her get out of trouble and now you can’t see that she’s completely played you.”
“First, you don’t know what you’re talking about. She wasn’t there . She was—”
“I think she’s twisted you nine ways to Sunday. We have her on the cameraman’s tape. How much more is it going to take? You let her run around, blowing things up, and now murdering people and shooting cops. Someone needs to take her down. If you’re too whipped—”
Cam wasn’t even aware he’d clenched his fist and thrown a punch until Eric landed on the floor, out cold. Cam stood over his fellow officer, both satisfied and horrified. Several of the other cops knelt, helping Eric as the captain huffed out of the triage area, his ruddy complexion especially florid and a sweaty sheen glistening on his receding hairline. He took in the situation with one sweeping glance.
“Moreau, get your ass in here,” he said, indicating a waiting room.
Cam followed him to the partially secluded waiting area, aware that his fellow officers were being particularly quiet in order to hear what the captain said.
“I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you lately, but you’re just not yourself. You’re usually the most levelheaded cop I’ve got and look at you. You punch a hole in the wall, you go missing for half the day, you don’t call in, and now you knock out a fellow officer. I think you’ve got to take time.”
“No, sir,” Cam argued, vehemently. “I’ve got a break on this case. Bobbie Faye wasn’t there. I can prove it.”
“Then turn all your notes over to Fordoche.”
“Sir, I’m fine. She didn’t—”
“Turn it over, Detective. Period. If she didn’t shoot Benoit, fine, but if she shot a cop, I don’t want her in a position to talk her way out of this one. She’s going to have to deal with me. Not you. As of right now, you’re on leave until this case is solved.” Cam started to argue and the captain put his hand up. “No. Go somewhere, cool off. We’ll call your cell phone as soon as Benoit comes out of surgery and I’ll let you see him, as his friend, but not as a cop. Now go.”
Cam struggled with what to say. He’d lost the woman he loved, he was in danger of losing his best friend, and now his job, since it was clear the captain didn’t believe a word he said. Maybe someone else saw them go into the camp and could place Bobbie Faye away from the scene of the crime.
“You’ll be back on duty when this is over and you’ll thank me for it,” the captain said, dismissing him. Cam nodded, knowing that nothing he said was going to make any difference.
As the captain walked away, he turned, pausing as if this were an afterthought. “You know anything about that surveillance footage Benoit was supposed to have had in his truck?”
“I’ve heard the rumors. Why?”
“It went missing. Damn fool girl went to all that trouble to get that footage back, and then she forgets the cameraman’s camera. She’s losing it, Cam. You stay away from her. If she’ll shoot Benoit, she’ll shoot you.”
The captain stalked back to the area where the other cops were murmuring and Cam knew their minds were made up. He saw a TV mounted in the waiting area—silent, though the picture was on—showing a terrible old photo of Bobbie Faye with an “armed and dangerous” banner slapped above it and “wanted by the police” below. She was going to be in every yahoo-with-a-gun’s crosshairs. His phone rang as he left the hospital; he hadn’t even been sure where to go, how to help, until that call.
Twenty-six
Zooming up and over the Mississippi River bridge—particularly on the Harley—reintroduced Bobbie Faye to her old friend Fear of Heights and his best buddy, Panic Attack. It did not help that her brother followed too closely. He was probably going to run her over while he argued with Lori Ann.
The wide black river rolled lazily beneath her and as they reached the peak of the bridge arch, she could see Baton Rouge’s Old State Capitol off to her left, just beyond one of the riverboat casinos and the downtown USS Kidd museum. The Old State Capitol stood out from the rest of the normal French and Spanish architecture, with its unusual castle construction: four stories, with towers flanking the front and back entrances. It had been built in the early 1800s on a natural levee that overlooked the expansive lawn that sloped down to the Mississippi River, and had been saved (and burned and salvaged) over the years.
One of the postcards from Marie’s had indicated that she would have several pieces at the Art Show benefit hosted by the governor in the old building tonight. The FBI had assured Trevor that all of those pieces had been thoroughly inspected and there were no diamonds to be found.
Bobbie Faye knew Marie was wilier than that.
Worse, now she knew Francesca was wilier than that.
The reality flooded in . . .
People are dead.
People are dead.
Benoit’s been shot.
Don’t think about it. How do you put that into a compartment and shut it away and deal with it after a disaster is over? Don’t think about it. How does the horror not claw against its confines? Don’t think about it. How could she keep putting one foot in front of another, keep moving forward, find a way to end the nightmare? Don’t think about it.
The black river pushed the dark banks wide apart, and she felt as if she and Trevor hung there over the enormous void of the mirrored water. They were suspended in the darkness, the hum of the bike the only thing that riveted her to this world, the rhythm of the tires slapping against the bridge’s construction joints like a staccato drum line underneath a bluesy song. It was one of the few places in Louisiana where the inky horizon felt big and open and not crowded with trees, and even though there were lights to the city and even though there were lights on the bridge and even though there were headlights and taillights from the cars speeding nearby, Bobbie Faye felt swallowed up by the great big darkness of the night.
She fucking hated the dark.
It was hard not to think in the dark.
As she and Trevor raced down the bridge, Adrenaline was talking about unionizing Fear and Flight because they were seriously overworked and underpaid. She just could not give in. She would not give in.
They exited the off-ramp, speeding past the large River Center entertainment complex and then up the natural bluff and parked at the building next to the Old State Capitol. The all-glass Manship Theater was stunning in its minimalist lines, and with its proximity to the castle next door, it seemed as if its owners were intent on showing the juxtaposition of the passing centuries . . . and Bobbie Faye hoped it would make it to the next decade, because her first thought when she saw all of the glass: fuck. This was asking for Trouble to show up with a torpedo and a bad attitude.
Everything for the big televised Art Benefit that evening was being set up inside the Capitol. Floodlights washed over the sides of the castle while wait staff and valets for parking milled about; caterers scurried, carrying in trays and tables and scads of linens from the big catering vans parked a block away. Trevor climbed off the bike after Bobbie Faye, and the
y watched as Roy parked his car, unfolded himself lazily and sauntered up to one of the vans; she thought at least four of the waitresses were going to collectively bean him in the head with their trays—apparently, his womanizing reputation extended beyond Lake Charles—but they pointed him toward the woman who appeared to be in charge. When that big, bosomy woman gave him a backbreaking hug, Bobbie Faye figured Roy and Lori Ann would be able to carry out their part of the plan. Of course, that’s when she saw Lori Ann eyeing the liquor part of the catering supplies with the same expression Stacey got when she gazed upon the candy aisle: pure nirvana was almost within her grasp. Yep. Trouble. Torpedo. And Bobbie Faye had a target painted on her back.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” Trevor asked. “I could have the whole place in lockdown, and we’d find the diamonds.”
“But with no evidence for the murders.” No, there was no way that was going to happen. “Just show me the stupid dress I have to wear. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
He grinned, and she knew she was going to regret trying to be the planny type. “Hey,” he shrugged a little too innocently, “it was the contact I happened to have, and the quickest way to get you inside the benefit.”
She followed him through the double glass doors of the theater building into a massive, high-ceilinged glass entrance. He greeted and seemed completely at one with the quintet of well-dressed men who, in spite of the spiffy rental tuxes, looked like they had a thousand years of wear on their faces and could personally attest to every line of every blues song written. Trevor slapped a handshake on the oldest—a guy in his sixties who cradled his saxophone like a beloved child; the man turned and handed the wad of cash Trevor had just given him to the next man, who peeled off hundreds and passed them out. Each man got at least three.
“Holy geez,” Bobbie Faye muttered, aware of her voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Since when did you turn into an ATM machine?”
“When I started traveling with a woman who’s destroyed half of the state and the other half doesn’t take the Universal Platinum Card.”
One of the band members grabbed a bag that was lying over an instrument case and hauled out a tiny red kerchief. “This was Della’s, but Trev here paid her to go home. I think she’s about your size.” He handed her the “dress” and the shoes.
“Where’s the rest of it?” When they all grinned, she said, “Oh, no fucking way. You’ll have to shoot me first.”
“Hey, you wanted to be able to get into the benefit without anyone realizing who you were. Best way to do that is for them to think they recognize you because you’re in the band.”
“Or the local hooker,” she griped, but that apparently wasn’t a negative argument for the men.
Just as Bobbie Faye pushed her way into the restroom to change into the dress, she could hear Francesca griping as she came barreling into the lobby area. Her high heels clicked on the tile floor, the sound reverberating off the glass windows; Mitch and Kit trailed behind. From what Bobbie Faye could hear of the conversation, Francesca pulled a serious amount of diva for not being included in any plans except where to show up. Bobbie Faye gritted her teeth and tried to ignore her cousin as she attempted to change into the dress.
There was just no way this scrap of material was an actual item of clothing, and she turned it several directions before figuring out which part was the top, which just did not bode well. After six tries, wherein she discovered that the part she thought was the top was the sleeve, she was pretty sure she finally had it on correctly. She took a look in the bathroom mirror and knew she could have spraypainted her body and gotten more coverage than this thing, and she tugged and tried to squeeze the boobs better into the bodice of the dress and it just was hopeless. She was going to kill Trevor for this one.
“This is a good room—plenty big enough to shoot someone,” Mitch’s voice rumbled, carrying back to where Bobbie Faye gathered up her own clothes, and there were many simultaneous exclamations from the band members along the lines of what the hell did he say and dude, chill.
“Don’t worry,” Kit answered the others’ concerns, “he’s not loaded.” And then she proceeded to grill the band as to whether or not they had any prior convictions and just what area of illegal activities did they want to concentrate on, and it sounded like Kit was handing out her business card. Great.
As Bobbie Faye screwed up her courage to walk out of the bathroom, she heard Francesca ask Trevor, “Why are you helping Bobbie Faye? I didn’t think Daddy paid anyone enough to get almost blown up this much.”
Bobbie Faye walked into the lobby in time to hear him say, “I’m not working for your dad anymore.” His voice resonated, deep and warm, sending a shiver up Bobbie Faye’s spine. It stunned her to see the other new arrivals: her dad, V’rai, and her Uncle Antoine—none of whom seemed to faze Trevor. “Bobbie Faye’s my . . .” He looked up just as she stepped into the room and she instantly knew that there was not enough dress to the dress because his eyes went completely dark and his smile, predatory. “. . . fiancée,” he finished, striding over to put an arm around her.
“Oh, yeah?” she asked him, laughing, knowing he was joking just to rattle Francesca.
“Yeah,” he said, openly admiring that dress. “I know, Wooing 101. I bought the CliffsNotes version.”
Francesca looked harried and unpolished; her clothes had that thrown-together-in-the-dark look: nothing matched, particularly the still-bright-flamingo-pink-feathered purse, which clashed so mightily with the yellow top that Bobbie Faye thought she might be temporarily blinded. For Francesca, this was the equivalent of a complete psychotic meltdown, and her cousin sputtered, “Fiancée? She’s not wearing a ring!”
“She will be,” Trevor said.
“Does Cam know about this, Bobbie Faye? Because everybody knows he’s your boyfriend and it’s just really not fair for you to get Cam and this guy, too. I don’t think Cam’s gonna be too happy about this.”
Trevor clasped her hand and looked Bobbie Faye in the eye—he was studiously, purposefully not rising to the bait.
“Daddy’s gonna have a cow,” Francesca said when Trevor ignored her. She turned on Bobbie Faye, tapping her toe. “And you! You left me at Aunt V’rai’s! You’re supposed to stay with us, and help me keep Mamma from getting killed. And I don’t think marrying the help is exactly what we talked about!”
“I am helping you, Frannie. That’s why I called and told you to meet me here. I know something about how to find the diamonds that no one else knows—and I have a way to make sure they’re the real ones.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Where’s the rest of your dress?” her dad interrupted.
“Don’t even start with criticizing me,” Bobbie Faye warned him. “You weren’t invited. Just Uncle Antoine.”
“Yes, I was,” her dad said.
“Who invited you?” She looked at Trevor and he shook his head, which left only one other suspect, yet to arrive. “I’m going to kill someone,” she mumbled.
“Wouldn’t try it in that dress,” her dad said, “unless you’re planning on flashin’ ’em to death.”
“Etienne, be nice,” V’rai coaxed. “I bet she’s une beaute fillé, mais non?”
“And you, Aunt V’rai, don’t even try to make good now. You could have warned me a little more clearly about the whole silo-blowing-up thing!”
“No, she couldn’t, chère,” Antoine said, and it was the first time in years that she’d heard him speak. She was startled to hear how much like her dad he sounded—they looked so much alike, it shouldn’t surprise her, but it always had. “Any time she ever tried to help, it only made things worse.”
“And we didn’t think you’d live through anything made worse,” V’rai said.
“Especially when you don’t even have sense enough to wear shoes,” added Etienne.
Everyone looked down at her bare feet and she glared at him.
“I’m beginning to
see why you shot him last time,” Trevor offered.
“You have no idea.” Bobbie Faye held up the stiletto heels to him and said, “These straps hurt. Can you—” Trevor dug out his pocketknife, cutting off the back straps, turning them into slides, and Francesca nearly fainted.
“Ohmygod,” Francesca gasped, “you just desecrated the Power of Cute Shoes!”
“And they look great on her,” Cam said, standing in the open doorway of the entrance. Then his gaze trailed up her body and over the snug, too-tight dress and his eyes dilated and he appeared to be very appreciative, and she immediately felt self-conscious. She glanced down at her cleavage and realized everything was almost spilling out again.
“Dammit, this dress is too small,” she muttered and Cam coughed, hard.
“No, baby, I’d say”—and he caught Trevor’s glare—“you’re fine,” he finished, looking back at her.
“Bobbie Faye,” Francesca snapped, “this is not a fashion show, though you really need to let me fix your foundation. You’re supposed to help me find—”
“And Benoit?” Bobbie Faye asked, interrupting her cousin.
“Still in surgery,” Cam answered, and Bobbie Faye felt the knot in her chest. Dear God, just let him be okay.
“You’re not here to arrest her,” Trevor stated, not being all that subtle about putting himself between her and Cam, and why in the hell did she think she could have a plan without it spiraling out of control?
“No,” Cam said, and then added, looking directly into Bobbie Faye’s eyes, “you don’t have to protect her from me.”
“Wait—how’d you know I was here?” This was so not going the way she’d expected, and if the cops were coming to the party, she was dead. She really didn’t want to die in a red dress that was probably featured on the Whore’s Uniform Daily web site. Cam made a phone call motion with his hand and Bobbie Faye was going to kill a certain little Bluebird of Telephonitis when she got the chance.
“By the way,” he asked, “how in the hell did you manage to have dispatch convinced you were running through the swamps, heading for Texas?”
Girls Just Wanna Have Guns Page 27