Detective Defender

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Did they have any kids?”

  Their school hadn’t been huge; she’d known either names or faces for pretty much everyone, but she couldn’t recall a Fletcher son or daughter. “Not that I can think of. Maybe a younger kid?”

  “How much do you remember about the case?”

  A shudder rocketed through her, and she moved uneasily to hide it, shifting her weight and tugging at her seat belt. There wasn’t much room in the passenger seat with the computer extending into her space, and she felt she needed it right now.

  “I was the last one to leave town. Robin and the twins were gone practically before the police started their investigation. Paulina took off next. At first Mrs. Fletcher denied having anything to do with it. She swore she hadn’t seen him since the night before, that she’d fallen asleep on the couch. Then, after a couple days, she stopped crying, got all stiff-backed and stony-eyed—that was how my mom described her—and apologized for lying. She said he’d made a fool of her one time too many, that she’d snapped and shot him while he slept. She said that wasn’t the life he’d promised her, and people had to pay when they broke their promises.”

  She considered that a moment. “I don’t understand... When my dad decided he didn’t want my mom anymore, she hired a lawyer and made sure she was taken care of. She didn’t for a minute think about taking out his rifle and killing him. I didn’t consider killing my ex. Alia didn’t consider killing you.”

  “Sure, she did,” he said with a grin. “Granted, she’s a highly capable federal agent. She probably could have gotten away with it easier than you or your mom could.”

  Martine appreciated the smile his response brought her. Alia often said things to or about DiBiase that seemed really harsh on the surface, but it didn’t take anyone long to see that they still shared an affection few divorced couples managed. It was probably because they were divorced. They hadn’t dragged the marriage out long enough for Alia’s love to turn to hatred.

  Jimmy’s infidelity probably meant more to Martine at the moment than it did to the woman he’d cheated on. There was a lesson in that, but not one that Martine wanted to look closely at now.

  And she wasn’t going to start calling him Jimmy. DiBiase had worked just fine for years. It would continue to do so now.

  The drive to Marquitta would always be familiar, not that she’d made it very often since her mom started her travel career. When they visited, it was usually Bette stopping in New Orleans on her way someplace else, and visits with her father... Well, she’d always been more of a mama’s girl. She saw Mark at Christmas, on both their birthdays and Father’s Day but not very regularly other than that. He’d changed from the father she’d grown up with, and she didn’t have much in common with the man he’d become.

  “Did you grow up dreaming of leaving your hick hometown in the dust?”

  The question drew her glance across the car. DiBiase sat in a comfortable slouch behind the wheel, one hand resting at the top. His suit today was dark gray, the shirt white, the tie black-and-silver stripes. Evie had once shown her Jack’s half of the closet, and they’d snickered together over the seven dark suits, seven lighter suits, seven white shirts and the rack of similarly dark ties. Now she wondered if DiBiase’s closet looked the same. As far as contents, probably, though she didn’t imagine his would be nearly as neat as Jack’s. Jack was always more put-together, while Jimmy, no matter how squared away he was, always gave a bit of a tousled impression. It was too easy for comfort to imagine him in a looser, more relaxed setting.

  A more intimate setting.

  Even, if she relaxed her guard, in no clothes at all.

  Martine scowled. Apparently, her brain was going to start calling him Jimmy, with her permission or without, and thinking all sorts of things about him that she’d sworn off that night she found he was married. Damn.

  She forced herself to concentrate on his question. “Aw, I wouldn’t call Marquitta a hick town. It’s got at least eighteen thousand people.” Then she shrugged. “I loved New Orleans from the first time I saw it. I was convinced God had intended for me to live there but dropped me in Marquitta by mistake. Getting there was the goal for the first part of my life, and staying there has been the goal since. What about you? Could you not wait to get out of your hick hometown?”

  “I would have moved away in seventh grade if I could have. My hick town is Cypress Hill. Back that way.” He gestured vaguely toward the west.

  “I’ve been there. When my mom first started her travel blog, she mostly focused on local places. She did a story about the plantation the town is named for, and I went along. Gorgeous place.” A Gone with the Wind–type place, huge, white, gracious—a real step back in time. Massive columns, immense live oak trees, regimented gardens, lush velvety grass and more antiques than all the shops in the Quarter could hold. A tribute to a time long past. Lovely to visit, but she wouldn’t want to live there. “Have you toured it?”

  He didn’t meet her gaze. “Yeah, I’ve, uh, seen it.”

  “Of course. You live that close to a historic site, you probably see more of it than you want, between school field trips and showing family guests around town.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Still he didn’t look at her, and her gaze narrowed as she identified discomfort in the set of his jaw. His fingers were tighter on the steering wheel than they’d been moments ago, and his slouch didn’t look so comfortable now.

  I work for the city because I love the job, he’d said last night, then added, And I happen to have a bit of family money that helps smooth over the rough places.

  Cypress Hill was a decent enough little town, though dusty and sleepy, one of those rural places where the population dropped steadily every decade as the young people went off looking for jobs and careers. Not the sort of place that attracted a lot of businesses or families of a lot of wealth. In fact, all its wealth, if she recalled her mom’s research correctly, pretty much belonged to the family that owned the plantation. She was certain they had been mentioned in the article, as well—when Bette did a story, she did it justice—but all Martine remembered was that the property had come down through the wife’s family so there were two surnames involved.

  A bit of family money... “I don’t remember Cypress Hill having much in the way of opportunities. A couple of convenience stores, some churches, a bank, a few bars.” She couldn’t be sure of any that, but she knew from Bette’s travels that the description covered a great many small towns.

  “Yeah. We went to school in the next town over. And to the doctor, the dentist, the grocery store...”

  She was enjoying being the one asking questions that he hadn’t expected. Turnabout was always fair play, even when it was on a much less important subject. “Did you ever ask your parents to move to the next town?”

  “They couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  Finally he looked at her and lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Their income was kind of tied to Cypress Hill.”

  “Cypress Hill the town? Or Cypress Hill the plantation?”

  He slowed to take the next exit, the signal light blinking, then came to a stop at the highway where he needed to turn. “Okay. My DiBiase father married my Ravenel mother, whose family built Cypress Hill back in 1820. She grew up in the house. So did my sisters and I. After my sisters left home, my parents had a smaller place built way out back and opened the house up for tours, weddings, overnight stays, etcetera. It’s been very successful for them.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m trying to picture this.” Martine closed her eyes, imagining a beautiful, refined, beloved mansion and Jimmy at eight, twelve and sixteen, sitting on furniture fit for a castle and eating off dishes fit for a king. Jimmy, being polite, well-mannered and behaved, as generations of Ravenels before him had always been.

  Opening her eyes agai
n, she smiled smugly. “The image just won’t form.”

  The look he gave her was grumpy. “Where did you think I grew up? In a home for juvenile delinquents? On a farm, with the animals?”

  “Don’t get annoyed with me. I didn’t know you even had parents until last night.” She pointed helpfully to the right. “Marquitta’s that way. Just follow the road to the middle of nowhere.”

  Her mood significantly better, she returned to gazing out ahead of them, this time with a smile easing the tension on her face.

  After a moment, she caught a tiny glimpse of a smile on Jimmy’s face, as well.

  Chapter 5

  Marquitta had so much more to offer than Cypress Hill that if Jimmy had grown up there, he might have gone back after college. It had all the businesses he needed to survive: grocery stores, convenience stores, liquor stores and restaurants. Its police department was of a decent size, around thirty-five officers, and there was enough crime to keep them busy, though homicides were rare. For a homicide detective, that could be good or bad, depending on the week.

  “I’ve got an appointment with the detective in charge of the Fletcher case in fifteen minutes at a coffee shop up here,” he said as he drove along the main drag downtown. “I’ll ask if he minds you listening in, but if he says yes, you’ll have to have your coffee alone.”

  “Or I could walk around downtown.”

  “Or you can sit at another table and have your coffee alone. Come on, Martine, this guy who’s very upset with you and your friends probably lived here when you did. He knows your face, and he knows his way around if he followed you into the woods, so you don’t get to go off anywhere without me.”

  “Okay.”

  Her easy acceptance made him shake his head. Just a few days ago, the idea of her agreeing to something he suggested would have seemed impossible. All she'd seen when she looked at him was the cheater, the betrayer, the liar who had almost seduced her.

  Damn, he regretted that he’d failed. Regretted that he'd even tried. Wondered what would have happened if he'd waited until he was single again.

  And while she was cooperating at the moment, he wondered what it would take to make her forget that guy completely. To convince her that he’d changed.

  Yeah, he heard that line a lot from people he’d arrested, and he rarely believed it from them. He’d gotten cynical enough over the years that he wasn’t sure he would believe himself.

  The coffee shop was located on the corner across the street from the police department. Jimmy found a parking space on the adjacent street, met Martine on the sidewalk, and they headed back to the corner. “Are you armed?”

  She held her arms out from her sides. “Can you tell?”

  He gave her a long, attentive look, from her shoulders to her knees, then back again, even though he knew exactly where the pepper spray and the Taser would be. “With all those clothes, you could be packing an AR-15 under there for all I know. Are you comfortable wearing them?”

  “They don’t seem as weird as I thought they would.”

  “Hopefully we’ll get this guy before they become second nature.” He opened the coffee shop door, and heat rushed out, carrying the aromas of coffee, sugar and cream on the air.

  A white-haired man stood up at a table in the center, surrounded by other older gentlemen, with enough empty sugar packets and creamer tubs to indicate that they’d been at it awhile. “You DiBiase?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.” You’ll recognize me, the guy had said, because I’ll be sitting at the old cop farts’ table. Bunch of retirees that have nothing better to do than relive their glory days.

  Much as Jimmy appreciated a hot cup of coffee or three in the morning and swapping stories with other cops, when he retired, he sincerely hoped he didn’t find himself hanging out in a cop coffee shop or bar, rehashing old cases. He intended to have more in his life than getting old and nostalgic.

  The older guy met him in the aisle, a brown expandable folder tucked under his arm, shook hands, then smiled at Martine. “Do you know we didn’t get our first female officer until eight years ago? I bet you brighten up the office. I’m Carl Taylor.”

  “Nice to meet you, Carl. I’m Martine Broussard.”

  “Martine’s not an officer, Detective,” Jimmy said. “I wanted her to sit in because she knows some of the victims involved in my case, but if you’d prefer she didn’t, that’s fine.”

  Taylor’s gaze shifted back to Martine, shrewd and evaluating, before he smiled again. “If DiBiase trusts you, who am I to object? It’s his case. And it’s Carl, son. If I get used to being called Detective again, my wife’s gonna pitch a fit. She says it took the first ten years of retirement for me to remember what my first name is.”

  They took a table for four in the back, Jimmy sliding out the chair in the corner for Martine. He hadn’t realized exactly how uncomfortable he was going to be with her visiting her hometown until they’d crossed the city limits. He didn’t know enough about the suspect’s pattern to know whether bringing her here increased the danger or provided a bit of safety over leaving her in the shop and the home that the guy already knew about.

  At least they were in a room with a bunch of retired cops, and the police station was only a ten-second run away.

  Taylor waved to a waitress who took their orders for coffee, then set the folder on the table. “So you were asking about the Fletcher case. Easiest murder case we ever closed. Not that we have very many murders around here. Do you mind if I ask why you’re looking at it now? It’s been over twenty years.”

  “I have a new case that appears to be tied to that one.”

  “Tied how?”

  Jimmy had been debating how to answer that question since making the appointment. In general, he didn’t like sharing with outside agencies, but sometimes there wasn’t much choice. Other cops didn’t like it when he asked all the questions and gave them nothing in return, even if it was only to satisfy their curiosity.

  “Can I get into that later?” he asked as the waitress brought three steaming cups of coffee.

  “Sure,” Taylor agreed. “I won’t forget. So... I’ll just start at the beginning. Police got a call around eight fifteen on a Sunday morning. Katie Jo Fletcher, in hysterics, screaming that her husband was dead. She was so shaken, she couldn’t even get her address right. We found him in bed, shot once in the chest and once in the groin. No sign of a break-in, no struggle and no weapon.”

  “Any neighbors hear the shots?”

  “Nah. They lived back a good ways off the road. Katie Jo, she was wailing and keening, going on about how he didn’t deserve that, that he’d been a good husband and a good father—”

  “Father?” Jimmy glanced at Martine. “How many kids did he have?”

  “Just the one, Irena. Stepdaughter, really. Used her daddy’s name—Young.”

  Martine’s brows narrowed in the way that meant she was concentrating. “I think... Do you have a picture of her, Carl?”

  Taylor thumbed through the files in the thick folder and pulled out a thinner one. All it held was a school photo and a single sheet of paper with minimal information.

  When Martine took it, Jimmy leaned close to see it better. A strand of her hair brushed against his cheek, and the scent of her perfume drifted on the air. Not the time to think how good she smelled or how good she’d felt all that time ago.

  He barely managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. Any time was a good time to think those kinds of things. Life was too short and uncertain to limit pleasures to certain times or places.

  Irena Young was a pretty enough girl, though her hair was overstyled, her makeup overdone, her outfit overmatched. The effect was desperation—to fit in, to be accepted—and the fear that it wasn’t going to happen shadowed her eyes.

  Resettling in his chair, Jimmy ask
ed, “You remember her, Martine?”

  “I... I do. She was new that year, and she didn’t seem to like it. We felt bad for her, having to start her senior year at a brand-new school. But we had no clue she was Mr. Fletcher’s stepdaughter.”

  “Would you have wanted anyone to know if you were her?”

  “No, of course not.” Her fingers trembled slightly as she returned the folder to Taylor.

  “So you’re from here.” Taylor’s gaze narrowed. “Are you Bette and Mark Broussard’s daughter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You look like your mom, but you’ve got your daddy’s coloring. What remote part of the world is she in now?”

  “London. Not too remote.”

  “Our hometown girl made good. Not that we see much of her anymore. She tells my wife life’s too short to waste.”

  “Smart woman,” Jimmy said, grinning at the coincidence before returning to the subject. “You said this was the easiest murder case you ever had. Did you suspect Katie Jo from the beginning?”

  “She was the wife. We always suspect them. But no more than usual. They seemed to get along fine, though there were rumors that he ran around on her. Also rumors about what went on behind closed doors. They didn't socialize, didn't go to church, he wouldn't let her get a job. According to her, he was pretty controlling. But she was truly grief-stricken. I’ve seen a lot of people at the worst times of their lives. I can usually tell if they’re playing a part or if they’re sincere, and that woman was sincerely in shock at her husband’s death.”

  “But?”

  Taylor tore open three packets of sugar, dumped them into his coffee and stirred it, the spoon clinking against the porcelain. “But the next day, she was all calmed down, like she’d cried every tear she had. She walked into the police station, quiet, head held high, told us she’d shot him and where she’d hidden the gun.”