A kind hand touched her shoulder. "Why don't we go on into the kitchen?" Louie Gamble murmured. "Give the ladies some time to talk."
Moriah nodded and followed Elizabet's husband out of the parlor and down the hall to the darkened kitchen. Laure had sent the horrified servants home earlier, but the cook had left out gourmet cold meats, cheeses, and sliced breads on one of the counters. Take out containers from Krewe of Louis stood in neat stacks beside the sandwich platters.
Funeral food, Moriah's mother called it. People like to have something to nibble on when someone dies. Makes them feel better.
Her stomach clenched tighter as she looked away from the expensive spread. "I don't think I can eat anything, Louie."
"You sit down." He guided her to a chair, then took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Unlike his sons, Louie Gamble was a short, stocky man who paid no attention to his own receding silver hair and the extra pounds he carried. He went through the cabinets with the confidence of a man who had spent most of his adult life in a kitchen, and in a few minutes had a pot of hot tea and some shortbread on the table.
Moriah accepted the tea he poured for her and tried to summon a grateful smile. She felt cold, so cold that it wouldn't have surprised her to see frost form over the steaming cup between her palms. "Thank you."
When she didn't add anything to the brew, he reached across and put two spoons of sugar in her cup. "It'll help," he assured her, stirring it in. "You feel like talking about what happened down at the police station?"
Politely she took a sip of the too-sweet tea. "They wanted to get a statement or something, but Laure was too upset to talk to anyone. There were reporters all over the place. They went crazy when they saw that girl."
Seeing Sable had shocked her, but not as much as seeing J. D. with his arm around her. For a moment she felt as if they had all been transported back in time to that night of the dance, only J. D. was there and saw what Moriah and the others had done.
Does she remember me? What if she tells him?
"I expect they'll send someone to the house to talk with Laure tomorrow." Louie rubbed his forehead. "Can you stay with her, honey?"
"Of course." No matter how she felt, there was no question of her leaving the poor woman alone. "I'll take care of her, and I'm sure my mother can come over in the morning." Her hands started trembling again, and she set down the cup quickly.
He watched her hands. "I could ask Eliza to stay with you."
"No, we'll be fine." She met his kind gaze. "Louie, do you remember Sable Duchesne?"
"Of course I do." He thought for a minute. "You knew her, too, didn't you? Back at Tulane?"
What would he say if she told him that she and her friends had tortured the girl?
"I remember her dating J. D.," Moriah said, keeping her expression blank. "I think they broke up right before he graduated." Thanks to what we did. "I didn't know her very well."
"She was a sweet girl. Odd that Marc never mentioned her to me." Louie took a piece of shortbread and absently crumbled it over his napkin. "J. D. will look after her."
Moriah hadn't given J. D. a single thought since Laure had called her from the police station. When the desk sergeant had told Moriah he'd be the detective handling the case, she had still been too shocked about Marc's death to register it. The disbelief and misery inside her gave way to new humiliation and anger. J. D. had been questioning Sable Duchesne when Moriah went to meet him for lunch. Terri Vincent must have known about that, and yet she hadn't breathed a word to her.
J. D. had never looked twice at Moriah when he'd been dating Sable in college. He'd been crazy in love with the Cajun girl, and everyone had known it. Especially Moriah.
Her only thoughts had been of poor Laure, until she'd seen J. D. and Sable come out of the elevator. She'd seen the way J. D. had looked at her.
That was mainly why Moriah hadn't been thinking about him. J. D. had never looked at her like that.
Elizabet Gamble quietly entered the kitchen. "I talked Laure into lying down in her room. Hopefully she'll sleep for a few hours." She began putting away the food. "Moriah, will you be all right here by yourself with her tonight? I'll come back first thing in the morning."
Moriah nodded quickly as she got up from the table to help her. "Thank you so much for coming."
"I'm glad you called us, honey." Elizabet pressed a brief kiss to her forehead before turning to her husband. "Would you go and bring the car around, Louie? Moriah and I will put these things away."
Her husband paused long enough to give Moriah an affectionate hug before leaving the kitchen.
Elizabet's smile vanished as soon as her husband was out of hearing range. "Did you hear about the girl they found with Marc?"
"Isabel Duchesne." Moriah snapped the top back over a container of chopped chicken liver. "I saw her at the police station."
"Why would Marc have anything to do with that girl?"
Moriah had no love for Sable, but J. D.'s mother loathed her. What his friends had done ten years ago had actually been for Elizabet. Oh, she hadn't come right out and told them to do anything to the girl, but she'd made it plain she'd be very happy to see Sable and J. D. break up. Moriah and her friends had taken it from there.
"I don't know." She took a handful of crackers and stuffed them into a plastic bag, breaking most of them in the process. "They're saying she was involved with him."
"I'm sure they'll be saying all kinds of things, but I knew Marc." Elizabet thumped a roll of foil on the counter. "He was never unfaithful to his wife."
Moriah sighed. "Are you sure about that?"
"As sure as I am of you, honey." The older woman put an arm around her shoulders. "Now, if s up to us and the rest of Laure's friends to make sure that the truth is known. We can do that, can't we?"
"Yes." Just not the whole truth.
J. D. remained motionless as Sable left the dock and walked toward him. Gantry and his men made no moves to come after her, but he wasn't taking any chances, not with all the knives they were carrying. He didn't like the way the big Cajun was watching Sable, either—of all of them, Gantry would be the most trouble.
As soon as she came within reach, J. D. hauled her back against him. With one arm locked around her waist, he dragged her into the shadows, out of sight.
"J. D., I—"
"Shut up."
Though there were some angry mutters, the fishermen turned around and went back to work. Gantry remained on the dock, staring in their direction.
Sable touched J. D.'s arm, straining away from him. "I won't—"
"I said, shut up." He turned her around and maneuvered her through the scrub, then marched her down the dirt road, keeping one hand clamped on the back of her neck.
She didn't resist, though his pace and the uneven surface made her stumble once or twice. When he felt sure no one was coming after them, he pushed his gun back into his shoulder holster, although he left the strap off in case he'd have to get at it again. The old man's car was where she'd left it, the keys still in the ignition. He marched her past it to his own car.
Sable stopped by the driver's-side door. She was staring at the ground, her shoulders hunched. "I'm sorry."
"Did he hurt you?" he demanded, looking all over her. He hadn't seen any wounds in the lights from the dock, but it was almost pitch-black here and he wanted to be sure.
She shook her head.
"Good."
He shoved her back against the car, pushing one of his thighs between hers, pinning her there with his weight. Her hands got caught between their bodies, one against his chest, the other sandwiched by his hip and her stomach. It didn't matter—she wouldn't be needing her hands for the next few minutes. He pulled her head back by the hair, too fast for her to do more than gasp.
That was fine, too—he wanted her mouth open for him.
He thought kissing her would be better than strangling her, and it was. Much better. Her lips were just as lush and soft as he remembered, and offered no resist
ance.
Not that J. D. would have tolerated any, even for a second. After ten years of not knowing what had happened to her, and everything she'd put him through today, and then seeing Gantry all over her?
He'd earned this much.
Her mouth tasted cool and sweet and slammed into him like the recoil of a .45 rapid-firing at a range target.
J. D. felt her fingers curl into his jacket as he spread his hand over her scalp, angling her face against his. Frustration and rage and fear made him rough, and he tasted a trace of her blood on his tongue, but she took that without opposition as well. She was taking everything he gave her without a sound, and that silent submission made the snarling desire inside him swell to the edge of madness.
Then she moaned under his mouth, and nearly pushed him over the edge.
J. D. knew he could have her under him on the car seat in three seconds. He could bury his hard, aching cock in her and, mindlessly pump into her silky heat until she convulsed around him and screamed his name. Then he wanted to flip her over and start again from that side. She wouldn't fight him. She was practically melting all over him now.
He dragged a hand down and filled his palm with the satisfying weight of her breast. He'd erase Gantry's touch from her, an inch at a time.
Right here, right now. The way she arched and shuddered under him as he played with her made his lips curl against hers. She wants it like I do.
Then she made another sound—a new sound that had nothing to do with hunger and sex and everything to do with fear. It penetrated the roaring in his head and made him wrench his mouth from hers.
"Jean-Del." She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her lashes spiky and wet. Her hand moved to rest over his, and he became aware of the frantic beat of her heart. "Don't."
"I don't want to." Oh, but he did. He wanted to be inside her, all over her. He braced himself against her and the car, fighting for control.
The sound of Caine Gantry shouting something obscene in French drifted from the docks.
He was no better than that Cajun son of a bitch, losing control like this. Disgusted with himself, J. D. pulled Sable aside and yanked open the door. "Get in."
She slid in and over to the passenger side as he got behind the wheel and started the engine. He could feel her withdrawing from him, huddling with her arms wrapped around herself against the door. She was shaking so much he could feel that, too. Then she did something that made him want to jerk her back into his arms for round two.
She held out her wrists.
He rammed the gear shift into reverse. "I'm not going to cuff you."
Slowly she lowered her hands into her lap. "But I ran away. I stole a car." As if she was trying to persuade him she was not to be trusted.
"Did you think grand theft auto would get you out of this?" He sped backward until he found enough clearance, then made a U-turn and headed back toward the main road. He stayed quiet until his temper had eased back from boil to low simmer, and then he glanced at her. "I have to know about you and Marc."
"You won't believe me."
"Try me."
"All right." She stared blindly out at the night. "My mother died four months ago. She had bone cancer."
Of all the things he'd expected her to say, that wasn't one of them. When they'd been together in college, she had barely mentioned her parents, but he had always gotten the impression they were close. She'd never let him see how close, but she'd always been a little secretive. "I'm sorry."
"I'd been working for Family Services in Shreveport, but I quit my job to come home and take care of her." She shifted away from the door, sitting forward so that her hair hid her face. "Marc called a few weeks ago when he'd found out that Mama had passed on. We talked on the phone first, and then Remy convinced me to meet him. I was pretty nervous, with him running for governor and all, but he didn't care about that." Her voice warmed a little. "He was so nice and kind, and interested in me. We hit it off right away."
Images began filling his head—Marc, with Sable. Marc, with his hands on Sable. Touching her. Kissing her. On top of watching Gantry do the same. He gripped the steering wheel until cracking sounds came from the hard plastic cover. "So you were involved with him."
"Not really. Today was only the second time we'd met." She looked down at her hands. "I mean, we would have met."
"Must have been one hell of a one-night stand." J. D. wanted to put his fist through the windshield. "Or was it love at first sight?"
"It was, for him and my mother." She pushed her hair away from her face and looked at him. "Marc LeClare wasn't my lover, Jean-Del. He was my father."
Somehow Isabel had gotten away from Billy at the hospital, but he knew where she'd likely run to. The old man still lived in the same shack where her mother had sold bait—just down the road from Gantry's outfit.
And wasn't that the height of convenience.
Billy figured he'd square things with Caine first, then do the girl. His luck only improved when he crept through the brush to have a look at the pier and saw Isabel standing there, just as bold as brass, quarreling with his boss in front of the entire crew.
"There you are." He shifted position, moving forward and crouching down behind a tangled bush for better cover. "You looking for me, you little rabbit? Here I am."
He listened to her run her mouth, and when she mentioned his name his head started to pound. From what she said, Isabel had seen his face, and she knew he'd been the one to set the fire.
For that, the prying bitch was going to die slowly.
Caine, on the other hand, surprised him. He could have told her everything, but all he said was that he'd fired him. Maybe Billy had been wrong about him. Maybe his boss had finally remembered what was important out here—loyalty to your own kind, over and above everything else.
"'Bout time." Billy aimed for the girl, but Caine moved between him and Isabel. "Now just get your big ass on out the way."
For the first time since that morning he started to feel better. When this was over, he could probably patch things up between him and Caine. Have themselves a sit-down and hash out their differences. All Billy had been doing was what Caine had wanted him to do. He'd gotten a little sloppy this time, but that would change. He'd have plenty of money now. Hell, he might even invest some of his money in the business.
"Gantry and Tibbideau," he muttered, trying it on for size. "Huh. Tibbideau and Gantry sounds better."
Billy was feeling so good that he didn't see the cop until he had his weapon out and pointed at Caine. His euphoria abruptly disappeared, and he lifted his shotgun, trying to get a clear shot at the cop. The cagey son of a bitch stuck to the shadows, making it nearly impossible to see him. By the time Billy thought to switch his sights to Isabel, she'd already disappeared into the dark with the cop. He heard a car engine start a short time later.
Good thing there was only one road out.
"We'll do everything we can to recover your vehicle, sir," Terri Vincent told the fuming old man when she'd finished interviewing him. From his excellent description, it appeared that their missing witness had indeed stolen his car. "You get some rest now and take care of that hand."
"I'm gonna go home and shoot that durn dog that bit me, is what," he promised her. "You catch up with that gal that took my Chevy, you toss her in the hoosegow, you hear? And throw away the keys!"
He had no idea how much she was tempted to do just that. "Yes, sir."
Since Terri had already interviewed the doctor who had treated Sable Duchesne, and the semihysterical nurse who had discovered the body of the X-ray technician, she left Mercy Hospital and drove over to the county coroner's office on Tulane Avenue. Although the building was closed to the public for the evening, a security guard let her in through the official business entrance and showed her back to the morgue.
Terri hated the morgue. She had to breathe through her nose so she wouldn't smell the stink of death and the chemicals used to preserve it. She didn't mind the man who ran i
t, though. "Hey, Doc."
Grayson Huitt looked up from the long incision he was making down the center torso of a middle-aged woman. His handsome grin appeared behind the transparent shield protecting his face. "Detective Vincent." He always said it the way he would Pamela Anderson. "Long time, no bodies. What brings you to my side of town?"
"No deliveries tonight, Gray, just some questions." She nodded toward his dissection table. "Can you spare me a minute?"
Grayson flipped up his face visor, revealing his classic Californian-surfer good looks, framed by plenty of shaggy, sun-bleached blond hair. His grin widened. "You mean, you're finally going to ask me to have dinner and gratuitous sex with you?"
"Not on a work night, Doc. Catch me during the weekend." The smell of formalin made her cough. "And can we do it in your office, please?"
"You cops are such wimps." He turned his head and bellowed, "Lawrence?" A bearded, pudgy technician ducked his head around the door to look in at them. "Take over with Ms. Maynard for me, if you would."
Grayson stripped off his gown and gloves, lightly washed at a sink near the table, then showed Terri into his office. As soon as he closed the door, she sighed with relief. "Want some coffee?" He had on a Springsteen concert T-shirt and well-worn blue jeans, both of which hugged his nicely built frame in all the best places. "I just made some a little bit ago. Yama Mama Java, imported from someplace hot and exotic."
"I'm coffeed out, thanks." She pressed a hand to what was already churning in her stomach in emphasis.
He sat down behind his desk and shoved a stack of reports and a container with what appeared to be an eyeball floating in it to one side. "So if I'm not having sex with you on my desk—the offer of which will remain open indefinitely, by the way—what else can I help you with tonight?"
She tried not to stare at the eyeball. "Gray, how soon can you do the autopsy on Marc LeClare?"
"I did that one soon as I came in. Orders from up the line. I was just going to call in the report. Sit, sit." As she dropped into the chair in front of his desk, he shuffled through a stack of charts in his out box before pulling one and opening it. "Marcus Aurelius LeClare, forty-seven years old, the wife identified him by a birthmark on his hip. Ticked me off—I planned to vote for the guy." He looked up. "What do you need to know?"
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