by Meryl Sawyer
“I had no idea. Phoebe insisted she wanted to go to Old Miss because so many Mardi Gras queens had gone there.” She gazed at the last bit of foam floating in the center of her cup. “I always felt inferior because Phoebe was prettier and had fabulous clothes and a convertible.”
His gaze was as soft as a caress. “You’re just as pretty. More important, you’re smart and creative. Phoebe peaked when she was Mardi Gras queen. You’ve gone on to make something of yourself. I’m proud of you.”
She wondered if her father was proud of her. He acknowledged her excellent grades and praised her for winning a scholarship to a first-rate college, but she’d interpreted his compliments as being nothing more than a Southern gentleman’s response to the situation. He’d never made her feel he actually cared.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’ve stayed with Phoebe all these years?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“I stayed because Duvall Imports got into financial trouble about a year after we were married.” A vein twitched on the side of his throat. “Phoebe’s trust fund saved the company.”
The band took a break, and she said, “I’d better get home.” She knew where this was going but had no intention of encouraging him by discussing his marriage.
He reached across the small table and took her hand. “Give me another chance. I still love you.”
She pulled her hand away. “I meant what I said. It’s over. Don’t divorce Phoebe on my account.”
CHAPTER 17
“Here’s the report from Overton and Overton.” Troy handed Jake the document.
“What does it say?”
“Duvall Imports was on the verge of bankruptcy about eight years ago. The money from Phoebe LeCroix Duvall’s trust fund saved the company. Winston Duvall retired and Clay took over. He turned the company around.”
“Reassuring.” It was possible Clay knew what he was doing. Doubtful, but possible. Maybe he’d just gotten lucky.
Jake had been in his office since seven. He hadn’t been able to sleep and would have been in earlier except Benson insisted on going for a walk. Jake had given in, knowing rain was predicted and the poor dog wouldn’t get any exercise if he didn’t take him then.
“What does it say about Wyatt LeCroix’s accounting practices?”
“They had one fine from the IRS for understating Duvall Imports earnings, but that’s it,” Troy added. “Nothing underhanded.”
Jake thumbed the report. “Not very many pages, considering it took so long.”
“Forensic accounting is mostly research. They go over the numbers and compare them with other companies in the same business.” Troy sounded a bit defensive. “Overton and Overton doesn’t pad their reports the way some accounting firms do.”
“Okay, I’ll read it.”
Troy left, and Jake stared at the cover sheet on the report. He should read it, but he doubted he could concentrate. He was all kinds of pissed. He’d pulled up to the parking lot last night in time to see Alyssa getting into Clay’s Masarati.
He told himself that he didn’t give a damn. The real kicker was he’d believed her when she’d told him that Clay was history. Think again.
Alyssa had almost brought him back to life again, making him want to do something besides work. For years now, he’d driven himself hard, playing catch-up. Damn her. She’d made him want so much more.
If he drove himself hard enough again and got back into the groove, he could forget her. When he was putting a deal together, he was excited and edgy. Pulling it off, there was no bigger high. He’d start looking for another deal to distract him.
He skimmed the report on Clay’s company and looked for the part mentioning Wyatt LeCroix’s accounting firm. He read it too fast and didn’t find it. The document did seem a little brief to have taken so long. But what did he know? If Clay Duvall was a turnaround artist, corporate America was in trouble.
Maybe he was just jealous. He hesitated to label the twist in his gut last night as jealousy, but it was possible. He’d watched Clay put his arm around Alyssa and something very ugly mushroomed inside him.
Normally, he made every attempt to set aside personal feelings. He was usually right about people. When he’d met Clay, Jake’s sixth sense had kicked in and told him the guy couldn’t be trusted.
So what if Clay was sophisticated and had a business degree from a top-notch university? So what if he drove a Masarati and had a home on Audubon Street? So what if women were bonkers about him?
Jake was still convinced the guy was a scumbag in an Armani suit. If Alyssa still loved him, well, hey, it was her problem. They deserved each other.
He returned some calls and ran a spreadsheet on his computer, one of his favorite activities. Today it was about as exciting as watching flies screw. He stared at the screen but saw Alyssa’s smiling face. He could almost hear her laugh. The genuine happiness of her laughter brought her closer to him in a way words could not.
Face it, shmuck, she’s never far from your mind.
Spencer buzzed him and said, “Zane Welsh is here. I know he doesn’t have an appointment. Do you have time to see him?”
“Welsh. The Times-Picayune reporter?”
“Yes. He says it’s important.”
Welsh was a respected investigative journalist. Jake read his pieces with interest. When he wasn’t investigating a homicide, he was exposing corrupt politicians. Since it was common knowledge Max planned to run for the Senate, Jake assumed this was about his father.
He hesitated a moment, wondering if there were skeletons in Max’s closet he didn’t know about. Probably. New Orleans, the whole state, was full of corrupt politicians and bureaucrats salivating for a bribe. Who knew what his father might have done on his way up the slippery ladder of success?
“Send him in.”
The fiftyish reporter was short and built like a fireplug with a barren head peppered with freckles. What remaining hair he had was pulled back into a scraggly gray ponytail.
He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket with the sleeves cut out. The blue plaid shirt he had on underneath was rolled back at the cuffs to reveal a tattoo of a tarantula. He would have been right at home in a biker bar.
“I like your articles.” Jake shook his hand, then gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”
Welsh sat down without acknowledging the compliment. Not a good sign.
“I need to ask you a few questions about Alyssa Rossi.”
Aw, crap. If he’d known, Jake wouldn’t have seen the man. “What about her?”
“I understand you two are involved.”
“Nope. She heads one of our companies. That’s all.”
“At your father’s party I was told you—”
“It was a joke. Okay?”
Welsh’s expression remained flat, unreadable, but Jake suspected the jerk knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. He did his damnedest to look sincere, but faking it wasn’t his long suit.
“That explains why she was out at Check Point Charlie’s with Clay Duvall last night.”
He hoped his expression didn’t reveal how royally pissed he was. “So?”
“Duvall’s married.”
“It must be a slow day for news. You don’t usually write about extramarital affairs.”
The guy didn’t take the bait. He kept studying Jake as if he were a rat in the lab, and he was about to dissect him. Welsh was not his idea of a fun guy.
“I’m investigating a kidnapping. Last night a baby was taken from the nursery at Mercy General Hospital.”
Shock seeped from every pore, racing through his body with a mind-numbing punch. He wasn’t sure how long it took him to recover enough to ask, “Do the police have any leads?”
“They found the baby in a storage room down the hall from Theodora Canali’s room.”
“Really?” He was going to pretend he had no idea who she was, but that would have been pushing his luck.
“I’m c
hecking into a link between this attempted kidnapping and the disappearance of the Duvall baby years ago.” He shifted in his chair, and gave Jake what was meant to be a smile, but he might have been showing off his capped teeth. “You know what I find interesting?”
“I give up. What?”
“Alyssa Rossi was accused of taking Duvall’s baby, yet he purchased her company, and he’s obviously seeing her. He was spotted at the hospital last night. I think there’s a connection between the two cases.”
“You could be on to something.”
“What do you think happened?”
“How would I know? I didn’t realize a baby was missing at the hospital last night.”
“Don’t you watch the news?”
“No. I read the paper.”
Haar Haar. Was he supposed to be laughing? Definitely not a fun guy, but he undoubtedly had excellent sources and knew Jake had been at the hospital earlier in the evening as well as the two previous nights.
“You might want to interview Clay Duvall about this. He’s one floor down.”
“He’s in Baton Rouge today.”
“We’re buying a company there.” True, but he hadn’t known Clay was involved in the acquisition.
“Are you always this way?”
“What way?”
“So irreverent.”
“Most people would go ahead and say I’m an asshole.”
“You know what I think?”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t give a damn what you—or anyone—thinks about me.”
Welsh stood up slowly and flipped his ponytail with his hand in an obviously unconscious habit. “For what it’s worth, Alyssa Rossi has been taken to the police station for questioning.” He headed toward the door. “You may have two employees in deep Tapioca.”
Deep Tapioca? Why didn’t he just say deep shit? Jake cursed under his breath as the door closed. Not for one minute did he believe Alyssa had touched either baby. But something was going on.
She got herself into this mess. Let her get herself out of it. Better yet, let lover boy Duvall get her—or them—out of it.
He picked up the telephone and called Troy. “Is Duvall working on the Ab-Cam deal?”
“No. Roth’s handling it.”
“Do you know why Duvall is in Baton Rouge?”
“I have no idea. His secretary might know.”
Of course, Miss Silicone had no idea where he was. She hadn’t been able to reach him on his cell phone.
Weird. Friggin’ weird.
He went back to his spreadsheet. He could have been reading hieroglyphics for all the sense the numbers were making. Why had he been more obnoxious than usual to Welsh? He wasn’t a man who lied and never to himself, but it took him a few minutes to admit the truth. He was crazy about Alyssa Rossi and angry with her for lying about Clay, so he’d taken it out on the reporter.
Very mature.
He swiveled his chair around and stared out at the sky. Clouds laden with moisture sulked over the Mississippi and made the river appear more gray than its usual brown color. He noticed the wind had risen, driving the incoming storm closer and whipping up whitecaps on the water.
Alyssa didn’t have any friends here unless you counted the secretary she’d brought with her from Italy. He doubted she would know a criminal lawyer to call. He knew plenty of attorneys from TriTech’s business deals but none of them specialized in criminal law.
Forget it, he told himself, but he couldn’t. He kept seeing the way she’d looked when her aunt had been in surgery. She might not care about him, but she cared deeply about Aunt Thee. Her aunt was in no position to help her, but he was.
He swung back to his desk and flipped through his Rolodex, then called Sanchez’s cell phone. “It’s Jake. Do you know a good criminal lawyer?”
“I’m an attorney. I entered the FBI academy after they changed the rule requiring agents to be an attorney first, but I figured passing the bar would come in handy, and it has.”
“Are you licensed in Louisiana?”
“Yes. What do you need?”
He explained, and they arranged to meet at the police station.
“She’s being questioned, but she hasn’t asked for an attorney,” the sergeant told them when they informed him Alyssa Rossi’s attorney wanted to see her.
“She has a right to an attorney,” Sanchez insisted. “You’re violating her civil rights.”
A home run. The sergeant’s lip curled, and any fool could tell he was holding back a choice four-letter word.
“All right,” he said grudgingly. “She’s down the hall in room seven.”
Sanchez walked down the long corridor. Jake stayed at his side and the sergeant didn’t challenge him. Civil rights worked wonders. Sanchez knocked on the door and it immediately swung open. Jake looked into the small room and saw Alyssa sitting across the table from a detective.
“Who are you?” asked the second detective, blocking the entrance with his body.
“Rueben Sanchez. I’m Alyssa Rossi’s lawyer.”
“She hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”
“Mental telepathy,” Jake said and Sanchez elbowed him in the ribs.
“She’s being questioned voluntarily,” said the detective opposite Alyssa.
“How long have you been questioning her?” Sanchez asked.
“Almost four hours,” Alyssa answered, a hitch in her voice.
What a bunch of jerks. Jake clamped down his jaw before he got himself in trouble and blew it for Alyssa.
“That’s too long not to have a lawyer with you,” Sanchez said. “As your attorney I advise you to allow me to speak with you before you answer another question.”
“I want to speak with my attorney,” Alyssa said.
The two detectives looked at each other, obviously not happy campers. They gathered some papers off the table and prepared to leave the room. Sanchez walked in and Jake followed him.
“Just a minute,” said the detective who’d answered the door. “Who are you?”
“A paralegal specializing in civil rights.”
They left without a word.
“What’s going on?” Sanchez asked.
Jake wanted to go over to Alyssa and put his arm around her but resisted the urge. She offered him a welcoming smile. He lifted his shoulders. He meant his shrug to say: Who cares if you’re happy to see me? But he didn’t quite pull it off.
“They’ve been asking the same questions for hours,” she told Sanchez, but her eyes never left Jake’s.
He had to admit she was damn good. Most men would be fooled into believing she was glad to see him.
“They kept wanting to know if I’d left Aunt Thee’s room and had taken the stairs down to the nursery. I hadn’t left the room at all, but it looked suspicious because the linen storage room where they found the baby is close to the stairs and it’s right down the hall from my aunt’s room.”
“Sounds like a setup to me,” Jake said. “Someone knew you were at the hospital. They framed you.”
“Like before.” Her voice was pitched low.
“I’m going to insist they charge you or let you go,” Sanchez said.
He left the room, and Jake stood where he was near the door. Alyssa rose and walked over to him. She put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. “I knew you’d come. I knew I could count on you.”
He almost told her that he’d come because he’d liked her aunt. She reminded him, in a strange way, of his mother, but he didn’t. Alyssa seemed so genuinely thrilled to see him that he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her.
Okay, so she had a thing for Clay Duvall. Half the women in town did. It didn’t mean she’d taken the baby.
His arms were around her before he knew it, and he allowed himself to breathe in the fresh floral scent coming from her hair. The image of Clay, his arm around these very shoulders, hit Jake like a sucker punch to the gut. His body stiffened and he dropped his arms.
For a minute she didn’t notice. Her arms were still around him, the heat of her body seeping into his. Then she seemed to realize what she was doing and released him.
“I’m not the clinging type, honest,” she told him. “The one person in the world who loves me is ill. Aunt Thee is probably frantic. I was supposed to be back at the hospital early this morning. I’m frightened, but more than anything, I’m angry. Who’s doing this to me? Why?”
CHAPTER 18
“Tell me what happened,” Sanchez said.
“The police appeared at my door this morning, asking questions. I volunteered to go down to the station. I don’t have anything to hide.”
“Four hours is a long time. They were trying to make you break down.”
“I know, but I refused to allow them to frighten me. That’s why I didn’t ask for an attorney. I thought it would make me look guilty.”
She didn’t sound like herself at all. She’d been intimidated when the hospital sounded the Code Pink, but when the police had rung her bell early this morning, a cold fury crept through her, strengthened the knowledge she was no longer a vulnerable young girl.
They were gathered around the coffee table in Jake’s loft, Benson at their feet. The crush of reporters had forced them out the service exit at the police station. She hadn’t been able to go home because there were more reporters hovering around her front gate.
Just about the last place she wanted to be right now was at Jake’s. He’d driven her while Sanchez had followed in his car. Jake had said almost nothing to her except to suggest she use his car phone to call Aunt Thee. She’d placed the call and reassured her aunt. Out of the corner of her eye she’d watched Jake. He checked the rearview mirror to keep track of Sanchez, but he didn’t pay any attention to her. No doubt, she was bringing unfavorable publicity to TriTech and he resented it.
“This whole thing sounds like a setup to me,” said Jake.
Sanchez nodded, thoughtfully. “Looks that way. The question is why?”
“Do you have any idea?” Jake asked her.
“None.” She thought about his father’s threat, but decided not to mention it. Jake was hostile enough as it was. Anyway, whoever had done this wanted to link her to the abduction of the Duvall baby. It didn’t seem to be Max’s style.