by Anne Logan
Then she felt powerful hands—Alex Batiste’s hands—roughly clasp her shoulders and pull her to a sitting position.
“Come on now,” he soothed, his gruff voice almost a whisper. “Get a grip on yourself.”
He released her shoulders and took hold of her hands. Fleetingly it registered that he had moved closer and that he smelled of musk and male. But more important was the sound of his voice as he continued murmuring firm but comforting and reassuring words.
Seconds passed…minutes, as he gently patted her hands while deep, gut-wrenching sobs racked her body. And when she was spent, and only exhaustion and numbness remained, she gradually grew more aware of her surroundings and conscious of the fact that he was still holding her hands.
Maddie was neither ashamed nor embarrassed by her grief, but she sorely regretted her total loss of control in front of strangers. Gathering what was left of her dignity, she pulled away from Alex, and slid over to the end of the sofa.
“Here,” he said, handing her the washcloth. “Wipe your face and blow your nose, and you’ll feel better.”
Better? she thought. If only it were that easy. Leaning on the arm of the sofa, she tucked her legs to the side beneath her and accepted the damp cloth. But inside she felt empty…so damned empty.
She wiped her face and looked at Alex. “When—” She cleared her throat, and clutching the washcloth tightly, she tried again. “Wh-when did it happen?”
“Three nights ago—Thursday evening.”
Thursday evening, she repeated silently. She had left for Memphis early Thursday morning, so that meant that Michael had called sometime between her leaving and the time that he had…Maddie… oh, God, where are you? I have to talk to you immediately! Her brother’s message played through her mind like a broken record. She hadn’t imagined the fear or the urgency in his voice.
Maddie swallowed hard. “How did he—how did it happen?”
As before, Alex Batiste looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he maintained steady eye contact with her as if gauging what he should say and how he should say it. When he averted his gaze to stare straight ahead, Maddie knew that she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.
“Your brother was seeing a woman named Caroline St. Pierre, a prominent socialite.”
Maddie nodded. Although she had never met Caroline, Michael had talked about her incessantly.
“He caught her out with another man,” he continued. “They argued, and it’s believed that in a fit of jealousy, he shot her then turned the gun on himself.”
Maddie gasped. Caroline was dead, too! Killed by Michael? “That’s impossible!” she blurted out, glaring first at Alex Batiste, then at the older detective.
Fred Smith’s expression was grim. “I know this is a shock, but you have to understand—”
Maddie vehemently shook her head. “No! You have to understand.” She turned back to the New Orleans detective. “There is no way my brother would do such a thing. Michael loved Caroline and he would never hurt her or anyone else. He abhorred violence of any kind.”
She could tell from his patient, patronizing demeanor that what she was saying wasn’t making a dent in his thick head. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. Experience had taught her to never back down from cops. “My brother loved life. For years, he’s dreamed of running his own business, and just recently his dream came true. He became part owner of an antique store. He’s been happier in the past few months than I’ve ever known him to be. So why on earth would he kill himself when everything was finally going his way?
“There’s been a mistake made,” she continued. “You’ve made a mistake, and I’ll be damned if I let you smear my brother’s name like this.”
Alex Batiste held up his hands. “Whoa, now. Just hold on. The case hasn’t been closed yet, and I’m not saying that we don’t make mistakes, but there are witnesses.”
Maddie’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You mean there are people who actually saw this happen? And they just stood by and watched?”
“No, not exactly,” he hedged. “There are people who saw your brother and the woman arguing in a bar after he’d caught her dancing with another man. And later, when they were found, there was other conclusive evidence—the way their bodies were positioned, and the fact that the gun was still in your brother’s hand. Traces of powder burns were found on his hand, so it’s a sure bet that he fired the weapon, first killing her then turning the gun on himself.”
Maddie stared at the detective. Was it possible? she wondered, again recalling her brother’s frantic messages. Could Michael have been so distraught over Caroline that he…Was that why he had left those desperate messages? Had they been a cry for help?
Maddie pushed the traitorous thoughts out of her mind. There had to be another reason. “No, never!” Her voice rose. “I don’t care what you think you found or what the hell you concluded, you can just look again,” she cried. “I’m telling you, my brother wouldn’t do it. He just wouldn’t…” Her voice cracked and she suddenly realized that she was screaming at the man, the very same man who had tried to comfort her only minutes before.
She closed her eyes and reached up to rub her throbbing temples. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—it’s just that—”
“Don’t apologize,” he said gruffly. “You have every right to be upset.”
Maddie took a deep breath. No matter what anyone said, she would never believe that Michael was capable of murdering someone. As for the idea that he’d committed suicide, the whole thing was ludicrous.
Digging deep to find the strength she needed, she sat up straight. “I—I guess I need to make some arrangements—some funeral arrangements. Since my brother loved New Orleans, loved living there, I think that’s where he’d want to be buried.”
Alex Batiste nodded. “Is there someone I can call, a relative or friend who could come over and stay with you for a while?”
Maddie knew Tara would be glad to stay with her, but at the moment, she didn’t want to face anyone. All she wanted was to be left alone. “No,” she said quietly. “No family…There’s no one.”
With her admission, the older detective shifted uncomfortably and looked away, staring toward the window, but Alex Batiste kept his gaze steady, his face impassive, as if guessing that the last thing she wanted was pity.
“Do you intend to drive down or fly?” Alex asked.
Maddie didn’t have to think about her answer for long. As much as she hated flying, there was no way she was up to driving from Nashville to New Orleans. “Fly,” she answered.
“In that case,” he said evenly, “why don’t you let me take care of your flight reservations?” He paused for a moment then added, “If you can leave in the morning, I’ll try to get you on the same flight I’m taking. If you don’t hear from me later this evening, you’ll know I was able to get you a ticket.”
“Thank you.” Her voice trembled.
“The plane leaves at ten o’clock. I’ll pick you up around nine.”
Maddie nodded.
“Well…” Fred Smith cleared his throat. “If you’re sure there’s nothing more we can do for you, we’ll just move along. But we can stay for a while,” he quickly amended, “if you need us to…”
“No,” she said. “I don’t need anyone…to stay. I’ll be fine.”
When she attempted to stand, Alex Batiste placed a strong hand on her shoulder. “Don’t get up. We can let ourselves out.” He hesitated then added, “Like I said, if there’s a problem with the flight, I’ll give you a call.” Then in one fluid motion, he rose from the sofa and followed the other detective to the door.
FRED SMITH LET OUT a heavy sigh. “That poor woman.” He shook his head. “No husband, no family or friends, and now this mess about her brother.” He sighed again. “Sure feel sorry for her.”
When they were both inside his squad car, he turned to Alex. “You didn’t tell me it was a murder-suicide. You on the case?”
Alex shook hi
s head. “Nope. Just happened to be in town, extraditing a prisoner. Doing a favor for an old friend, who figured it would be better if the news came from someone officially from the department. Lucky me, huh?” he added sarcastically.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. You handled it good…real good,” he added.
Right, thought Alex sourly. Telling Madeline Johnson about her brother was one of the hardest things he’d had to do in a long time because it had brought back such painful memories of his own. He wasn’t sure he’d handled it well.
More so than most, he should have been able to truly sympathize with Madeline, since he could still vividly remember the effect that his own brother’s death had had on him…and on his father.
Strange, he thought, how one traumatic event could change a person’s whole life. It had certainly changed his.
“Guess we’d better get going.” Fred reached down to switch on the engine. “Where can I drop you?”
“That Holiday Inn a few blocks down is fine.”
“Do you need a ride to the airport in the morning?”
“No, thanks. I’ll take a taxi.”
During the short drive to the motel, Alex stared out of the front window and only half listened to Fred ramble on about a trip he and his wife had taken to New Orleans several years back. Occasionally, he threw in a grunt or nod at the appropriate time during the one-sided conversation, but his mind kept wandering back to Madeline and the knee-jerk reaction he’d had the moment he’d laid eyes on her…and was still having.
The woman seemed genuinely convinced that her brother was innocent. Yeah, he thought, shifting in his seat. Just like the others he’d dealt with over the years. The next of kin never wanted to believe the worst about their relatives.
So why was Madeline Johnson different? he wondered. Or more to the point, why was his gut reaction to her different?
It wasn’t only her good looks, he decided. All his instincts told him that there was a lot more to the lady than met the eye. Hell, she wasn’t even what he would classify as beautiful, although her red hair and huge blue eyes were an outstanding combination. And of course there was the bonus of a figure that wouldn’t quit. She was small, but not what he’d call petite. And when he’d picked her up and carried her to the sofa, the firmness of her body had surprised him.
Still, none of that had anything to do with his first reaction to her. He had seen and been involved with attractive women before now. So how come he was still sitting here, thinking about her and wondering if she could be right. Was it possible that a mistake had been made in the initial investigation?
Because the whole thing smells fishy, he thought, remembering how Jack Moore had screamed that he was under pressure to wrap up this particular case immediately. And according to Jack, the murder-suicide had happened only a couple of days ago. So why the hurry? Alex wondered.
Alex closed his eyes and sighed. There was no use in speculating, since all he knew was what Jack had told him over the phone. Besides, it wasn’t his case, so there was absolutely no reason for him to get further involved with it or Madeline Johnson.
Alex opened his eyes. So why in hell had he offered to make her a reservation on the same flight as his? He certainly had more pressing matters to keep him occupied. His upcoming, long-awaited leave, for one thing. And the prospect of spending it with his daughter, for another.
It was way past time that he took a firm hand in raising Carla. For years he’d tried to gain custody, and finally, the opportunity he’d been waiting for had come. His ex-wife had screwed up, and Alex intended to take full advantage as soon as he could get the legal ball rolling.
Just thinking about Joan had Alex clenching his fist. He’d loved her once with all of his being, and too late, he’d learned the truth. For her, he’d been a means to an end, a way of rebelling against her family and their control. In the end, Joan loved money and luxury more than she loved him. All her family had had to do was dangle a trust fund in front of her. Their money had won out…and he’d lost everything.
And now, if he believed everything that his ex-wife said—and he had learned not to—Carla had turned into a Jekyll and Hyde. But what kid didn’t when they were fifteen? For that matter, what female didn’t?
Careful, Batiste. Your cynicism is showing, a little voice in his head cautioned. Not all women are as self-serving as Joan. There have to be a few left who are different.
Instantly, a vivid image of a blue-eyed, red-haired woman popped into his head. Was Madeline Johnson different? he wondered.
AT FIRST, Maddie ignored the peal of the doorbell, just as she had ignored the ringing phone earlier, letting her machine pick up any messages. Now, if only the person with the heavy finger would just go away. But just as the ringing stopped, a pounding on the door began.
“Maddie! I know you’re in there, so open up.”
Maddie recognized the muffled voice.
Tara! They were supposed to have met for lunch.
Groaning, she pushed herself off the sofa. On legs that felt weighted in concrete, she made her way to the front door and pulled it open.
“What happened to you?” Tara burst out. “We were supposed to—my God, what’s wrong?”
Maddie backed up and motioned for Tara to come inside. “I’ve had some bad news,” she said, closing the door behind her friend. “It’s—” She swallowed in an attempt to ease the tightness at the back of her throat. “Michael’s dead,” she finally said in a choked voice.
“What?” Tara grabbed her shoulders. “When? How?”
Maddie shook her head as a fresh batch of tears filled her eyes.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Tara ushered her back to the sofa. “Here, you sit down and just take your time. I’m calling work to let them know I won’t be in this afternoon, then I’ll fix you something to drink.”
“That’s not necessary,” Maddie protested. “I—I mean there’s no reason you have to miss work.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to leave you alone.”
During the afternoon, with Tara’s gentle encouragement, Maddie was finally able to talk about her brother’s death.
“None of it makes sense to me,” she said. “I know my brother, and he wasn’t capable of what they’ve accused him of doing. Besides, he loved Caroline. He’d have sooner cut off his arm than hurt her.”
“People do change, Maddie. And it’s been a while since you saw him.”
Maddie shook her head. “Not Michael. He hated violence, and he’d never change that way, not after what he went through as a kid—what we both—” Maddie lowered her gaze to stare at the carpet.
She felt Tara’s hand cover hers and squeeze.
“Just what did happen to you and your brother when you were kids? You skate around it every time the topic comes up. Maybe it would help to talk about it.”
“I don’t talk about it because it’s not something that people like you can understand.”
“People like me?”
Maddie glanced up. A twinge of remorse shot through her when she saw the injured look on her friend’s face. “Oh, Tara, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound like an insult. It’s just that…that—” Not knowing what else she could say she shrugged.
Tara’s expression softened. “Look, friend—and I don’t use the term loosely—how do you know I won’t understand unless you try me? And even if I don’t, so what? I’m still willing to listen if it will help you get through this.”
Maddie felt the tears threatening again. She lowered her gaze and took a deep breath. “I’ve already told you that my father died when we were young, and my mother—rest her soul—did the best she could, but she was uneducated and unskilled. She worked at two menial part-time jobs just to keep a roof over our heads, so you can imagine the kind of house and neighborhood she could afford in a city the size of Chicago.
“Everyone who lived there made below poverty income…it was a hotbed for drugs and crime,” Maddie continued. “Even back t
hen, drive-by shootings, robberies and gang fights were an everyday occurrence.
“But Michael and I were pretty lucky…until one night about a month or so before our mother died—” She broke off and frowned in thought. “I was seventeen, so that made Michael about thirteen.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even after so many years, it was still hard to talk about that night. Just thinking about it made her break out in a cold sweat.
Maddie cleared her throat and stared at her hands clenched together in her lap. “It was around midnight and Michael and I had already gone to bed.” She shook her head. “The police said that the man had come through the window—my bedroom window. I still can’t believe I didn’t hear him. But when I did wake up, he was standing over my bed. I got out one good scream before he attacked me.”
Tara’s gasp of horror went unnoticed by Maddle. She could still feel the man on top of her, crushing her. And even though she had fought, the man’s strength had been overpowering. A shiver of revulsion swept through her. “One minute he—he was ripping at my clothes and the next, he sort of stiffened and fell backward.” Maddie shivered again. “It was then that I heard Michael crying and realized that he had saved me.”
Maddie’s voice grew softer with the memory. “Michael had heard the commotion, and even though he was terrified, he’d grabbed his baseball bat and bashed the creep in the head.” Maddie looked up at her friend. “Fortunately for me—not so fortunately for Michael—that one blow had caught the man on the side of the head, right on the temple and knocked him out. We didn’t learn until later that he’d hemorrhaged to death on the way to the hospital.”
“Oh, my God,” Tara cried.
Seeing the shocked expression on her friend’s face, Maddie was once again reminded of the gulf between her childhood and Tara’s, between the life she led now and the one she had left behind in the projects. “Yeah, well…” She glanced away. “My brother never quite got over what he’d done,” she continued. “Once the news got around that the dead man was a serial rapist who had been terrorizing the neighborhood, the kids began calling Michael the home-run killer. It upset him so much, he refused to leave the house even to go to school.”