Hall, Jessica

by Into the Fire

  "Yeah." She grinned. "Five-five-five, six-three-eight-seven."

  He cradled the receiver on his shoulder. "What?"

  "Five-five-five, six-three-eight-seven. It's a recorded weather report, updated every hour, and it loops continuously. I use it all the time when I want to get rid of someone." She planted herself in the chair in front of his desk and leaned back, propping one boot on the edge. "Or would you rather have the one for the high and low tides on the Gulf?"

  He put down the phone. "What do you want, Terri?"

  "My captain wants us to work together, remember?" She ran the toe of her boot along the edge of his desk. "That would require both of us to be in the same place at the same time, doing the same thing."

  He got up and grabbed the NOFD windbreaker he wore when on official business. "I'm driving out to the bayou."

  "Oops, too late. I already questioned Gantry last night. I was hoping you'd go with me to interview the widow." She got up and stretched, propping her hands against the small of her back. "She hasn't given us a statement yet, and you being so good with women and all..." She waggled her narrow dark brows at him.

  He came around the desk. "Let's get something straight. You're my brother's partner, not mine."

  She cocked her head. She was so tall she didn't have to break her neck looking up at him, like most women did. "You do have the most remarkable powers of observation. And?"

  "I'm running this arson investigation, not you."

  "Well, Marshal, the way I see it, we can go chase around the swamp, talk to people who will not talk back to us, and probably find out nothing," she said, her voice overly sweet. "Or we can go interview the woman who was married to the victim, knew every move he made, slept with him for the last twenty years, and who is a personal friend of your family." She pretended to think. "Whatever shall we do?"

  It was throttle her or head out the door. With a faint pang of regret, he picked moving toward the exit. "Let's go talk to the widow."

  "Cozy place J. D.'s friend has got here," Hilaire said as she emerged from inspecting the bedrooms. "No TV but all kinds of CDs and books. Two big cozy beds, neither of them twins. She's even got herself a cute little whirly-pool tub in the bathroom, built for two."

  Unable to relax, Sable had paced in front of the lake view window, watching for signs of J. D.'s return. She didn't want to think about whoever owned the cottage, much less argue with her cousin about it. She turned and headed for the kitchen. "How about I make us something to drink?"

  "Grand-mère packed a thermos of her coffee in the basket." Hilaire followed her in and gazed around at the white cabinets and small, neat appliances. "Should still be hot."

  Sable found some clear glass mugs in the cabinet and poured two cups. She could feel her cousin watching her. "What's on your mind, Hil?"

  "Like I said, this is a nice place." Hilaire leaned over the counter to look through the window over the sink. "Would you look at that? She's even got herself a brick charcoal pit right there in the yard—and an electric spit. Damn, could I make us some barbecue on that."

  "Hil?" Sable held out the mug. "Get serious."

  Hilaire took it and sighed. "You don't belong here, cousin. Not here, not with him."

  Which was exactly how Sable felt, not that she'd admit it. "He's trying to help me—to protect me."

  "For one thing, he's a cop, not a bodyguard. He nearly got you killed last night, or did you forget about all that shooting?"

  "He saved my life." Sable nearly knocked over the thermos before she set it carefully at the back of the counter. "I don't want to talk about this." She left the kitchen and went to take up her post by the window.

  Hilaire pursued her. "Isabel, I love you like you were my own sister, but you know I'm right. Look at what happened to you the last time you got mixed up with Jean-Del—what they did to you. You really think anything is different now?"

  Sable whirled around. "We're not involved like that. He's only trying to help me."

  "Oh, chère." Her cousin came over and hugged her before drawing back and looking up into her eyes. "You never did get over him, did you?"

  She shrugged. "I'll be fine, Hil. If anything happens between me and J. D., it won't be like it was when I was at Tulane."

  "Because Marc LeClare was your real daddy?" Her cousin shook her head. "His people aren't going to accept you any more than they did ten years ago. You go and tell the world about Marc and your mama, it'll only make things worse—can't you see that?"

  Sable turned back toward the lake. "All I care about is finding whoever killed my father."

  "And all I want for Mardi Gras is Harry Connick Jr. wearing nothing but a feathered mask and a double strand of blue beads." Hilaire sat down on the wicker rocking chair and rested her head against the high back. "I almost hope he does steal my boat. I don't want to leave you here alone with him."

  "You need to get back to the store before Lacy sells it to a wandering gypsy." Sable opened the window a little, so she could hear the sounds from the lake. "Don't worry about me. I think I can restrain myself."

  "Hmph. I've seen the way he looks at you, girl, and I bet you he buys a whole case of condoms while he's out making groceries."

  The memory of a night when J. D. had taken her into the drugstore to do exactly that made Sable swallow. He'd nearly had to drag her inside, and she'd been so embarrassed, especially by the look the clerk gave her.

  Why do I have to do this? she'd protested. This is a man's thing to do.

  I might forget, and I'm counting on you to remember if I do, he'd told her, laughing. And we're both Catholic, so if you get pregnant, both sides will be hauling out the shotguns for the wedding.

  She'd stared at the rack of condoms, feeling slightly resentful. You would never marry someone like me.

  He'd stopped laughing and had taken her into his arms, right there in front of the clerk and all the customers. No, I wouldn't marry someone like you. I don't want anybody like you. I want you.

  "What's in there?" Hilaire got up and opened the tall cabinet across from her chair, revealing an expensive stereo system. "I was wondering why she had all those CDs laying on her dresser." She poked at the receiver's buttons. "You want to listen to some music or the radio?"

  "The radio." Maybe there would be some news about her father's funeral. Sable pressed her brow against the windowpane and closed her eyes as she remembered the one and only evening she had spent with Marc. Now he was lost to her again, forever this time, and she couldn't even go and pay her last respects.

  There was some crackling of static as Hilaire tuned the receiver; then an announcer's abrupt, loud voice came through the speakers.

  "—witness escaped on foot from Mercy Hospital shortly before the disappearance of Homicide detective J. D. Gamble. At press time, Chief of Homicide Captain George Pellerin said the witness, Isabel Marie Duchesne, had not been found and is now considered a suspect. Sources within the NOPD indicated that an APB was issued and surrounding county authorities were alerted to the suspect's flight. State and local police, with the help of a helicopter, spent nearly five hours combing the immediate area around Mercy for the suspect before calling off the search for the night." The announcer gave a short description of Sable, then added, "If you see this woman, do not attempt to approach her, but contact your local police station immediately. In other news—"

  Hilaire switched off the radio. She was white-faced and shaking. "Mon Dieu, Isabel, this is what they are saying about you? That you're a suspect now?"

  Sable couldn't think. "They issued an APB for me." An incredulous laugh erupted from her. "For me."

  "The police, they don't kid about things like this." Hilaire closed the cabinet. "Sounds like they got every cop in Louisiana out there looking for you."

  Sable went to the sofa and sat down, burying her face in her hands. "I can't believe this—they think I did something to J. D.?"

  "You're easy to blame." Her cousin came over and sat beside her, and slung
an arm around her shoulders. "Like when they blamed you for starting that mud fight back at Tulane—and look how that turned out. They went and took away everything you earned and kicked you out of that school."

  "I haven't done anything wrong." She stared at her cousin. "That has to mean something."

  "It didn't last time, chère."

  "Jean-Del—"

  Hilaire rested a finger against Sable's lips. "You listen now, because this is bad. When they catch up to you, and they will, they're going to force him to make a choice."

  Sable cringed. "No. It won't be like that."

  "But it is, chère. It always is. J. D. won't like it, but that's life. He's Creole; you're Cajun. Those folks in the city are part of his family, and his job, and everything he knows and loves. You're just an old girlfriend, honey." She tilted her head to the side. "They're not so different from us. We do the same for our own."

  "He'll stand by me," Sable insisted. "He won't let them arrest me."

  "For now. But when it comes time to choose, who do you think he's going to pick?" Her cousin looked sad. "Sable, think. It's not love on the line. It's not a scholarship. It's your life."

  Chapter Nine

  The Garden District may have been the loveliest jewel in the Crescent City's crown, but Terri Vincent had never felt at ease even when she'd been in uniform, patrolling its short, narrow, potholed streets. Everything from the electric-powered green streetcars running along St. Charles Avenue to the manicured jewel box gardens and the fancy little bookshops had always seemed a bit too pretentious for her liking. She was more at home in the Quarter, where life was free and easy, and the hours were counted by the bells of St. Louis Cathedral, which had the right to be ostentatious.

  Too many fancy mansions, she thought as she pulled around to the back entrance of Marc and Laure LeClare's elegant home. People don't live in these places— they curate them, like museums.

  Marc LeClare's widow must have hired a private security firm to watch over the property, because there was a small army of uniformed guards keeping the reporters and paparazzi from setting up camp. When one of them tapped Terri's window, she rolled it down to show her badge.

  "Detective Vincent and Fire Marshal Gamble," she told him. "We have an appointment to speak with Mrs. LeClare."

  "Right." The guard checked his clipboard and checked off an item, then waved a hand to the guard operating the electronic gate. "Let them through."

  A short drive over a sweeping interlocked-stone drive led up to the three-story, galleried structure painted a soft cream with elaborate burgundy modillion cornice trim.

  "Wow." Terri put the car in park and sat looking up for a minute. "I don't remember seeing this place before."

  "Marc recently had it renovated to restore the Chinese, Italianate, Eastlake, and Queen Anne revival elements from the original blueprints." Cort scanned the property, checking out the Mercedes and the BMW parked on the other side of the drive. "The original house was by Thomas Sully."

  "So it's really old." Thinking of the termite problems alone made her shudder.

  "And rare." He gave the mansion a brooding look. "Most of Sully's houses have been demolished."

  "Who's Sully?" Not that she really cared, but Cort was apparently trying to relate something important to her, in his usual college-professor-lecturing way.

  "He was the first architect to open a professional, large-scale firm in the city. In twenty-five years he built over thirty homes and churches, and changed the face of the Garden District."

  Was he stalling her from going inside, or did he really want her to get all jazzed about an old house? "Wow. Some guy."

  "He brought the city into the mainstream of American design. Marc thought the renovation was important; he considered it giving a piece of history back to the district." Now he looked at her. "He and his wife were both active in several charities devoted to architectural preservation."

  "Fascinating stuff." She liked the great rounded porch that wrapped around the first floor, but thought the multipaned stained-glass windows were a bit much. It was a house, not a church—and for all their money, the LeClares were just people. "How do you know all this?"

  He glared at her. "I grew up here. Everyone knows this stuff."

  "Uh-huh. This wouldn't happen to be your way of telling me to keep my common little mouth shut and let you talk to the lady, would it? You being a family friend and an authority on her genteel shack o' Sully here?"

  "God, you are an obnoxious woman." He got out of the car and slammed the door.

  "That's what I thought." She took her keys out of the ignition and thrust them into her pocket. "I can tell already that this is going to be a laugh a minute."

  A maid complete with an apron answered the front door and ushered them into a sitting room. On the way, Terri noted the ornate ceiling medallions, heart-of-pine floors, and huge curving staircase. Paintings of important-looking but not very attractive people marched up the walls in irregular columns all the way to the fourteen-foot-high covered ceilings. There were so many valuable antiques around that one room probably cost more to furnish than what she had socked away in her pension fund for the last six years.

  The message was beautiful, elegant, but still rather pointed: We have money. You don't. Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah.

  The sitting room—or the morning room, as the maid had called it—was decorated in a thousand shades of pale yellow, white, and ivory. Terri assumed it was supposed to give the impression of sunshine and happiness, but it made her feel like she'd walked into a bowl of movie theater popcorn. She had an urge to look for a tin shaker of salt and a wad of paper napkins.

  Straighten up, Vincent—the woman just lost her husband.

  Marc LeClare's widow appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. She was wearing a dark charcoal gray dress with soft lace cuffs and a marcasite and diamond brooch shaped like a Mardi Gras mask.

  "Detective Vincent." She came forward slowly, as if unsure of her ability to reach her destination. "Thank you for coming." She turned to Cort. "Cortland, how kind of you to call."

  "I wanted to make sure you were all right, Laure." He took her into a gentle embrace.

  Terri waited until Cort finished hugging the woman, then offered her hand. Laure's fingers felt like thin, frozen sticks. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. LeClare."

  "Thank you." She gestured to a daffodil yellow settee. "Won't you please sit down? Can I offer you something to drink? Tea, coffee, or perhaps something cold?"

  "No, ma'am, but thank you." Terri took out her notebook and pen. "We won't take up any more of your time than we have to, but we do have some questions."

  Cort sat down beside Laure and took her hand in his. "If you're not up to this, we can come back another time."

  Terri gritted her teeth. "Of course we can."

  "No, I'd rather... get it over with." Laure grimaced slightly. "Please, how can I help you?"

  "Did you see your husband yesterday morning, before he left the house?" Terri asked.

  "Yes, we had breakfast together as we always did, and went over the campaign schedule for the week." Laure frowned. "He mentioned he was stopping by one of the properties we have downtown before he went to his campaign headquarters. Then the police called, and..." She made another of her delicate gestures.

  Terri made a note to check into Marc's scheduled appearances, but before she could move to the next question, Cort asked, "Laure, did Marc say he was meeting Ms. Duchesne?"

  "He mentioned her to me, and that he was making a contribution to a community project she was involved in. I believe he meant to lend her the property for some office and storage space." Laure looked over her shoulder as the door opened and Moriah Navarre came in.

  "Cortland?" The petite blond woman looked from him to Terri, and scowled. "What are you doing here?"

  The Deb, naturally. Now my morning is complete. "It's official business, Ms. Navarre, if you wouldn't mind—"

  "I do mind. Mrs. LeClare is a fri
end of my family, and she is in no condition to answer any questions." Her eyes shifted to the man sitting next to Laure. "I thought you were out of town."

  Here we go with the helpless Southern-flower act, Terri thought, barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes. She'll whimper something like, "Oh, Cort, you big strong hunk of testosterone you, I'm so relieved you're here. I can hardly stand upright without manly support...."

  "I came back early." Surprisingly, Cort didn't look very interested in Moriah. "We need to talk to Mrs. LeClare now, Moriah, so give us a few minutes."

  His dismissal seemed to annoy her more than Terri's presence did. "Laure?"

  Marc's widow nodded quickly. "I'll be just fine, my dear. Would you check on how things are progressing with lunch?"

  "Sure. Call me if you need anything." With one last steamed look at Terri, Moriah departed.

  "Moriah is a little overprotective," Laure said.

  Moriah is a little over-Guccied. "No problem, ma'am." Terri felt sorry for the widow, but she had to shake her out of her fog of devastation. "Mrs. LeClare, were you aware of the relationship between your husband and Ms. Duchesne?"

  Laure's forehead wrinkled. "Relationship? I'm sorry, I don't..." She looked at Cort.

  Cort reacted as if Terri had slapped the older woman. "What relationship would that be, Detective Vincent?" Terri ignored him. "Mrs. LeClare, did your husband tell you that Isabel Duchesne is his natural daughter?"

  "Daughter?" Laure paled, then lifted a trembling hand to her throat. "No. My God. He never said a word to me. All these years..." She covered her face and began to weep.

  Her shock seemed pretty real. "According to my information, your husband only recently discovered that Sable was his daughter," Terri told her quickly. "But if he had known about her, would there be any reason he would conceal this from you? Any payments he might have made to the mother for her support, for example?"

  Cort made a low, harsh sound. "That's enough, Terri."

  The widow recovered quickly. "No, Cortland, I want to know about this," she said, wiping at her eyes with her fingertips. "Detective, Marc couldn't have known he had a daughter. He would have told me."