by Anne Logan
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Alex paused by his dresser before he left for work. The key was still there taunting him, reminding him of Maddie and her theory, as it had during the restless night he’d spent tossing and turning in bed. At midnight he had finally given up trying to sleep and had taken a drive in hopes that the night air and change of scenery would help clear his mind.
Before he had realized what he was doing, he’d found himself slowly cruising down the street where Michael Johnson’s apartment was located. At the time, he had excused his actions by telling himself that he was just checking out the neighborhood because of the recent break-ins that he and Casey had been investigating. Later, when he was once again home in bed, he had finally admitted that he’d been worried about Maddie all along, and the only reason he hadn’t knocked on her door was that there were no lights on.
And he was still concerned. Would she decide to go back to Nashville, or would she stay and try to keep the promise she’d made? And why did the thought of saying goodbye to her, of never seeing her again, leave him feeling empty?
Still glaring at the key, Alex finally slid it off the dresser. “Okay, okay, I surrender,” he muttered, slipping it into his pocket.
With the key burning a hole in his pocket and thoughts of Maddie burning his mind, Alex fought the downtown traffic.
ACROSS TOWN, Maddie stared at the telephone. The man on the other end of the line had introduced himself as Jean Claude Dureaux, Michael’s attorney. He had apologized for not attending the funeral—he’d had to go out of town on business. He wanted to meet with her that afternoon to discuss Michael’s will.
Covering a yawn, Maddie strolled into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Minutes later, she poured herself a steaming cup, walked over to the double French doors, opened them and stepped out onto the balcony. Settling in one of the wicker chairs, she tried to recall if her brother had ever mentioned having a will or an attorney, but her thoughts soon turned to Alex and the sleepless night she’d had because of their last conversation.
Alex Batiste was a puzzle. Most of the time he was so serious and insular, she thought, yet there had been moments she’d seen glimpses of another man, one who was protective and sensitive. Did his dual personality have something to do with his ex-wife?
Not even a long soak in a hot bath had helped dispel the memory of the bitterness he’d displayed when he’d mentioned his ex-wife and her family, and it had been almost dawn when she had finally dozed off, only to be rudely awakened midmorning by the ringing of the telephone.
A cool morning breeze was blowing and pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks below seemed to increase with each passing minute. Maddie soon found herself absorbed in people watching.
Out of the mélange, directly below her, she caught sight of a man who seemed vaguely familiar crossing the street. At that moment, he glanced up, and Maddie recognized him as Sid Thomas, the neighbor from the apartment downstairs who had attended her brother’s funeral.
“If you’ve got an extra cup of coffee, I’ll share,” he called out, holding up a small white sack. “Freshly baked cinnamon rolls, hot out of the oven.”
Maddie smiled. There was something charming about the elderly man. She had wondered just how well he knew her brother and had hoped she would have the opportunity to talk to him again.
Maddie didn’t hesitate. “Sure, come on up. I could use some company. And a bite to eat,” she added in a teasing voice.
Neither Maddie nor Sid Thomas noticed a thin, gaunt man watching their brief exchange. The man smiled, satisfied. He’d deliberately chosen to wear faded jeans and a sweatshirt instead of his customary black clothes so as not to draw attention to himself.
As he continued to look up at the balcony, he saw the old man join the woman. She was laughing at something the old man said as he handed her what looked like pastry from the white bag he was carrying.
Probably some flaky croissants, the watcher thought, his mouth watering. He should have made his move on the woman last night as he’d intended to do. If he had, he could be at his apartment now, enjoying breakfast instead of standing here hungry, watching others eat.
He’d been all set the night before, and had waited patiently until midnight, until he was sure the woman would be asleep. He didn’t want to chance her sounding the alarm before he could get to her. But just as he was ready to climb up the balcony, a car had driven by slowly, a car he had recognized as belonging to the man he’d seen her leave with after the funeral.
Although he couldn’t be sure, he suspected the man was a cop. The thought of getting caught and being sent back to prison had unnerved him more than he’d expected, so much so that he’d decided to abandon his attempts for the moment and wait.
Tonight would be even better, though, he thought. Afterward, he’d show up at the midnight ceremony and announce that he’d successfully completed his mission. He’d be a hero, a legend, a priest almost as powerful and important as the Grand Disciple himself.
JEAN CLAUDE DUREAUX’S office was on the seventeenth floor of a high rise on Poydras Street. Maddie didn’t have long to wait in the reception area before she was ushered into the attorney’s plush office. Seated at a sprawling mahogany desk, he looked up when she entered the room then stood and came around the desk to greet her.
“Ms. Johnson, I’m glad you could make it on such short notice,” he said. And though there was a touch of sincerity in his voice and his handshake was warm, Maddie immediately sensed a certain aloofness about the strikingly handsome man, a calm but ruthless professionalism that probably made him a formidable opponent in a courtroom.
He motioned toward one of two brown leather Chippendale chairs positioned opposite his desk. “Before we begin, could I offer you coffee or tea?”
“No, thank you,” she said as she walked to the chair and sat.
Returning to his desk, he opened a file folder. “Again, let me express my condolences. I didn’t know your brother well, but from the few times we met, I liked him immensely.”
“I appreciate your saying so,” Maddie murmured.
“Well, then, shall we get started?”
Maddie nodded, and during the following fifteen minutes she listened as the attorney read Michael’s will. When he’d finished, she sat stunned as she tned to absorb everything.
“Do you have any questions?”
Maddie stared at the attorney, her mind still reeling. Since she was her brother’s only living relative, it had come as no surprise that he had left her everything he owned. It was the size and value of the inheritance that had completely thrown her off-balance. Along with a healthy bank account, Michael had willed her his half of Crescent Antiques. And the lease on his French Quarter apartment was paid up until the end of the year.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, truly perplexed.
The attorney frowned. “It’s all pretty straightforward. What in particular bothers you?”
Everything, she answered silently, wondering how Michael had acquired so much in so little time. But she decided against voicing that question, since there was a good chance that the attorney wouldn’t have the answer even if she asked. Still, she was curious about just how much the attorney did know about her brother’s affairs.
“Did my brother use your services when he bought into Crescent Antiques?”
He nodded. “Actually, it was Caroline who recommended my firm to Michael. Our families have been friends since we were children, and I handled the transaction for her and your brother.”
Maddie felt her insides quiver with more confusion. Nothing in the attorney’s tone or manner had even hinted at any lingering hostility toward her or her brother, but how could that be if he and the St. Pierres were old friends, and her brother stood accused of murdering Caroline? Surely professionalism had its limits. But Maddie didn’t take time to analyze the matter as something the attorney had said finally clicked in her mind. “You said, ’for her’? What did Caroline have to do with the transaction?�
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“Caroline helped finance Michael’s investment.”
“As a loan?”
“No, not exactly. As I understand, it was more like a gift. I remember her laughing and referring to it as an advance dowry. I believe it was money from a trust fund set up by her grandmother.” He paused for a second. “It’s all free and clear if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Still overwhelmed, all Maddie could do was continue to stare at him. Then he gave her a level look.
“And while we’re on the subject, I want you to know that I don’t believe for a second that Michael was capable of doing what they say he did.”
“Thank you,” Maddie said softly. “I don’t, either, but I’m not sure how to prove it since the police have closed the case.”
“Um…I hadn’t realized that they would close the case so soon. I know they’re overworked and understaffed, but that’s no excuse for—” He paused as if thinking better of what he was about to say.’ ‘Sorry. I tend to get a bit hostile whenever the subject of our illustrious police department comes up. Don’t get me wrong, there are some fine, dedicated men and women who work hard, but as the old saying goes, a few rotten apples can spoil the whole barrel. Anyway, enough of that. There’s another matter that I need to discuss with you. It concerns your brother’s partner, Bernie Keller.”
Maddie stared at the attorney. What could Bernie Keller want from her?
“He wants to buy out your half of the antique store,” Dureaux explained. “According to the appraisal I secured, his offer is more than generous.”
The fact that Keller had made the offer so quickly— the day after she had buried her brother—confirmed Maddie’s opinion of the man. No wonder he’d been so revoltingly solicitous the day before, she thought. He wanted her half of the store. Indignation rose within her like hot lava.
Jean Claude Dureaux held out a piece of paper. “If you’d like to look over the figures—”
Maddie firmly shook her head. Except for the few antiques she had collected over the years, she knew next to nothing about running an antique store or any other kind of store, for that matter, but her lack of knowledge seemed suddenly unimportant. “You can tell Mr. Keller for me that I don’t wish to sell—not now,” she amended in an attempt to stem her temper. “I need time to think, and just between you and me, I really don’t appreciate his—his—”
“Tackiness?”
The tongue-in-cheek way the attorney said the word instantly defused Maddie’s escalating temper, and a smile pulled at her lips.
“Exactly,” she said.
ACROSS TOWN, Alex glanced at his watch as he pulled into a parking space at Joan’s apartment complex. He’d wanted to spend some time tracking down the leads that his colleague, Detective Tom Langley, had given him about the key. Casey had suggested that Langley might be able to help. The officer had attended a conference on locks and safes. Then Alex, who’d gone into the office to catch up on paperwork, had been waylaid by Jack Moore who’d insisted on treating Alex to lunch. Not wanting to alienate his friend further, Alex had accepted the invitation although he would have preferred to continue his conversation with Casey. Casey had been asking around about the Michael Johnson case and almost without exception, everyone had told him to talk to Jack. Alex had not brought up the subject at lunch; he wanted to get more details from Casey first. He shook his head. It was time to think about Carla. He pushed the doorbell.
Several seconds passed, and still there was no movement from inside the apartment. He jabbed at the doorbell again, then hands on his hips, he stared up at the ceiling and tapped out an impatient rhythm with the toe of his shoe.
Where were they? he wondered. Growing more irritated by the second, he rapped loudly on the door, but the only sound he heard was the click of a lock from behind him.
Alex turned, and across the wide hallway, a door opened only as far as the inside security chain allowed.
“If you don’t stop making all that racket, I’m phoning the police,” a woman’s voice called out.
Alex reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge. “I am the police,” he said.
The face of an elderly woman suddenly peeked out, and Alex held up his badge. “Well, no one’s home,” she said. “They left a couple of days ago. Heard the woman saying they were going on a cruise.”
For a terrifying second, Alex wondered if Joan had taken Carla without telling him, but since he couldn’t imagine his ex-wife doing such a thing, the horrible thought struck him that maybe he’d gotten the days mixed up. He’d been sure they were leaving tomorrow.
He fumbled inside his pocket, pulled out the notepad he always carried, flipped back several pages and found what he was looking for. A flash of anger shot through him as he stuffed the small book back inside his pocket. He had the right date—it was plainly written in the notepad—but evidently Joan had decided to leave early without bothering to tell him. So where the hell was Carla?
“There’s a young girl—a teenager—who lives here, too. Do you—”
“She left, too,” the old woman interrupted, her tone sharp and impatient. “Took off right after the woman and the man left, and haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since.”
Alex was becoming anxious. “Do you happen to know where she went?”
“Who can tell these days about teenagers? Maybe she went to stay with one of those other hooligans that hang out around here. Lord knows, there’s enough of them, coming and going at all hours of the night,” she muttered. “Making all kinds of racket.”
So why hadn’t Carla called him? he wondered. Alex felt his temper rising, but quickly reined it in. Losing his temper wouldn’t find his daughter, he reasoned. If he kept his cool and used some common sense, he was sure he could figure out what had happened.
Joan had probably left it up to Carla to call him about the change of plans. And being a typical teenager, Carla had decided to seize the opportunity to do as she pleased.
Alex felt his knees grow weak just thinking about his daughter being on her own for two days. She was only fifteen and while she might think she could take care of herself, a young girl had no business roaming around New Orleans unsupervised.
“Where’s the manager’s office?” he asked the old woman.
“Room one-twelve,” she snapped, and before he had time to thank her, she shut the door with a firm click.
Ten minutes later, Alex was back with the key to Joan’s apartment. The manager had refused at first, but having a badge had its advantages, and where his daughter was concerned, Alex wasn’t above using it to get what he wanted.
Once inside, he glanced around out of habit. When he’d made his impromptu visit on Tuesday, he hadn’t gone inside, but he wasn’t surprised to find that Joan had redecorated again. His ex changed decor almost as often as the seasons changed.
This time she had chosen stark, modernistic furniture. A white leather sofa with matching chairs and ottomans sat on an Oriental rug that he figured was worth at least two months of his salary. The walls were covered with impressionist paintings that he suspected were originals. The way they were artfully arranged reminded him of one of the galleries on Royal Street in the French Quarter.
“Better his money than mine,” Alex murmured, thinking of the wealthy neurosurgeon his ex-wife had married.
Alex headed down a hallway where he hoped to find Carla’s room. After inspecting three bedrooms that could have been featured in Southern Living Magazine, and finding nothing to indicate that his daughter occupied any of them, he opened the door to the fourth one.
The first thing that registered was the heavy, pungent odor he recognized as incense. It seemed to hang in the air of the dimly lit room like an invisible shroud. Alex flipped on the light switch, and for minutes all he could do was stare.
A black sheet was draped over the window, and every available inch of the walls was covered in posters. Alex didn’t know a whole lot about music, but the images on the posters seemed t
o suggest that his daughter’s tastes now ran from hard-rock groups to country-western with a few jazz and classical groups thrown in for good measure.
Various articles of clothing were strewn everywhere, competing for space with stacks of papers and books. There were dirty plates and glasses on the dresser, on the floor and even on top of the unmade bed. The only relatively clean area was the corner where Carla’s electronic keyboard sat on its stand. Propped against the keyboard was her guitar.
As he ventured farther into the mess, any hopes he’d had of finding a clue to his daughter’s whereabouts dimmed considerably, and scores of unsolved cases involving missing teenagers flashed through his head. Stooping, he reached out with a trembling hand to sift through a stack of papers. The thought that his daughter might end up as another statistic twisted his gut like nothing he’d ever experienced.
It came as no surprise that most of the stacks of papers were music scores. Since Carla had been old enough to read music, she’d been composing.
After fifteen minutes of futile searching, Alex frowned thoughtfully when he uncovered a pile of campaign flyers for Ross Shaw. Why would Carla have Ross Shaw flyers? he wondered.
Just as he reached for one of them, a prickly feeling danced down his neck. Alex whirled and froze.
CHAPTER SEVEN
STANDING IN the doorway with her shoulder-length, dark hair frizzed as if she’d stuck her finger in an electrical outlet, and dressed in a down-to-the-thigh black blouse that topped black tights, was what appeared to be his daughter.
“Daddy! What are you doing!” She flounced into the room and dropped a knapsack—which Alex noted was also black—onto the floor.
With the exception of her black, lace-up combat boots, Carla looked like some kind of ghoul, straight off the set of a horror movie, but Alex swallowed the instant criticism that had already formed on his tongue. “I came to get you,” he said instead. “I—”
“That doesn’t give you the right to go snooping through my stuff.”