by Meryl Sawyer
She took another step forward … then another, her hand raised, ready to trigger the debilitating pepper spray.
The telephone rang and Jake snatched up the receiver. It was ten after nine. Sanchez was half an hour late, which wasn’t his style. “Jake Williams.”
“Sorry, I’m late. I’m within a few blocks of TriTech. Stay right there. I’ve got good news.”
Sanchez hung up before Jake could press him. Good news. It was about time. Things were looking up, he decided. Gordon LeCroix’s acceptance of his daughter and his apparent forgiveness of Max would make it hard for others to condemn them.
He picked up the telephone to call Alyssa and tell her that he was going to be even later than he’d thought. Shawn answered and said Alyssa had gone out.
“Where?”
“She didn’t say. A man called and asked for her, then she left.”
“Who was it?”
“I have no idea.”
Jake hung up. His fingers had turned to ice. He drummed them on the top of his desk. Why would she go out when she was expecting him? He didn’t like it one damn bit. If only she’d bought a new cell phone.
She was probably chasing down some lead, the way she had last night when she’d visited Clay. He cursed himself for not making her promise to stay home.
Sanchez burst through the door, all smiles. “You are not going to believe this.”
“Try me. These days, I’m prepared for anything.”
“Clay Duvall is under arrest for murder.”
Jake slapped the top of his desk with the palm of his hand. “I knew he’d killed Phoebe. I knew it!”
“No. Not Phoebe. He shot that drug dealer, Dante a block away from Funky Butts’, and he wounded Maree Winston. Since I had tails on both Dante and Clay, my boys were able to nab him before he got away. Plus, they’ll make excellent witnesses. Both are former FBI agents.”
Jake didn’t get it. “A love triangle gone bad? Or does this have something to do with Phoebe’s murder?”
“I wish I knew. The woman is in critical condition, but before the police arrived, she told one of my operatives there is a video tape in Dante’s apartment.”
“This can’t be coincidence. It has to have something to do with the murder.”
Sanchez flopped into the chair beside Jake’s desk, clearly exhausted. “We’ll know soon enough. My guy passed on the info to the police. They’re searching the apartment. I’ll juice my man inside the station to tell us what’s on the tape.”
“Great,” Jake replied, and he meant it. His sixth sense could feel this case cracking open. At last.
Sanchez checked his watch. “They arrested Duvall at a little after eight just over an hour ago. I was already on my way to see you when I got the call. I wanted to tell you in person what I was able to find out from the FBI about the .22 bullet. I didn’t want to chance talking about it over a cell phone. My buddy at the FBI lab could lose his job, if they knew he’d leaked information.”
Jake nodded. Even he was careful with cell phones during business negotiations. They were not as secure as land lines, and anyone with the right equipment could listen.
“The official FBI report to the NOPD will say the bullet is too damaged to match it to the .22 found at Alyssa’s.”
“Way to go!”
“Don’t start celebrating yet. The unofficial word will be that they believe the bullet came from that .22, but there’s enough doubt that an expert witness from the defense could refute their claim. What they’re telling the prosecutor—indirectly—is more evidence will be needed to prove their case.”
“We’re right back where we started.”
“No. My source at NOPD says there isn’t any new evidence.”
“Alyssa will be convicted in the court of public opinion—again—unless something in Dante’s tape clears her.” Jake stood up. “I’m going over to see if she’s home. I just called there, and she’d gone out even though she was expecting me.”
“Gone out? Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. A man had called her. Maybe she went to the pharmacy or someplace to pick up something her aunt needed.”
Sanchez followed him out the door. “I’m going home to get some sleep, but if you need me, call.”
There were few cars on the street and the lamp in the living room was the only light visible from the front as Alyssa parked near the home where she’d grown up. Not even the porch light was on. Evidently, all the condolence callers had come during the last two days when Phoebe’s funeral had been delayed by the autopsy.
“No, that’s not it,” she whispered to herself. “Hattie’s too humiliated to have callers.”
Alyssa looked around cautiously before she unlocked the car and got out. Something in the passageway had spooked her. Undoubtedly, it was her own imagination, but she’d slipped the pepper spray into the pocket of the linen blazer she was wearing—just in case.
She checked the bushes on either side of the walkway as she made her way up to the unlit entrance. A passing car’s lights swept the porch and assured her no one was lying in wait.
She rapped the antique fox head knocker on the front door and waited. The door opened a crack, and Alyssa expected to see the maid. She recognized Hattie’s eyes even in the diffused light coming from the streetlight. The hateful woman didn’t turn on the porch light or ask what she wanted. Instead the door swung open and Alyssa stepped into the hall dimly illuminated by lamplight spilling out from the living room.
“Gordon wanted to see me.”
“Of course he does.”
Her voice was a gritty rasp, and Alyssa knew she’d been crying. About Phoebe? Or was she more upset over Ravelle’s shocking report? Knowing Hattie, what her friends thought was probably more important. Alyssa told herself to put the past in the past and not be unkind. In her own way, Hattie had loved her daughter.
“Is he in his study?”
“Where else?”
Alyssa walked down the hall to the study, where she’d spoken with Phoebe just a few short days ago. She heard Hattie shuffling along behind her. Was she going to be part of this conversation?
She stopped outside the closed door to the study, Light seeped out from under the door, the way it always had when she’d lived here and passed by. She raised her hand to knock.
“Don’t bother. He’s expecting you,” Hattie said from behind her.
With a sudden sense of foreboding, Alyssa opened the door and stepped inside. She stopped. A scream rose in her throat and stalled there as she took in the room.
Gordon was in the chair at his desk, tied in place by miles of silver duct tape. A handkerchief had been stuffed in his mouth. His eyes were wide with fright.
In the heartbeat it took for her to analyze the situation, Alyssa spun around. With a demented smile plastered to her face, Hattie leveled a gun at Alyssa’s heart.
CHAPTER 39
“Wake her up,” Jake told Shawn when the nurse couldn’t shed any light on the man who’d called Alyssa. She wasn’t back, and it was almost ten o’clock. A snake of fear slithered across the back of his neck, threatening to choke the air out of him.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. She—”
“I don’t give a shit what you think.” Jake grabbed the man’s arm, and Shawn gasped. “Alyssa is in danger. Since you don’t know where she went, Thee may.”
Shawn jerked away from him, but took him up the stairs to the second floor where the bedrooms were located. Shawn cracked Thee’s door, then gently eased it open. He flicked on the bedside lamp from the switch by the entrance.
Thee’s head was propped up by two pillows and her eyes were wide open. “It’s Alyssa, isn’t it?” she cried the moment they came through the door. “Something’s happened.”
“We don’t know,” Jake responded.
Thee struggled to sit up, and Shawn dashed over and helped her into an upright position.
“She received a telephone call from a man,
then left. Do you know who called her? Did she go to meet him?”
“I don’t know. Shawn said she had a call. Alyssa kissed me good night. She never came back to tell me she was leaving.”
“Then why do you think something has happened?” asked Shawn before Jake could.
Thee shook a helmet of pewter gray pin curls. “I couldn’t sleep even though I’d taken a mild sleeping tablet. I kept thinking about Alyssa, and the more I thought, the more something … well, something tugged at me. Then you two came in here, and my first reaction was that you had bad news about Alyssa.”
Jake spoke to reassure her even though alarm bells were ringing in his own head. “Don’t be upset.” He put his hand on Thee’s shoulder. “It’s probably nothing.”
“I can’t imagine what would make Alyssa leave before you arrived.”
“She could have called me, but she didn’t.”
“Alyssa was in a hurry,” Shawn volunteered. “She told me to give you the message.”
Jake attempted to figure this out in a rational way. He honestly felt the case was cracking, but something was eluding him. A missing link. One small piece of the puzzle. He should be able to zero in on it, but right now, he couldn’t.
“Troy Chevalier is a possibility,” he said, thinking out loud. “So is Wyatt LeCroix or her father, Gordon LeCroix.”
“What about Clay?” Thee asked.
“She couldn’t have received a call from him. Clay was arrested earlier this evening. He shot a man, killing him and nearly killing a woman Clay had been having an affair with.”
“Oh, my stars!” exclaimed Aunt Thee. “I can’t believe it Clay Duvall? What happened?”
“I don’t have time to go into details now. Finding Alyssa is more important.”
“You’re right.”
“Perhaps there is someone else you aren’t aware of,” suggested Shawn, a helpful note in his voice. “Someone from Italy.”
Aunt Thee shook her head. “Alyssa had been busy with her career in the months before we moved. She wasn’t seeing anyone. She has professional contacts in Italy, but they wouldn’t call this late.”
Jake thought out loud. “What would make her run out at this hour?”
A spark of something in his brain triggered an unexpected insight. He replayed what Sanchez had told him about Troy Chevalier’s run-in with Hattie LeCroix.
“She’s at the LeCroixs’,” he told them as he sprinted out of the room.
Alyssa watched, every nerve tense as Hattie kept the gun trained on her while she ambled over to Gordon and yanked the handkerchief out of his mouth. “Say something to your—daughter.”
“She’s crazy, Alyssa. She’s always been crazy.” Hattie backhanded him, and Gordon’s head snapped. He grimaced in pain, a guttural moan escaping his lips. “I tried to warn you. She had a gun to my head. I—I had to be careful.”
“Is that what all the casserole and flowers stuff meant?”
“Yes, I—”
Hattie whacked him again. “You sneaky—”
“Run the first chance you get, don’t worry about me,” Gordon told Alyssa. “I’m getting what I deserve.”
“Deserve?” Hattie cried, sweeping the gun back and forth to keep both of them in line. “I deserve better than this. I gave you everything. My youth, my beauty, my—”
“Your ego, your ambition. Don’t tell me I was the love of your life,” Gordon said. “I was a step on the ladder of social success. From the very beginning, you didn’t love me, and on some level I must have known it. That’s why I fell for Pamela Ardmore.”
Hearing her mother’s name, something wrenched at Alyssa’s heart. Despite the horrific situation, she imagined the love that once had bound her parents. Considering the gun aimed at her, Alyssa wondered if she would ever have a chance at true love. The future shimmered like a mirage, out of focus, out of reach.
JAKE!
Her mind cried out for him, but her brain knew she was here all alone, the only one to save herself—and her father. A bizarre mix of fear and utter calmness came over her.
“Are you saying you never loved me?” Hattie asked.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I meant.” Her father strained against the restricting duct tape binding him to the chair. “Earlier this evening, when I told you I was going to divorce you, I meant to say—politely—I had never loved you.”
“You bastard!” Hattie shrieked. “You’ve made a fool out of me.”
Alyssa stifled a groan. This was the heart of the conflict. Hattie and her pretensions. Gordon may have sequestered himself in his room, ignoring his children, but Hattie had been far worse. She’d belittled them, forcing Wyatt to attend a military academy while Phoebe had been given no choice but to become a Mardi Gras queen like her mother.
“Don’t move,” Hattie warned, although Alyssa or Gordon had not made any attempt to come toward her. “I’ll shoot.”
“What do you want?” Alyssa asked as calmly as possible. She lowered her hand to be able to reach into her pocket for her only hope, the pepper spray.
“I want, I want.” Hattie’s arm flailed, arcing across the room dangerously. “I want my life back. I want to have a Mardi Gras queen who will give me a granddaughter destined to become another Mardi Gras queen. I don’t want all this—this sordid, ugly stuff. A love child. A baby fathered by white trash.”
Alyssa tried for a placating smile. “I understand, I—”
“Shut your mouth! I’ve been on to you from the moment you moved in.”
“I was seven years old—”
“True, but your mother put you up to it.”
In that instant, what Alyssa had already known kicked in with force. Hattie had gone over the edge. The woman had been unbalanced for years, but the stress of Phoebe’s death and the resulting revelations had tipped the scales.
“Yes, you’re right,” Alyssa said, trying for a sincere tone. “My mother was jealous of you. She managed to get pregnant, but Gordon refused to marry her. She blamed you. Mother always said if I had the chance, I should—”
Brring-brring. The telephone on Gordon’s desk silenced her. The three of them stared at it. Out of the corner of her eye, Alyssa saw Hattie’s gun was still aimed directly at her father’s head. She couldn’t pull out the pepper spray and fire it without risking his life.
“I haven’t answered the phone all day,” Hattie informed them. “It’s just a friend calling to sympathize. I—”
“Hattie, you poor dear,” a disembodied voice came over the line. “It’s Ravelle. Are you there, pick up if you are.” A pause ensued, then Ravelle continued, “Clay Duvall has been arrested for murder.”
At the word “murder” Hattie swung her arm so the gun was now trained on Alyssa.
“Murder?” The word escaped Gordon’s lips like a gasp.
“Murder?” echoed Alyssa. She couldn’t believe it. Clay Duvall wasn’t the type, not at all.
“Clay killed a man and wounded a woman. The police think Maree Winston was his mistress. Do you know anything about it?” Another long pause as if the television reporter expected Hattie to pick up the telephone. “I want to come over there with my crew and do an interview with you. Call me.”
The line went dead and the machine clicked off. A moment of stunned silence followed. Alyssa struggled to interpret the news. Clay was under arrest. Could this have something to do with Phoebe’s death? Dare she hope to be cleared?
“It’s your fault!” yelled Hattie. “Clay was himself until you came back here.”
She knew it was futile to remind Hattie that Clay had brought her home to New Orleans. The woman could not be reasoned with. She would have to be overpowered. The only chance Alyssa had was in her pocket. All she needed was an opportunity to fire the canister of pepper spray.
“What are you planning to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to shoot you both so it will look like a murder-suicide,” Hattie replied in a self-satisfied tone that told Alyssa this had been
well-planned.
“There won’t be any powder burns,” Alyssa said. “The police will never buy it. Even if they do, the tape you have around Gordon will leave telltale marks. They’ll catch you.”
Hattie lunged toward Alyssa, the gun pointing right at her. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? Well, I know how to conceal the crime. I’m going to burn the house down afterward. That way no one will be able to tell if you fired the gun or not.”
Alyssa blinked several times, speechless. Hattie adored this house. It was the symbol of her ascent to the pinnacle of the social pyramid in New Orleans. Burning it certainly meant she’d gone over the edge into some deep mental abyss Alyssa knew nothing about.
“You’ve worked so hard on your home. Where will you live?” Alyssa asked.
Hattie advanced toward Alyssa. “Do you seriously think I could stay in New Orleans after all that’s happened?”
“Where will you go?” Alyssa asked. “This has always been your home.”
“When I get the insurance money, I’m going to relocate in Palm Beach.”
“Impossible!” Gordon said emphatically. “The insurance on this house couldn’t buy you what you’d need in a ritzy place like Palm Beach. It’s underinsured.”
“You’d get a lot more money if you sold it,” Alyssa added.
“The insurance policy is in the file cabinet right over there,” Gordon said. “Check it for yourself.”
“Don’t try to put one over on me.” For the first time, Hattie seemed unsure of herself. She thought a moment, then smiled. “We’ll go out to the pool house. It’ll be easier to burn down anyway.”
“Hattie, let’s forget about all this,” Gordon said gently. “You need help. You’re my wife. I’ll stick by you until—”
“No!” The word exploded out of Hattie like a shot from the gun. “You can’t trick me. Even if you meant it, I can’t stay here and face everyone.”