Detective Defender

by Marilyn Pappano

  Anise shook her head.

  A shiver seeped through the open collar of Martine’s shirt and raced along her skin, trailing up her spine and down into her suddenly queasy stomach. “Oh. Okay. Um, why don’t you come in? I just need to grab a few things. Coat. Bag.”

  “Shoes.” Anise looked pointedly at her socked feet. “Go on. I’ll wait here.” Though she walked the ten blocks between home and the shop twice a day, Anise didn’t do stairs unless they were unavoidable. That, she insisted, was why God invented elevators.

  Turning, Martine dashed back up the stairs. As soon as she rounded the corner out of her assistant’s sight, she yanked the phone from her pocket and checked caller ID. Her heart stopped, giving a stutter or two before it managed to find a rhythm again, and stone-cold ice spread through her. Unable to depend on her legs, she sagged against the wall, and her gaze went unfocused, scanning the room without making sense of anything until it reached the kitchen window, then the back door.

  The apartment was filled with windows and doors, entries and exits, window glass easy to break, doors easy to kick. Even with locks, even with Jimmy’s weapons, even with her sense of security—false sense?—she wasn’t safe here. The killer had found Callie. He’d found Paulina in a strange city that no one knew she was even in besides Martine. He’d already proved he knew where to find her.

  It was just a matter of time.

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” Anise called up the stairs. “Just because it’s twenty degrees colder down here than it is up there.”

  The girl’s voice was enough to shake Martine from her shock. She hustled into the bedroom, pulled on a pair of comfortable boots, grabbed her purse from the kitchen table and a coat from the coat tree. Before she reached the stairs again, she drew a deep, deep breath to control the panic inside her. She forced herself to walk down the steps at a sane pace, to follow Anise outside, to lock the door securely, then tiptoe through the snow to the shop’s stoop.

  The weather-sensitive door creaked and groaned, but within seconds they were inside, where she made a beeline for the storeroom. “I’ll start the coffee,” she called, not entirely a lie since she intended to do that, too. First, though, she had a phone call to make.

  “DiBiase.” Jimmy’s voice was warm and confident and would have done tingly girlie things to her inside if she wasn’t too chilled to tingle.

  “Hey, Jimmy, it’s Martine.”

  His voice went softer, sweeter. “It’s not even ten o’clock. Miss me?”

  More than you know. “Um, listen, Jimmy, I just got a phone call.”

  “Yeah?” Interest and concern in one syllable.

  “Yeah.” Her fingers clenched tighter, and she had to force air into her lungs before she could get the words out.

  “Caller ID said it was from Callie Winchester’s phone.”

  * * *

  When Jimmy was a kid, swearing was strictly prohibited in the DiBiase household. Convinced that his parents would somehow find out he was breaking the rule, he abided by it until he was about twelve, when he wrecked his bike and skidded twenty feet along the pavement, shredding the skin exposed on his arms and legs. Damn, he’d muttered, and it had lessened his pain a little, so he’d repeated it, like a mantra, until he’d vented all his frustration and hurt. Now the word kept running through his brain. Damn damn damn damn.

  It wasn’t lessening anything this time.

  It took too long to get a warrant to Callie’s cell service provider, then too long to get back the location of her phone when the call was made—though instantly would have been too long—and finding out made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He rose from his desk, too edgy to sit still, pulled on his coat and headed out to his car.

  Whoever had called Martine had been in Jackson Square, specifically in the corner nearest Café du Monde. Far too close for comfort, but not as close as earlier. One of the towers the phone had pinged before the call placed it on Royal Street less than ten minutes before.

  The killer had walked past Martine’s apartment, had possibly stood outside and watched the building while she was oblivious inside, going about her prework routine. Then she—his gut was leaning heavily toward a woman, and although he remained open to all possibilities, he didn’t argue with gut instinct—had gone to Jackson Square and placed the call, frightening Martine without saying a word. Then, according to the service provider, the phone’s signal had disappeared, meaning either the phone was turned off or the battery went dead.

  He was pretty sure this woman, this person responsible for two murders, hadn’t been careless enough to let the battery die.

  Which meant she could be back on Royal Street, watching Martine’s place. Hell, she could be in the shop posing as a customer.

  Dread shuddered through him. He was generally well acquainted with the feeling—that came from going to too many crime scenes, from investigating too many victims—but this dread was different. It was sharp edged and left him in some odd limbo before numbness and angry raw fear.

  Head ducked against the cold, he got into his car and started the engine, shuddering as cold air blew out the defroster vents, fogging the windows.

  When he pulled away from the curb, he automatically headed in the direction of Royal. Martine had to close the shop. Had to get out of her apartment. Had to go into hiding someplace where she couldn’t be found.

  Like Tallie Winchester. Robin Railey. Irena Young.

  He knew exactly where he wanted Martine to go.

  And it wasn’t going to be easy to get her there.

  Like most Southern cities, New Orleans’s policy for dealing with snow was simple: wait it out. Eventually the sun would come out and the air would warm and the snow would go away on its own. It was a good time to hibernate. He just wished he could.

  Parking next to Martine’s car, he stepped out, and the snow crunched beneath his feet. Trails were worn in the white stuff, including a mess of prints going up and then down Martine’s steps. The same prints marked the shop’s steps, though his own bigger footprints obliterated them. He jiggled the knob and pushed at the door until it gave, stomped his feet to clean his shoes, then went inside. When he closed the door, a mild shock shot through his fingers. “Damn,” he muttered, and a dozen feet away, Anise gave him a curious look.

  “How was it?” She cocked her head to one side. “The same as before? Stronger? Weaker?”

  Remembering her comment the first time it happened—That wasn’t the effect I was going for—he scowled at her. “Where’s Martine?”

  “In there.” She cocked her head toward the door marked Private.

  Jimmy went that way, but before opening the door, he turned back. “A little stronger than before. Is that the effect you were going for?”

  Smiling serenely, she shrugged and returned her attention to the shelves she was rearranging.

  The door opened into a medium-sized room with display counters, shelves, cabinets and tall jars and bins holding who knew what. There were no windows, the only lighting artificial and not nearly substantial enough. Though no candles or incense burned, an exotic, acrid smell drifted on the air.

  Goose bumps raised along his arms. This was the real stuff, the merchandise she sold to real practitioners.

  “Are you looking for me or just looking?”

  The voice came from the right and shifted Jimmy’s heart into overdrive. His hand had already shoved past his overcoat and jacket to his pistol before it registered as Martine’s. After sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, he turned to find her standing a few feet from him, her dark clothes and black hair blending with the shadows in the corner. “Holy crap, Martine, don’t you know better than to sneak up on an armed man?”

  She raised both hands palm out. “I didn’t sneak. I didn’t move at all.” Then she did move, coming into the ligh
t, resting her hands on the glass countertop. “You must have bad news.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Fabulous news gets delivered in person. Good or so-so news can be passed over the phone. Bad news usually requires a face-to-face visit.” Her gaze raked over him, and a thin smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “You don’t look like you’ve got fabulous news.”

  Lines furrowed around her eyes, her forehead and tagged the smile as less than authentic. She looked soul weary, as if the call from her dead friend’s phone had been the very last straw. It made him want to wrap his arms around her, to hold her until she remembered that she wasn’t alone in this, to give her some bit of strength to help her through.

  By God, she would get through.

  “The cell towers show the call came from Jackson Square, but they put the phone on this street just before then,” he said grimly.

  Even in the dim light, he saw the color blanch from her face. “My street?”

  “Yes.”

  “While I was making coffee, I went to the living room window and looked out to see how much snow we’d gotten. I saw a few people on the street and thought they were more suckers for punishment than me. They just seemed normal, people on their way to work. None of them stood out.” Her gaze scanned the room as if danger might lurk in every shadow before coming back to him. Fear darkened her irises, but she was making an obvious effort to contain it. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Whoever killed Callie and Paulina, whoever left that envelope on my car and cut the chain to my gate, they just looked normal, too, didn’t they? The kind of person you’d smile at and say hello to on the street. Not some crazed psychopath who might drag you around the corner and crack your skull open.”

  He moved his hand to her shoulder, rubbing away the shivers there. “You’re a wise woman to be scared, Martine, but—”

  “I think I should close the shop for a few days.”

  The comment surprised him. He’d figured she would give him an argument about closing, about hiding and letting someone else control her life. He’d thought he would have to persuade her, pointing out that it was just temporary, that it was safer for everyone if she avoided the shop, that being smart and alive was better than being independent and dead. It took him a moment to catch up with her and nod. “I agree.”

  Again her gaze skimmed the room, stopping on the door he’d left open behind him, focusing on the world outside. A dangerous world. “The thing is...” Once more the pretend smile touched her mouth. “I don’t feel safe in my apartment. This morning, after that call, it just really hit that the murd—” She swallowed hard, corrected herself. “The person who killed Paulina and Callie is here, waiting for me. I lock myself in my apartment, but there are ways in. He or she could walk into the store at any time, and I wouldn’t know, I wouldn’t suspect, until it was too late. They could be watching outside when I leave with you, they could follow us, they could have a tracking device on your car, and the minute you turn your back—”

  When he’d first walked into the room, he’d wanted to hold her—just as he’d wanted to keep holding her when he’d walked away last night—but he’d waited. Now he took a step to reach her and pulled her close to him. She was so slender and insubstantial, a shaky mass of emotions dominated by fear. “Hey, don’t insult my cop intellect,” he lightly teased. “I check my car every day. No one’s gonna follow me unless I want them to. And I’m the best at ID’ing vehicles driving the same route I am, sticking too close or taking too many of the same turns.”

  Bless her, Martine made an effort, even with her face pressed to the soft wool of his coat. “Huh. Jack says he’s the best at all that stuff.”

  “Well, Jack may say it, but with me, it’s really true. You would be amazed, Tine, at all the things I’m best at. You come stay at my place, and I’ll show you. Or tell you.” He hesitated, then returned to his original word choice. “No, show you.”

  Tension ratcheted through her body as she lifted her head, staring at him. Was she thinking that in a tourist destination like New Orleans, there were a thousand better places to stay than with him? Wondering what people would think? Wondering what he would think?

  Or wondering what she would think. Feel. Do.

  Or not do.

  “I’ve got room,” he went on. “It’s safe. There’s a security system. A doorman. No one will know you’re there. Seriously, of all the places you could hide out, who in this city would ever believe you’d choose mine?”

  She stared a moment longer before a real smile came to her face. Among their friends and acquaintances, it was well known—and a source of amusement for most—that the mere sight of him pushed her irritation level to the max. The closest she ever came to a smile around him was the baring of her teeth, and anything she had to say, she said in a fearsome growl. He figured all that was going through her mind, too, because curiosity and possibility both seeped into her expression.

  “They say you always go to your lady friends’ homes so you don’t have to meet the minimum standards of cleanliness in your own.”

  “Or so I can leave the next morning pretty much when I want to.”

  She was relaxing a little in his arms, warming to the subject of what he was sure had been many conversations about his failings and shortcomings. “And that you prefer crappy apartments in crappy areas so women don’t feel safe going there alone. That way no one ever shows up without an invitation and an escort.”

  “Aw, that's not true. But sometimes,” he said drily, “I do try to live within my salary, and cheap apartments are often crappy ones. It also has the advantage of putting me close to the calls I work.”

  “They also say—”

  “Wow, they talk an awful lot about me when my back is turned, don’t they? And you listen to an awful lot of it for someone who professes to hate me.”

  She smiled innocently. “Have I ever actually used the word hate?”

  He was too lost in looking at her to answer right away. She was beautiful and sexy, and she had this way of gazing at a man that made him feel she was giving him everything—every bit of her attention, emotion, desire, need. She had another way of looking that could make a man go weak, pretty sure she might leave him a boneless, brainless puddle and grateful for it. But add innocence to the sexiness and sensuality, and he was a goner.

  He lost track of the conversation, instead maneuvering her even closer against him, bending to kiss her ear, to make her shiver. “I’m more interested in words you might actually use in the future,” he murmured even as a rattle sounded outside the room. Anise’s voice filtered in the air, along with a stranger’s, their words impossible to make out. Jimmy didn’t know if he went taut first or if Martine did, but he put her away and pivoted toward the door.

  It was an older woman talking to the clerk, wearing a coat too thin for the day, silvery hair peeking out under a knitted New Orleans Saints cap. Not Irena. Not Tallie or Robin. Neither predator nor prey.

  Nope, not exactly right. Irena might be his favorite choice for the killer, but that didn’t mean he could rule out anyone else. A sweet lined face and pure white hair weren’t enough to take that stranger out of the running for anything. When he didn’t have a clue who his suspect was, then it could be anyone. Good reason to get Martine out of sight and keep her there.

  Martine, moving soundlessly, eased the door shut and sighed. “At least we won’t lose much money. The whole week’s been a bust. Please, God, may the sun shine again Monday.”

  “As soon as Anise’s finished, we’ll lock up and give her a ride home. Don’t tell her or anyone else where you’re going. Oh, and I’ll need your phone.” When he held out his hand, she gave it to him with just a little reluctance. He powered it down and slid it into his pocket, heard the doorbell ring and sneaked a peek to find Anise alone. “Come on, Tine. Let’s go.”

 
* * *

  Martine had lived in her apartment nearly twenty years and she loved it more than the day she’d moved in, but a heavy sense of unease prickled through her as she climbed the stairs. Even with Jimmy two steps behind her, she was afraid to reach the top, to notice a window cracked open, the back door unsecured, signs of an intruder soiling her space and spoiling its aura.

  There weren’t any windows cracked open, and the back door was still locked, and not a single thing had changed from the last time she was there, but the unease didn’t go away. She grabbed a backpack from the coat tree and a cardboard box from the workroom, along with a handful of the shop’s logoed bags. She filled the backpack and the box with clothing and shoes, with toiletries and makeup going into the shopping bags. She didn’t want anyone who saw her to think she was running away but maybe making a delivery for the store.

  “I do have luggage,” she said to Jimmy, leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, just in case he thought she was one of those people who really did pack in cardboard and plastic.

  “Luggage says ‘I’m going somewhere.’ Boxes and bags say ‘But I’ll be back in a few hours.’” He grinned. “Didn’t think I caught the subtle nuances of that, did you?”

  “I didn’t know you knew a thing about ‘subtle’ or ‘nuances.’” But there was no sting to her words. She glanced around the room, thinking of nothing else she wanted besides the laptop in the living room and a heavier coat from the rack. “I guess I’m ready.”

  She swung one strap of the backpack over her shoulder while Jimmy picked up the box and the bags. When she scooped up her computer, he shook his head. “No.”

  “No?” she echoed.

  “You can’t send email, use social media or surf the net. Providers are too easy to follow. You can use mine, but you still can’t do email or social media. Okay?”

  Swallowing a sigh, she put the computer in a desk drawer as she passed, then started down the stairs. She hadn’t brought any projects, any books, any music. She would probably go stark-raving mad within twenty-four hours.