She couldn't tell them about her and Marc. Not by herself. No one would believe her.
"Pretty little thing," one of the cops standing outside the car said to another as they both stared at her. "Too young to be the wife—girlfriend, maybe?"
She blocked out the voices and concentrated on what had happened. She remembered walking upstairs, smelling that terrible odor, finding Marc dead. Someone had hit her, then pain, falling, blackness. She'd woken up next to Marc's body, flames all around her. She'd tried to drag him first, but he was too heavy, and the fire was burning out of control. She'd gotten to a window, but she couldn't pry away the boards over it, and then she had groped her way downstairs. The dense, oily smoke and the heat had made it impossible to see the way out. She'd nearly lost consciousness again.
I could have died in there. Right next to Marc.
The rest of her memory was patchy—she'd been so frightened. The last things that had registered were the terrifying sound of the ceiling falling in, and the strong grip of the firefighter who had hauled her out of there.
Oh, thank God, help me—
Are you hurt?
Sable looked down at herself. Marc's blood was all over her blouse and jacket. It was dried and flaking on her skin; it was under her fingernails. For a moment her head swam, and she thought she might have to throw up.
"Ma'am?" One of the patrolmen looked in on her, his expression concerned. "You want me to get Lieutenant Gamble?"
"No, thank you." She took a deep breath and willed her voice to remain steady. "I'm fine."
She wasn't fine. Seeing Jean-Delano had been as much a shock as finding Marc dead. But he wasn't her Jean-Delano anymore; he was Lieutenant J. D. Gamble, a homicide detective. One of the cops had told her that after Jean-Del had left her to go and see Marc's body. Not that it mattered. He could have been mayor of New Orleans and it wouldn't have made a difference. Jean-Del was part of the past, a relic, someone she'd turned her back on and forgotten.
And still the shock of seeing him kept smashing over her, as hard and merciless as the blow that had knocked her unconscious.
Jean-Del, here. Jean-Del, a cop. She hadn't given anyone her name. How did he know I was here?
The tall, lanky brunette who had been speaking to J. D. a few yards from the car climbed in the front and looked back over the bench seat. She had a clever, narrow face, shrewd, gray green eyes, and oddly beautiful hands, like an artist's. "I'm Sergeant Vincent. How are you holding up?"
The cool voice slapped Sable out of her daze, but she didn't blink, didn't react. She had spent years learning how to hide behind her own face, and now it was time to take cover. "I'm okay."
"Good. I'd like to ask you some questions, if you feel up to it?" When she nodded, Sergeant Vincent took out a notebook. "What's your full name, ma'am?"
"Isabel Marie Duchesne."
She wrote that down. "Isabel, what's your home address?"
Sable thought of her father, and how he would react to the news that she'd nearly been killed in a fire. She couldn't allow them to contact Remy "I don't have one."
The cop's dark eyebrows arched. "You're homeless?"
What would be a reasonable excuse? She remembered the paper she'd left lying on the front seat of her car, folded out to the classified section. "I'm looking for an apartment at the moment." That was part of the truth. She had never been a very convincing liar, even under the best of circumstances.
"You weren't looking for an apartment in this part of town, though. Why did you come here this morning, Ms. Duchesne?"
"I'm also looking for office space."
The brunette tapped her pencil against the notebook for a moment. "Why don't you tell me what happened, starting from the time you arrived?"
Something made Sable's hands sting as she grabbed the edge of the seat. No one knows about us. Carefully she eased her fingers off the vinyl-covered cushion and put her hands in her lap. She had to stay calm, keep her head straight. She didn't have to talk about Marc. All she had to do was give a statement to the police.
But J. D. is the police, a snide little voice inside her head reminded her. And your track record with him sucks.
The woman cop was waiting for her to say something. "I can't remember much."
Sergeant Vincent regarded her for a long moment. "You have amnesia?"
Sable stared back at her, unable to tell if she was joking or serious. "It's just... things are a little fuzzy."
"Are they?" Sergeant Vincent glanced down and frowned. "What did you do to your hands?"
Sable examined her palms, both of which had some long, dark splinters embedded in the flesh above each wrist. For the life of her, she didn't know how they had gotten there. "I don't know."
Without warning, Jean-Delano slid in behind the wheel and slammed his door, making Sable jump.
Not Jean-Delano. J. D. Lieutenant Gamble. Have to remember that.
He had changed over the years. His hair was shorter, clipped close to his head on the sides, probably to keep it from curling. There were a few silver strands at his temples. He wasn't as lean as he'd been in college; his shoulders seemed wider, his chest deeper. A thin scar flagged one of his cheekbones and, along with the lines etching his temples, made him appear tougher, harder.
"We'll do this at the station." J. D. started the engine and looked at the brunette. "You ready to go?"
The way Sable's heart skipped at the sound of his voice annoyed her. Forget about his voice, his face. He's just a cop.
"Yeah." Sergeant Vincent flipped the notepad closed as J. D. shifted into drive and pulled out from the curb. "In a hurry, are we?" He didn't answer her, and she clipped on her seat belt. "Ho. Kay."
Sable dragged her thoughts away from J. D. and concentrated on what she had to do first. Remy—the news of what had happened would be too much of a shock. Her father was on heart medication now, and his doctor had warned her about the dangers of any additional stress. That meant keeping him away from the city and out of this. "I have to get to a phone as soon as possible."
"No problem, Ms. Duchesne." J. D.'s partner lit a cigarette. "You can make your call from the station."
J. D.'s gaze met hers in the rearview mirror for a moment. That was one thing that hadn't changed—the startling blue of his eyes. They went dark when he was angry, and right now they looked as black as the depths of hell.
I'm not letting him take me there again.
Terri Vincent loved being a cop, but she wasn't too crazy about the paperwork.
As J. D. drove them back to headquarters, she made a mental list of the reports and the forms she would have to fill out. There were a lot. Finding a dead body at the scene of an arson was serious business.
The New Orleans Police Department had relocated the year before into the new, state-of-the-art facility built for them by the city as part of an ongoing campaign to improve local law enforcement. The new headquarters housed everything required for the day-to-day control of the eight police districts under NOPD command, along with computerized infrastructures that automated everything from ballistics identification to evidence tracking. Community policing and investigation units were integrated with special teams to coordinate local, state, and federal investigations, as well as supervise major annual events like Mardi Gras and the Sugar Bowl.
Yet as with most metropolitan law enforcement agencies, it already looked like the force had been entrenched in the new building for decades. Overcrowded work space, rows of dilapidated filing cabinets, and endless stacks of paperwork formed a labyrinth on every floor. The new computer systems took up precious space and generated reams of reports to add to the clutter.
Terri noticed a group of college students sitting quiet and sullen on the hard wooden benches in front of the big desk that was the first stop on their way to processing. Someone's Mardi Gras party had gotten out of hand, judging from the bruised, sweaty faces and the plastic barf bags the desk sergeant had distributed.
J. D. walked their wit
ness straight past check-in and went for the elevator. Terri stayed behind long enough to send a couple of uniforms to Marc LeClare's house, to collect the widow and bring her down to the morgue to confirm the ID.
"You going to call your dad?" Terri said as she caught up, grabbing the elevator door before it closed.
"Later." He punched the second-floor button.
She didn't like the expression on her partner's face. It was starting to look permanent. "You want to do the prelim report first?" She was hopeful; J. D. was a much better typist than she was—plus their witness probably needed a few minutes to compose herself.
"No." When the doors opened, J. D. steered Sable to the left, toward the corridor of interrogation rooms, offices, and cubicles that made up the Division of Homicide.
So he wanted to get right to the interview. Not a bad idea, considering the feeding frenzy the press would descend to as soon as they heard Marc LeClare was dead. "Want to run this by the captain first, in case this turns out to be a murder?"
J. D. paused, long enough to make Terri realize something was definitely wrong.
"No." He went toward the first available room.
She'd known something was up, back in the Quarter, but J. D. was too good a cop to ignore procedure. She caught his arm. "Hey. Why don't we ask Hazenel and Garcia to take this one? I got that vacation time coming up, and they still owe us for catching that leather-bar shooting last month."
He didn't bat an eyelash. "No."
Sable watched their exchange, tensed but silent.
Terri swung a hand toward the room. "Go in and sit down, Ms. Duchesne. We'll be with you in a minute." As soon as the witness had crossed the threshold, Terri shut the door and got between it and her partner. "You want to tell me exactly what is going on here?"
"I know her."
"Oh, yeah, I figured out that much. Who is she?"
"Someone I knew back in college." He stared through the frosted glass panel, his dark eyes tracking the movements of Sable's shadow.
Terri took out a cigarette, and then remembered that the building had a strict no-smoking policy and scowled. "Okay. Here's the deal: The victim was your father's best friend, and you went to school with the only witness we've got. That spells conflict of interest in large capital letters underlined three times." When he didn't respond to the joke, she got serious. "We have to give it over to Hazenel and Garcia. Let them handle it."
"No."
"She's young and beautiful; Marc LeClare was old and rich. Doesn't take a genius to figure out that equation—are you listening to me?" She prodded his chest with a finger. "You cannot screw around with this girl, J. D. The captain will have your testicles for breakfast."
"I'm not screwing—" A passing detective gave them a curious look, so J. D. leaned in and lowered his voice. "I'm not screwing her, and she wasn't screwing Marc."
"And you know this how? Through your secret psychic powers?" Terri sighed. "Jesus, for all we know, she could have done LeClare and set fire to the place."
"Before or after she conked herself in the head?"
She shrugged. "Maybe trying to find parking pissed her off. I've been tempted to slam my head into the windshield a few times, looking for a space."
He didn't laugh, the way he normally would. "Someone tried to kill her, Ter. I'm not letting her out of my sight. Got it?"
She'd never seen him like this. Not even around Cort when both of them were having a crappy day. "Sure. I got it." She stepped to the side and swung a hand at the door. "But I'm doing the interview with you."
He dragged a hand through his short black hair, spiking it. "Terri—"
"Don't even go there, J. D." If he was going to make a damn fool of himself, she'd be there to cover his ass. "I don't care how cozy you two were back at Tulane. She's a witness to an arson and possibly the murder of our future governor. Her face will be on the front page of every newspaper in the state by morning. You want to be listed as the detective in charge of the case, or the embittered ex-boyfriend?"
He grabbed the knob and nearly yanked the door off its hinges. "I question her."
"Knock yourself out, pal." Terri stalked past him.
Chapter Two
Their witness had seated herself at the conference table inside the interview room. It felt a little stuffy, so Terri opened a window before asking Sable if she wanted anything to drink.
"May I have some water, please?" Her voice sounded raspy and strained, but that might have been from the smoke.
As Terri got a cup from the cooler and filled it, she kept an eye on her partner. J. D.'s usual method with witnesses was to sit down, put them at ease, and charm all the details out of them. He was good at it, too. Her partner never had a problem making anyone feel as if they could tell him anything. She'd probably told him way too much about herself over the years.
Not this time, though. J. D. didn't open the interview by consoling the victim, didn't establish rapport, didn't do anything the way he usually did. He didn't even sit down, but slowly walked the length of the room, watching Sable with the single-minded intensity of a starved junkyard dog presented with a wounded rabbit.
Or a rejected lover, looking for a little revenge.
It didn't make sense to Terri. Sable Duchesne was a very pretty woman, but hardly J. D.'s type. He stuck to high-maintenance Garden District debutantes who never wore white after Labor Day and had their names plastered all over the society pages. Lately he'd been spending a lot of time with one particularly obnoxious Creole debutante, Moriah Navarre, and if his mama had her way, he would be married to her as soon as possible.
Marc LeClare's death would definitely upset J. D.'s father, and possibly put Elizabet Gamble's wedding plans on the back burner. That worked for Terri—any excuse to keep from shopping for a dress was okay by her, and she'd never been too crazy about the idea of J. D. marrying The Deb.
"Here you go." She handed Sable the water, and noticed the wounds on her palms again when she accepted the cup. "You sure you don't remember how you got those splinters, Ms. Duchesne?"
Sable examined her hands. "I think I tried to get out through a window."
As Terri sat down, J. D. came to stand over Sable, not touching her but getting a little too close. The witness ignored him completely.
Terri cleared her throat and gave her partner a direct look. Get on with it, she mouthed.
"Are you living in New Orleans now?" he asked.
Sable drank some of the water before she answered. "No."
He circled around her chair, as if trying to draw her attention to him. "Why were you at that warehouse this morning?"
"I was looking at it as office space." She stared down at the cup. "I think I should speak to an attorney."
"You'll speak to me now," J. D. told her.
After a minute of silence, Terri decided to give her a gentle prod. "Ms. Duchesne, you're not being charged with anything. We only want to know what happened."
Sable's shoulders hunched. "I don't remember much." She sounded scared and defensive.
Now J. D. will play her. Terri had seen him soothe any number of other shaken witnesses, reassuring them while coaxing the information from them.
J. D. clamped one hand on the back of Sable's chair and grabbed the hair at the back of her head. "Who hit you?"
"J. D." Alarmed, Terri got to her feet.
He didn't pull Sable's hair, but pushed it out of the way and examined her scalp. There was a large swollen knot under her hair. "Did you see who did this?"
Dark red hair flew as Sable jerked her head to one side, away from his touch. "No. I didn't see anyone."
"Bullshit." He jerked her chair around so that she was facing him. "What happened in that warehouse? Who hit you? Answer me."
"I don't know." Sable turned her head to look at Terri, anger glittering in her eyes. "You said I could make a phone call. I want to make it now, please."
"J. D.," Terri repeated, with a warning note this time. "You can make your call
in a minute, Ms. Duchesne."
Her partner used his hand to grab Sable's jaw and turn her face back toward his. "Where did all this blood come from? How did you know Marc LeClare? Why were you there? Who set the fire? Did you see who hit you?"
They were almost close enough to be kissing, Terri thought, but J. D.'s voice hovered just below a shout.
"I don't remember." Sable had her hands folded in her lap, so tightly that all her tendons stood out like cables ready to snap. "Get your hands off me."
Terri suppressed a sigh. "I think we need a break. J. D.?"
He ignored her and clamped his other hand around the base of Sable's throat. "Vous me répondrez!"
"Je ne peux pas vous aider," she hissed back. "Laissez-moi seule."
Terri knew a lot more about Sable Duchesne then, and it only added to the problem. Since her partner wasn't hearing a word she said, she went around the table and kicked him in the shin. "Hey. Back off."
He straightened and let his hands fall away. Under his jacket, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched. "I'm not going to hurt her."
"I don't care." She pointed to the door. "Take a walk—cool off. Do a few laps around the building. Now."
J. D. gave Sable one last look, then left.
Terri's partner simply didn't lose his temper. Ever. Seeing it happen scared her, enough to make her drop her own guard for a moment. "What is it with you two?"
Sable averted her dark brown eyes, but not before Terri saw a suspicious shimmer. "Nothing."
Terri swore under her breath. "Here." She found a box of tissues, and put it down on the table. "You'd better pull yourself together, lady. That dead man was going to be our next governor. You are in for a full course of trouble, and J. D. is only the appetizer."
Sable lifted her chin. "I'm not afraid of J. D."
"Yeah?" Slipping easily into the patois of her youth, Terri added, "You think again. This ain't no chinka-chinka dance, chère." She nodded as their witness gave her a shocked look. "That's right. You ain't on the bayou listening to no Dutch nightingales now. This for real bad—you think about that, eh?"
Hall, Jessica Page 3