Unless Jimmy found a way to entertain her.
Had he noticed the condoms she’d sneaked into the bag with her hand lotion and other stuff? Smart women were never caught unprepared, right? Neither were smart men—or easy men—but given that he’d been celibate for a year, she thought it best to provide recently purchased protection.
Even if she didn’t get to use it.
She waited inside the door while he put her bags in the trunk of his car. Then they returned to the shop and helped Anise close up. If the girl thought something was wrong, she kept it to herself. All the way to her house, she spoke only in partial sentences to give Jimmy directions.
There she swung her legs out the rear door, then paused. “You want me to let Ramona and Niles know?”
“Yes, please. Tell them I’ll still pay you guys.”
Anise fixed a grim look on her. “It’s not just the money. We’re responsible. We could keep the shop open.”
“I know you could, sweetie, but...” Martine didn’t want to even hint that the store could be a dangerous place right now. If the killer was frustrated by Martine’s disappearance, what revenge might he take on her employees?
“I really think it’s best if we just all take a break. If you need anything, call my cell, okay?” Martine assumed Jimmy would be keeping it at work, in case the killer called again, and he could keep her updated on any other calls.
“Okay.” Anise stood up, then ducked down inside again. “You’d better not let anything happen to her,” she said to Jimmy, “or those shocks are just the beginning.”
He acknowledged her with a relatively serious nod. She straightened, slammed the door and picked her way carefully through the snow to the porch of the small house she shared with her father.
“Are you still getting shocked by the doorknob?”
He gave the fingers of his left hand a rueful look. “Yeah. I think they’re getting stronger.”
Martine frowned. “I adore Anise, but...that’s a little scary.”
“You doubted her powers?”
“Well...yes. Anise’s a dabbler. So is Niles, only he’s not much of a believer. Creating a ward that shocks only one person, and the same person every time...who knows what she might do if she finds a talented mentor willing to work with her?”
“Like you?”
She shook her head. “I’m not talented. I can put together protection bags and charms and make cleansing potions and healing potions, but the difference between, say, me and Auntie Katrine—you know her, right?”
An eye roll accompanied Jimmy’s nod, as if to say everyone in the NOPD knew Auntie Katrine. She was a fixture in the French Quarter, her business set up in good weather or bad on the sidewalk in front of her small shotgun house, painted hot pink and lime green. She was short and fat—she’d tsk if you used any other word—and she came from Trinidad, or maybe it was Antigua or West Caicos. She’d been here forty years going on seventy, and she’d birthed fourteen children and buried five husbands...or was it ten children and seven husbands? With Auntie Katrine, details always varied, but one thing didn’t. She was on better terms with the spirits than anyone Martine had ever known.
“Take the executive chef at the best five-star restaurant in the entire world, and that would be Auntie Katrine. I would be the perpetually stained, sweaty, steamy peon in the back washing dishes. We’d both be in the restaurant business, but that’s where the similarities end.”
He squeezed her fingers lightly. “I’d like to see you sweaty and steamy for the right reasons.”
This time it was her eyes rolling, but she wasn’t annoyed. Some of his lines, his practiced smiles, his flippant comments, could still set her hair on fire, but her ticked off–meter wasn’t nearly as sensitive as it used to be with him.
You need to get to know him, Evie always said. When you figure out what’s real and what isn’t, he’s a good guy.
Of course, Evie was already happily married to the love of her life at the time she met Jimmy, so she was never the target of his over-the-top charming smiles or his sweet-talking ways.
In an attempt to distract herself, Martine gazed out the window. “Where do you live?”
“You’ll be surprised.”
Acknowledging that she likely would, she changed the subject. “Did the killer take Paulina’s cell phone?”
“She left it at home when she ran away. The one she used to call you was a burner phone. It didn’t have anything personal on it.”
“So he took Callie’s because it did have stuff on it—names, pictures. So she had no clue what was about to happen. She was going about her life as usual, and one night she died.” She considered that for a moment. “I think I might prefer it that way—the surprise, you know. Poor Paulina looked like she’d been living in hell. She was afraid to stay in one place, to look over her shoulder, terrified of what she might see. But it didn’t help her. She knew death was coming. Her only surprise was when, and maybe who.”
“Paulina didn’t get help,” Jimmy said quietly. “She could have gone to the police. Her family could have hired bodyguards. They could have spirited her away to some isolated place on another continent or put her on a yacht in the middle of the ocean.”
“Maybe she thought she didn’t deserve any of that. Maybe she thought death was what she deserved.”
Or maybe not. Her last known act had been to warn Martine. Without that, the killer could have grabbed Martine the very next day or anytime since. She would have been vulnerable and helpless and most likely have ended up like Callie and Paulina.
She didn’t focus back into the present until the clicking of the turn signal pulled her there. Jimmy was turning into the parking garage of a tall building just a short distance from the river, stopping, waiting for the security guard to step out of the shack, give him a wave, then activate the iron gate. There were expensive shops on the ground floor of the building, the kind outside her budget except for very special events—which were pretty much outside her lifestyle—and she vaguely remembered hearing about condos upstairs.
Jimmy DiBiase, who according to legend had never cared one bit about the places he called home, lived in a sky-high condo in the Central Business District of the city. He had been right. She was surprised.
He parked in one of two spaces marked 805. Silently, they gathered her belongings from the trunk and hustled to the elevator fifty feet away. It was marked Residents Only and required a swipe card to operate, and it took them quickly to the eighth floor.
The condo had great bones, easy to tell because it had very little in it: a sofa that had seen better days. A television mounted to the wall above the fireplace. Stools at the counter that separated the kitchen, which didn’t hold a single one of the usual items that tended to clutter counters. No dishes, no soap, no can opener, no sugar or coffee, nothing but half a roll of paper towels. Through an open door down the hall, she saw the corner of a mattress set, resting directly on the floor.
He set her stuff on the counter, and she added the backpack to the pile. “Are you planning to finish moving in soon?” she asked pleasantly, drawing a growl from him as she walked to the tall windows that looked out over the city. “Somehow, I didn’t picture you living in an actual apartment—with a living room, kitchen and everything. I figured all you needed was a bedroom and a bathroom. You know, like a motel.”
He looked as if he didn’t know whether to be annoyed or to agree with her. Finally, with a grin, he opened his arms to encompass the mostly empty space. “I’m finished moving in. What you see is all I’ve got.”
“Are there dishes in the cabinets?”
“Nope. No food, either. I have dishes. They’re in boxes down the hall. I haven’t had time to unpack them. And I’ll get groceries today. I’ve just been a little preoccupied.”
With this case, Martine knew. W
ith her. “I appreciate your preoccupation.”
His grin appeared again before he gestured toward the hall. “Want the five-second tour?”
It actually took about ten seconds. There was the master bedroom: the mattress set, a lamp sitting on a box, a closet, a bathroom and a wall of windows. The hall circled around behind the kitchen, leading to another bedroom, smaller in all senses, including the windows, then went back into the living room, passing the guest bath on the way. Neatly labeled boxes were stacked in the hall, and there was no furniture—zip, zilch, nada—in the guest room.
“So I’m sleeping on the couch.” The idea tickled her: after practically jumping his bones the second time they met, and regretting not doing it on more than one occasion, the first time they spent the night in the same space, she’d be passing it on an old, worn, comfy sofa.
He gave her a long, serious, tantalizing look. “You’re always welcome in my bed, Martine. I made that clear a long time ago.”
“Yes, but you were married, Jimmy.”
After another moment, he slowly smiled. “I have to admit, I admire the fact that it mattered to you. I even admire your unwillingness to let it go. I like that kind of commitment to your beliefs.”
She believed him, especially when he touched her so gently, his fingers stroking along her jaw. The contact made her all warm and melty inside, made her forget all the ugliness and let her just be a woman with desires and needs and uncertainties.
“What are you committed to, Jimmy?” Her voice was barely a whisper, and the sound was unsteady, shaky, like her legs that didn’t want to support her, like her fingers that trembled when they cupped his hand where it rested on her cheek.
He moved closer, brushed his mouth across her forehead, kissed a trail to her ear, then glided down to the corner of her lips. He toyed with her, sliding his mouth back and forth, teasing her lips apart, briefly tasting her, giving her a taste of him, before he lifted his head and met her gaze. His was fiercely protective and possessive and hot.
“You, Tine,” he answered gruffly. “I’m committed to you.”
Chapter 8
In all his years with the department, Jimmy couldn’t recall ever not wanting to work as much as he did when he had to leave the apartment and Martine. It was a strange feeling. From the time he’d graduated the academy and started his first day with his training officer, he’d counted himself lucky for loving the job. From doing traffic stops to refereeing domestic disputes to drug arrests, he’d never gotten up in the morning and thought I don’t want to do this today.
Right now, though, he didn’t want to return to work. Two thoughts kept running through his mind, one that knotted his gut and another that could make him a believer in spontaneous combustion: Martine was in danger, and damn, the things they could do if he didn't leave. God knew, he’d worked enough long hours over the years to justify taking an afternoon off, but that wasn’t the way he did things.
Instead, he kissed her again and left the apartment, arranging with the building's concierge service to take care of the shopping, and returned to the station.
When he got to his desk, he called Paulina’s husband, back home in Alabama with the unenviable job of planning his wife’s funeral. Shawn Bradley didn’t sound as if he had gotten past the shock of her death.
“Your wife left her cell phone behind when she left. Is that right?” Jimmy asked after apologizing for bothering the man.
“Yes, she did.”
“Did any calls come in on the phone after her disappearance?”
“A lot of text messages. Most of the calls were from me. At first I didn’t know she was gone, and then I just... I wanted to hear her voice on the outgoing message.” Bradley’s voice cracked, and he took a deep breath to steady it. “In the first few days, there were calls from friends and coworkers who didn’t know she’d disappeared. Those dropped off for a while, then it was like something jogged their memory and they called to see if she was back. Now it’s down to her parents and me.”
“Did you know most of the callers?”
“By name if not personally. Paulina liked to share the details of her day—who made her laugh, who ticked her off, who she had lunch with. The rest seemed to be just acquaintances, not part of her regular life. People who heard that a Paulina Bradley was missing and wanted to make sure it wasn’t her.”
He fell silent, so still that Jimmy thought they might have lost their connection. He was about to speak when Bradley did.
“Then there were the hang-ups. Though if I recall, one of them...” His tone turned thoughtful, and the rustling of papers sounded in the background. “Paulina hated missing a call—we used to joke that the phone was glued to her hand—so in the beginning, I kept track of them all since the phone would only store so many numbers. Okay, here it is. Two weeks after she went missing, she got a call from one of the Christmas-card friends I told you about—the sisters. Callie Winchester, from the 206 area code. No message, just a hang-up.”
So the killer hadn’t been watching Paulina, hadn’t known she’d run away. Why the change with Martine?
Because the killer had found Paulina in New Orleans, and it was convenient to take care of her and Martine at the same time. Because Paulina had warned Martine. Because with Tallie and Robin already in hiding, Martine had been the only one the killer could easily locate.
“Does that help, Detective?”
“Yes, Mr. Bradley, it does.” He got the cell carrier’s name and Paulina’s number so he could confirm the call through the company, said goodbye, then tapped his pen in the air above the notebook.
He’d been blessed with some cases so easy to close that a monkey could have done it: an angry avenger still holding the weapon, a remorseful spouse covered with the victim’s blood and gunshot residue, a rival proud to have put the competition out of business. But there was no challenge to those kinds of cases, and he did love a challenge.
“Uncle Jimmy!” The cry came from the doorway an instant before Isabella and Jackson Murphy charged around his desk, each determined to reach him first. He slid his chair back in time for Isabella, ducking nimbly around her brother, to leap into his lap and press her cold cheek to his. “I won,” she said with a dazzling smile.
“She cheated,” Jackson complained as he climbed up, too.
“I don’t think she cheated, buddy. She was just a little bit faster.”
“Because Mom says I can’t shove her out of the way.”
Evie, carrying Evangelina, slid into the chair that faced Jimmy’s desk. “She doesn’t get to shove you, either, Jackson.” As soon as the admonishment was spoken, she turned her gaze on Jimmy. “What have you done with Martine?”
Grinning, he pressed his hands over Isabella’s ears. “I can’t answer that in front of the kids.”
Evie’s gaze narrowed. “We went by the store, and it’s closed, and she’s not answering her door or her phone. Even if you were n-a-k-e-d in b-e-d, she wouldn’t leave me standing in the snow frantic about her.”
Picking up a pen and finding a piece of paper, Jackson carefully started writing. N-a-k. “What comes after the k, Uncle Jimmy?”
He deliberately misunderstood. “What comes after k? H-i-j-k-l-m-n-o—”
“P!” the older two shouted before dissolving into giggles.
Jimmy took advantage of their distraction. “She’s someplace safe.”
Evie’s scowl spoke to her dissatisfaction. “I know that. I want to know where. Your apartment?”
Holding on to both kids, he shifted position. “You think she’d consent to that?”
Tilting her head to one side, Evie studied him before smiling slyly. “I think she’d consent to that and a whole lot more.”
Images of the things Martine might consent to, and with him, thickened his brain and notched up the temperature
a few uncomfortable degrees. If he let them linger at all, he would embarrass himself with the kids and give the other detectives one more thing to joke about. Deliberately he changed the subject. “Any idea when Jack will be back?”
“Tomorrow, if God takes mercy on my sanity. You’d think Omaha would have been better prepared for snow. They live up north, for heaven’s sake.”
“I bet people up north say things like that about New Orleans and hurricanes.”
“Yes, but when I say it, it makes sense.” Evie nudged Evangelina, sitting quietly. “Sweetie, give Uncle Jimmy the goodies we brought.”
For the first time he noticed the paper bag Jack’s youngest was clutching, the same pink as her jacket. Eyes wide and two fingers stuck in her mouth, she shook her head and held it tighter.
“We made you cookies,” Isabella said, and Jackson prodded, “Give it to him, Vangie.”
Evangelina shook her head again. Evie whispered something in her ear. After considering it, the girl took her fingers from her mouth and thrust it at him. “Here, Uncle Jimmy.”
He accepted the bag, still faintly warm and smelling of chocolate chips and oatmeal and raisins, and thanked each of the kids. “What did you tell her? Maybe I can use it next time I’m questioning a suspect.”
“She’s a little girl, not a suspect.” Lips thinned, Evie added in a murmur, “At least, not yet. Kids, are you ready to get back out in the snow?”
Jackson wiggled to the floor, then held up his hand to high-five Jimmy. Isabella pressed her cheek to his once again before sliding down, and in a blur of movement and noise, the Murphy clan disappeared down the hall.
It wasn’t until quiet had settled again that Jimmy realized Evie had left his question about her tactics unanswered.
But with the comment about Martine, she’d given him more than enough to think about.
* * *
There were no food or dishes in the kitchen, Jimmy had said, but by three o’clock, Martine’s hunger pangs had led her to snooping. He was almost totally correct: the cabinets and drawers were empty. But the big gleaming silver refrigerator... Everything else might be bare, but occupying the top shelf was a large pizza box, and inside the box were two pieces of pie. It was from one of her favorite places, and the order tag still clung to the box, indicating he’d bought the pizza on Wednesday. Good enough for her.
Detective Defender Page 17