by Robin Caroll
Time transported Alyssa back to high school, when she’d been stared at before. To the girls’ bathroom.
She washed her hands, the water lukewarm. Three cheerleaders came in, took notice of her, stared and laughed.
“Ooh, get a load of that outfit.”
“Is that your sister’s old jacket, or did you get that wearable patchwork quilt at the consignment shop?”
The head cheerleader smirked. “Y’all had better be nice. Don’t ya know—her grandmother’s the voodoo queen. She’ll cast a spell on you.”
“Or her sister.”
Their taunting continued to ring in her ears. Alyssa swallowed and blinked slowly.
Would someone please answer the phone?
The room shifted.
No! Not here, not now. No daymares, please. Alyssa grabbed the counter and braced herself.
As if someone threw a switch, everyone snapped out of their trance. Phones were answered, voices rose above the hum of machines. Two men in black suits approached her.
“Ms. LeBlanc?” The man was handsome, tanned, fit and wearing an interested look.
She didn’t reply. She couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t zone out.
“I’m Agent Lockwood with the FBI.” He flashed a smile sure to weaken some women’s knees.
The room righted itself. Good. She released her grip on the grooved counter. “Mr. Lockwood.” She gave a slight nod, aware of her tenuous hold on her equilibrium.
He motioned to the bald man standing beside him. “This is Agent Ward.”
She acknowledged Agent Ward before focusing her attention back to the handsome Lockwood. “A deputy told me last night to come in and give my statement.”
“Yes, ma’am. Come on back.” He held open the little swinging door attached to the counter. Southern manners at their best, yet the agent hadn’t spoken with an accent.
She followed him into the large area, then down a hall and into an interrogation room. He waved toward the table. “Please, have a seat.”
As she settled in the hardback chair, she studied the young agent from beneath lowered lashes. Short, dark hair. A trimmed goatee. Not too tall, but not short. Trim and muscular. What some women would call a catch. But something in his eyes caught Alyssa’s attention. An arrogance…a lurking deception. She decided she didn’t like him.
Turning her attention to the other agent, Ward, she noticed the lines etched deep into his face. Older than his partner but, as she scrutinized his eyes, not wiser. He, too, had something about him that blared untrustworthiness. She didn’t care for him, either.
“Ms. LeBlanc, we have the notes from Deputy Anderson, but if you wouldn’t mind, would you please give us a recounting of what transpired last night?” He pushed a button on a digital recorder and laid the small gadget on the table. “We tape this to make sure we’re accurate in your statement.”
Yeah, right. She used recorders constantly in interviews, mostly to trap someone in a lie. Still, the quicker she got this done, the sooner she could leave. Alyssa took a deep breath and retold what had happened the previous night.
The agents took notes as she spoke. Good interview habits—she did the same thing herself.
“Did you recognize the men?” Agent Lockwood asked.
“No, I couldn’t see them clearly. Just figures and voices.”
“Would you recognize their voices?”
The one who’d said to hurry, she’d never forget his. Even now the memory of the deep timbre gave her the heebie-jeebies. “One of them. The other, maybe.” She ran her finger over the burning under her lip and lifted her shoulder—casually, she hoped.
“Now, can you elaborate on what Sheriff Theriot said to you?”
“Only what I’ve already told you. I know nothing more than that.” Were they dense, or trying to see if she would lie? Why would she? She didn’t even live here, much less know what the sheriff had meant. She only recognized him because he’d just been elected sheriff when she’d last visited.
“I’m sure you understand assault of a police officer is a federal offense. A felony,” Lockwood said.
Did she really care whose jurisdiction the case fell under?
“You’re the only material witness,” Ward interjected. “An eyewitness.”
An eerie sensation washed over in waves. Sweat lined her palms.
“Until we know more, we’ll have to ask you not to leave town for the time being.”
“What?” No! The urge to scream rose in her throat. She bit the inside of her throbbing lip. “I have a job in Shreveport I have to get back to.” Her voice quivered, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stay here. She’d had enough experience with government officials to know their process could take a mighty long time. Something she didn’t have a lot of—not if she didn’t want to lose her place at the paper. Or her sanity.
“I’m sure your editor will understand. Hopefully, it’ll only be for a couple more days.” Lockwood flashed that disarming smile of his. “If we bring a suspect in for questioning, we might have to put them in a lineup to see if you can pick out the voice.”
She couldn’t stay here—she’d run as far and as fast from her past as she could when she’d left. Alyssa balled her hands into tight fists, the urge to hit something powerful. Right now, Special Agent Smiley looked like a pretty good target. “I can’t stay here.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t let you leave yet,” Agent Baldy said.
“You can’t make me stay.” She jerked to her feet, the chair scraping against the battered linoleum floor.
Lockwood stood as well, only more dignified. “Actually, we can. We could place you in custody.”
“But we’d rather you stayed because you know it’s the right thing to do,” Ward said.
Red hot anger coursed through her veins. Her heart thudded so hard her ribs hurt. “Fine. For how long?”
“Until we can get this case wrapped up.”
“How long do you think that’ll be?” She clenched and unclenched her hands.
“It all depends.” The light reflected off his bald head, casting a glare around him. A dark blue infused the light.
“Are you okay, Ms. LeBlanc?”
She glared at Lockwood. “I’m fine. I just don’t want to be here.”
“We understand,” Ward started.
Alyssa held up her hand toward Agent Ward, but focused on Lockwood. “Just hurry up and do your job so I can get out of here.”
Jackson took quick steps toward the sheriff’s office. His mission—find out everything he could about the money dropped in the bayou and see who else Bubba might’ve told. Everything Bubba shared with him about the incident, the location of the money drop and the tag on the bag, stank of drug trafficking—he’d reported on it countless times back in New Orleans. But here in Lagniappe? Then again, there was the intercoastal port. Would make smuggling easier. Too bad he’d only moved around sealed crates last night on the docks.
His mind already flipping through his mental Rolodex, Jackson kept marching toward the police station. A breeze stirred the air, carrying the clear smell of wet soil. Just as he reached for the handle, the door swung open, nearly slamming against him. He jumped back onto the sidewalk and opened his mouth to speak when he noticed who’d nearly knocked him on his can.
Alyssa LeBlanc. And from the look on her face, she wasn’t a happy camper.
“Good morning, Ms. LeBlanc.”
She jerked her gaze to meet his. The anger slipped from her eyes. “Oh. Mr. Devereaux.”
Hey, she remembered his name despite the circumstances of last night. Bonus points. “How’re you this morning, chère?”
Her eyes darkened, the green rings around the irises flashing under the morning sun. “Not so good.”
“What’s wrong? Have they uncovered something about the case?”
“No. That’s the problem.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
Uh-oh. Pure defensive body language.
He risked
taking a step closer. “I understand. It’s frustrating to see Bubba like that and not have a clue who’s behind it.”
“Those imbeciles won’t figure out a thing.” She met his stare. “How’s the sheriff?”
“I talked to the nurses before I headed here. They said he had a rough night. Came out of surgery okay, but he’s in a coma.”
Softness seeped into the edges of her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’ll stop by and look in on him.”
This woman was an enigma. Strong and steady in a crisis, yet emotional about people. What a rare combination. One that pushed his heart rate up a notch or two. He owed it to Bubba to concentrate on the case at hand. He couldn’t afford distractions, no matter how attractive. “I guess I’ll see you later then, chère. I’ve got to go answer more questions.”
A strange expression clouded her delicate features for a fraction of a second before she straightened her shoulders. “Good luck with that. Hope you have a good day, Mr. Devereaux.” She marched toward her dirty Honda.
“Jackson.”
Pivoting, she tossed him a puzzled look. “Excuse me?”
“Jackson. It’s my name.”
“Oh.” She spun around and opened her car door. “Good day, Mr. Devereaux.”
He watched her drive away, her spunk giving him a charge. He’d bet his bottom dollar she’d earned her stripes as a reporter. Oh, not as good as him, but good nonetheless. With a chuckle, he headed into the sheriff’s office.
Missy, the dispatcher with that bright yellow-blond hair, stood behind the counter. He knew she’d broken the thirty-year mark recently, but the lines in her face told of a harder-than-normal life. Her eyes lit as he approached. “Well, well, well, Mr. Devereaux. How are you?”
Her attraction came across too obviously for Jackson’s liking. Not at all like the elusive Alyssa LeBlanc. He smiled easily. “Been a long night.” With no sleep. “I’m supposed to answer more questions this morning.”
“Let me call the agents for you.” She smiled knowingly as she lifted the receiver, spoke in whispers and replaced the phone. “Go on back to the conference room.”
He nodded his thanks and pushed through the swinging door. So many people milled about. Off-duty officers called in to help, or new eyes brought in to work the case. He skidded to a stop at the interrogation room.
Two suits, screaming standard-issue agent, hovered around the doorway. “Mr. Devereaux?” the young man with the knot of his tie pressed against his Adam’s apple asked. “I’m Agent Lockwood with the FBI. This is Agent Ward.”
No big shocker. Suits, no personality, same neutral expression—of course they were FBI agents. He’d have to play nice to get the info he needed. Mustering a fake smile, he extended his hand. “Morning, gentlemen.”
Agent Lockwood escorted him into the interrogation room, gave the basic introductions, then recorded his account of last night’s events with his digital recorder. Pretty much same old, same old for Jackson’s line of work.
“Why, exactly, are you visiting Sheriff Theriot?” Agent Ward asked, his bald head resembling an egg.
Ah, now they were getting there—the big questions. “We’re old frat buddies. We hadn’t seen each other in several months, so when Bubba called and invited me, I came.” Jackson leaned the chair back on two legs and met the agents’ stares head-on. Let the games begin.
“Isn’t that a bit difficult for you? Being a big-shot reporter and all?” Lockwood took over the questioning.
“Not really. There was nothing pressing in N’Awlins, and a change sounded like fun.”
“Coming to Lagniappe?”
Jackson smiled. They wouldn’t trip him up. “Visiting my friend sounded like fun.”
“I see. You arrived in town when?” Agent Ward hunched over his notebook.
“Wednesday.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Well, we didn’t exactly say, but now…I intend to stay until Bubba’s better.” He plopped the chair down to all fours. “And until the culprit is apprehended, of course.”
Lockwood and Ward exchanged a quick glance. These two obviously hadn’t been in the field long—standard rule of the federal boys: don’t communicate in any manner in front of an interviewee. Jackson refrained from shaking his head. Alyssa had been right. The agents didn’t instill confidence in their crime-solving abilities.
“Why would the sheriff invite you to visit, Mr. Devereaux?” Agent Lockwood asked.
Finally, they asked the right question. Too bad they wouldn’t get the right answer. “Maybe he was lonely. He called and invited me. I came. That’s it.”
Lockwood all but sneered. “Sure seems your timing is impeccable, Mr. Devereaux. You’re here not even a week, and someone viciously attacks the friend you’re visiting.”
“You were the first to arrive on the scene after the report of the incident,” interjected Ward. “Before the police and medical personnel could get there.”
“And Bubba said my name before he lost consciousness.” They were wasting time. Valuable time. “I’m sure it’d be neat and tidy to put me at the top of the suspect list, but you’re barking up the wrong tree, boys.” Jackson stood and pushed his chair under the table. “Bubba is my friend. I’m staying at his house. If I wanted to hurt him, do you think I’d beat him within an inch of his life and then leave him in the middle of a road? Puh-leeze. Think about it—I got there first because I heard the dispatcher’s report over Bubba’s scanner.”
“The sheriff just happened to mention your name when he told Ms. LeBlanc not to let them get away with it.” Ward stood, pocketing his notebook. “Care to explain that?”
“Maybe he wanted someone to call me. Let me know.” They’d waste time investigating him. Sure, it looked off to them, but if they had an ounce of good detecting skills, they’d have already ruled him out as a suspect.
“Uh-huh.” Agent Ward glared at him. “Guess it goes without saying that you need to stay in town.”
“Like I said, I have no intention of going anywhere until I know my friend is okay.” Jackson jammed his thumb into his pocket and turned toward the door. “Now, if that’s all, I want to get to the hospital to check on Bubba.”
And follow up on some leads, since the men in black appeared to be what Alyssa had called them—imbeciles.
FOUR
She could slam a revolving door right now.
Alyssa fumed in the hospital parking lot, grasping her cell phone in a death grip. She smacked the side of her fist against the steering wheel. How could she call her editor and tell him she’d be stuck in stupid Lagniappe until the stupid cops solved an attempted murder case? She’d lose all she’d been working so hard for. So not fair. She’d done the right thing, and now she’d be penalized. Where was the justice?
Knowing she couldn’t prolong the agony anymore, she punched the speed-dial button for Simon’s cell. One ring. Two.
“Simon Woods.”
“Hey, boss. It’s Alyssa.”
“How’s your grandma?”
“She’s okay. Looks weaker than I remember.” She glanced at her watch and grimaced. “The doctor should be making rounds soon.”
“Great. I’ve managed to hold off giving your assignment to Marlee since you’ll be back in a couple of days.” His deep laugh resonated in her ear. “She wasn’t exactly thrilled, either.”
Alyssa could imagine. For the past several months, the aggressive up-and-coming reporter nipped at Alyssa’s heels, waiting to swoop in and steal Alyssa’s prime assignments. Repressed sobs burned in her chest. Marlee would get her chance. “About that…”
“Don’t tell me.”
“It can’t be helped. I’m an eyewitness in a federal felony case, and the Feds won’t let me leave town.” The tears made tracks down her cheeks as she eased the lip balm from her pocket.
“You’re kidding, right?”
No, I’m making it up just to annoy you. “I wish I were.”
“Can they do that?”
“They’re the FBI—they can pretty much do whatever they want.”
The silence over the line prophesied the death of her career.
“Guess them’s the breaks, kid.” Simon’s voice held a hint of irritation.
I’m fine, thank you for asking. Don’t worry for a second I might be a target for the bad guys, but hey, that’s no big deal, right? “It’s not like I want to stay here. You know I hate this place.”
“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
“I know.” She gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Maybe I can cover this crime for our paper.”
“What happened?”
“Assault on the sheriff.” Did he miss the part where she’d said she was an eyewitness?
“Too local. Not of interest to our readers.”
Dismay mixed with frustration threatened to suffocate her even more than Lagniappe. “I see.”
“Hey, I know.” Simon’s tone went upbeat. “Cover the politics in that neck of the woods. Heard there’s a hot Senate race in that district—someone daring to run against the incumbent of, like, twenty years or something. Maybe you can dig up some dirt. Scoop those locals down there. We all know you’re better than those small-time reporters.”
His compliment did little to soothe the knot in her chest. And his concern for her well-being was touching, just touching. She swallowed her irritation. “Sure. I’m on it.”
“The incumbent’s name is…” Papers rustled over the connection. “Edmond Mouton.”
She blinked several times as her heart caught. It’d been a long time since she’d heard the name. Her parents’ funeral, to be exact.
“Alyssa? You there?”
“Uh, yeah. I know Mr. Mouton. Well, I did.”
“Even better. Get to digging, girl.”
“I’ll get right to it. Thanks, boss.”
He broke the connection without saying goodbye. Typical Simon. She dropped the cell phone into her purse.
Edmond Mouton. He’d been a friend of her mother’s, granting Claire LeBlanc access he denied other photojournalists. Some of those liberties won her awards. No one had run against Mouton for his Senate seat in a decade and a half. Maybe she could use her mother’s connection to get an exclusive with him. He could jump-start her career as he’d done her mother’s.