“Predictable?”
“I was going to say sloppy.”
“I’m getting that you’re not a fan of the police.”
“Police officers do what they do. Murderers, hired or self-directed, likewise. Fortunately, Rogue does what he does better than anyone I know. In my opinion, he’s our best chance of keeping you safe.”
Decision made, it appeared. Mia didn’t bat an eyelash as thunder rumbled low and threatening above the throbbing music. “Is Rogue with you now?”
“No, and I have urgent business in D.C.”
“Busy man.”
“I am.” He stood, waited until she did the same. “I promise you, there won’t be any sloppiness today. Rogue will arrive shortly. He’ll verify his identity to your satisfaction. I’m sorry, but your lounge will have to remain closed tonight.”
No, he wasn’t the least bit sorry. As for his rogue of an agent…
More thunder rolled through the sky. “You think the killer will come back, don’t you?” she said.
Crucible’s eyes moved to the window. “My guess is he already has.”
* * *
Enough of the cloak-and-dagger tactics. There were plainclothes officers everywhere Mia looked and probably more where she hadn’t. She might not be able to open the lounge, but her assistant had had the tearoom up and running since midmorning, and it was bustling.
Iona, one of the room’s two flamboyant fortune tellers, swept through a curtained archway in a colorful broom skirt, multiple scarves and a full complement of dramatic jewelry. “Uh-uh.” She snagged Mia by the shoulders, forced her to execute a one-eighty turn and propelled her to a shadowy corner table. “You’re playing with fireworks, pretty kitten. Gonna get your whiskers singed.”
“It’s ‘fire,’ not ‘fireworks,’ Iona, and I refuse to shut down two lucrative businesses at the height of the season. My grandmother would climb out of her grave and haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“That life that might be shorter than you think.” The older woman shook a stern finger. “I read your tea leaves after you talked to that big man in black today. Trouble surrounds you like a poison cloud, and all the signs point to that cloud closing in on you day by day. Hour by hour.” Sitting, she plunked a heavy elbow on the table and pointed at the ceiling. “Do you hear the thunder?”
Mia heard flutes and trickling water from a trio of fountains. She went stare-to-stare with the fortune teller. “You want to mix tea leaves with rogue agents and card-carrying killers, Iona. All I want is the head of the man who murdered an old woman outside my lounge last night.”
“Could be your head in danger if you don’t get gone from this place lickety split. Me and Crystal can watch over the Midnight Moon, and there isn’t a soul in this hemisphere more hardworking or honest than Henri. He’ll keep the Rose going.” She looked up, pointed again. “That’s two peals of thunder now. You know what it means.”
“It means,” Mia said wearily, “there’s a storm coming.”
“You think that, you’ve been away from your bayou roots too long. It’s time you went home.”
“The choice of destination isn’t up to me.”
“Fiddlesticks.” Iona flapped that away. “Choice is always up to you. Your life, your decision. Now if you want to talk Fate, we’ll turn to the Tarot. I say bayou. Cards might say different.” She held up a silencing finger. “And there it is. Three minutes, three times the thunder speaks its mind. It’s a sign for sure.”
Finally, Mia found herself smiling.. “It’s a summer storm moving northward from the gulf.” Her smile faded when she recalled the open terror in Helene Dubose’s face. “The question is, how much damage will this particular storm leave in its wake?”
* * *
Lightning snaked across a late afternoon sky whose massing clouds had gone from marginally gloomy to downright ominous in ten short minutes. Thunder boomed behind it. Ignoring both, Rick Ryder made a quick sweep of the darkening waterfront before pushing his way into the tavern behind him.
It was a dive, pure and simple. Sweat, beer and something like sour pickles permeated the air. He caught whiffs of smoke, most of it illegal, and wondered vaguely if the people with their heads down on the bar would stumble out under their own steam or wind up being stretchered out by paramedics.
“If you’re looking for me, you’re facing the wrong direction.”
Ryder gave in to a faint smile, but made himself lose it before he turned to a table so deep in one of the corners that all he could make out was the silhouette of its occupant. Figured.
“Maintaining the facade as usual, huh, Grogan?”
“No more than you’re fingering the rules.”
Keeping the wall at his back, Ryder straddled a chair. “Pretty sure you told me once there were no rules. None that you lived by, anyway.” He glanced around the room. “Does Crucible know where you spend your break time?”
The man lifted a half-gone mug of beer, gave the contents a lazy swirl. “I’m off the clock until I decide I’m not. Why’d you dog me here?”
Ryder rested his arms on the chair back. “Word is another calling card surfaced in a French Quarter alley.”
“Words are cheap, and in this case, not your concern.”
Ryder summoned a wry half smile. “Your Spidey senses need a tune-up if you think that, Rogue.”
He saw a gleam of teeth. “Trying to piss me off won’t work, you know that.” He took a slow drink. “Why are you here? Bear in mind, when this beer’s gone, so am I. I’d make it short and sweet if I were you.”
“You know, that’s pretty damn close to why I’m here.”
Grogan’s eyes flicked up as thunder shuddered through the walls of the derelict bar. “Three more swallows, Ryder, and I’m in the wind.”
“I need a favor.”
“I need a good night’s sleep. Since I’m 110 percent sure I won’t be getting one, what’s your point?”
“No point, just a statement of fact. And about as much of an answer as I expected.”
Grogan made a sound of disgust in his throat. “Even if I were inclined to stoop, I’m not in a favor-granting position right now. Got a job happening for Crucible et al.”
“Heard about it.”
“The hell you did. You’re guessing, or bluffing.”
Ryder grinned. “Those are two of my strengths.”
“And giving a damn’s your weakness.”
“You think?”
“Not think—know.” He polished off the beer, regarded the liquor-stained wall. “What’s the favor?”
“The witness, Mia LeMay. I want her.”
Grogan’s eyes shot to Ryder’s face. “You know I can’t…” he began, then swayed a little and frowned into his empty glass. “Damn me,” he muttered. He brought his gaze up. “Damn you.” His voice slurred. His head lolled. “Crucible’s gonna—”
“Oh, yeah, he’s definitely ‘gonna,’” Ryder agreed.
When Grogan’s face hit the table, Ryder stood and stuck a twenty in the man’s back pocket. It might be there when he woke up, it might not. Didn’t matter really. One way or another, Grogan would live. A rogue like him always did.
In terms of his own fate, Ryder figured he was a dead man going in. As for Mia LeMay? Well, even a dead man could use a little company.
CHAPTER TWO
One more cop, Mia fumed. If just one more big, sweaty body got in her way, told her not to walk past a window or open a closet door, she’d shoot it and to hell with Crucible and his uneasy allies.
By the time the tearoom closed—later than usual at her firm instruction—a tropical storm was already chasing the crowds from the streets.
Tired of Iona’s predictions of gloom and doom, and with a serious headache brewing, Mia escaped to her second-floor office. She locked the door, left the lights off, lit two candles, and, deciding she was in the mood for Bogart and Bacall, slid Key Largo into her Blu-ray. Because under no circumstances did she want to think about He
lene Dubose or a killer that one of today’s more superstitious cops had referred to as Jack the Ripper reborn. Granted, none of the victims had been disemboweled, but the sketch on the calling card suggested some kind of shadowy figure. And, like Jack, this shadow tended to leave a great deal of blood in his wake.
Too restless to sit, Mia paced the office floor and told herself not to recall the expression on Iona’s face when she’d chosen the Death card from the Tarot deck.
“I knew it,” the fortune teller had moaned. She’d kneaded Mia’s uncharacteristically cold hand with her thumbs. “You’re marked.”
The word “fraud” had hovered on Mia’s tongue, but she’d swallowed it. Iona meant well and, to be fair, she did have a Haitian great-great-grandmother.
“What I am,” she’d made herself reply, “is plagued. Or maybe ‘bedeviled’ is a better word. I’m tripping over police, still irked at Crucible’s high-handed attitude and most of the way too pissed off over the fact that an agent called Rogue, who’s supposed to be protecting me, hasn’t bothered to put in an appearance yet. Unless he’s posing as a cop to throw both me and the killer off.”
“We live in a city of disguised souls,” was all Iona would say.
“Deep,” Mia murmured now. Alone in her office, she rocked her head from side to side and paced to Bogey’s laconic drawl.
The scent of New Orleans wound through the closed French doors like ghostly fingers, enticing her to let the city in, let the exotic flavors and the rich dark textures work their magic on her soul.
Instead, a clap of thunder brought an ironic smile to her lips. Yes, the city beckoned, but people stayed inside in weather like this. It was unfortunate the system hadn’t materialized last night instead of its white sister. If it had, Helene Dubose might be alive, the Rose might be open, and she might not be considering the idea of having a voodoo doll made in Crucible’s image.
Pausing there, she let her amusement blossom. “A voodoo doll in Crucible’s image…” she mused aloud.
“Why Crucible’s image?”
“Jesus!” A reflexive jerk had her spinning around to face—no one. Mistrustful eyes skimmed the shadows. “Don’t play games with me,” she warned. “Who are you? Where are you?”
“Never where you’ll expect.”
Another quarter turn and she spotted a man’s silhouette, five feet away. Almost, but not quite visible by the flickering light of her flat screen.
The shadow he stood in stirred. “I see you like the dark.”
Whoever he was—Rogue, she sincerely hoped—he had a sexy voice, understated, with the barest hint of amusement and, of course, seduction. No problem. She could deal with that.
Circling away, Mia studied the shadows that concealed him. “If you’re Crucible’s agent, maybe I should have requested a password.”
“Spy school 101,” he agreed. “I am Crucible’s agent.”
“I’m not a student or a fan of the school.” Still watching, she put her desk between them. “I’ll need some kind of verification, or we’ll be standing here for a very long time.”
“Because you have a gun in the top drawer, and I’m unarmed.” As if to prove it, he held his hands out to the sides.
Mia glanced into the drawer. Her Magnum was right where she’d left it. Whether it was loaded or not remained to be seen.
“You people love to create an air of mystery, don’t you?” When he offered nothing back, she summoned a bland smile. “Still waiting for verification of your status, Rogue.”
Dropping his hands, he started toward her. “Crucible,” he said. “Big man. Some might call him imposing. Bald by choice, not by genes. He makes a strong impression.”
“He does, yes. And you have gold eyes.”
As he continued to advance, those eyes fixed on hers. Music drifted up from the lounge below, underscoring the movie and surrounding her, surrounding them, in a swirl of black notes. “Witchcraft,” she realized and almost gave in to the spell it wove.
“My grandmother said my eyes were the color of old gold,” he told her. “She had the soul of a poet. You want to pick up that gun, don’t you, Mia? Why?”
She had to dig to find her voice. Thankfully, it emerged calm and steady. “Crucible spoke to several people in the Rose today. His code name could have come up. You could have been eavesdropping.”
“You’re a careful woman. I like that.”
“Flattery’s lovely. Proof’s better.” Assuming he had any and wasn’t planning to slit her throat. She lowered her gaze. “Let me see your left hand—ring finger.”
His lips quirked. “I’m not married.”
“There’s good news. Ring finger, please.” Her own hovered mere inches from the Magnum.
He waited another beat before extending his hand, palm up.
By the moody flicker of the movie, she saw four capable-looking fingers and a thumb. One of several knots in her stomach loosened.
“I’m not left-handed,” he said and at long last moved into a pool of light strong enough to reveal his entire face.
His features were…the word “mesmerizing” sprang to mind, along with “hot.” If she’d been susceptible to outward appearances, she might even have said, “jaw-dropping.”
Dark hair fell in waves well past the collar of a badly scarred leather jacket. He had a lean and hungry look about him, all six feet three inches of him by her estimation. Long legs clad in faded jeans led up to a pair of excellent shoulders, and an even more excellent mouth. And no way could anyone miss those striking gold eyes.
“Do I pass?”
“Only the first small test.”
“In that case…”
He reached around to the back of his jeans. As he did, Mia closed her fingers on the Magnum.
“Suspicion’s a benefit—” his eyes held hers “—in its place.” When he brought his hand around, she saw the iPhone he held. “I’m not James Bond, and this isn’t a cleverly disguised weapon. I’m going to show you a video.” He swiped the screen with his thumb, tapped it twice and set it on the desk between them.
Crucible’s face appeared. He stood in an ultra-slick office. Mia saw a smoked glass desk, a strappy leather chair, and a projection portrait behind him that contained five faces: four around the perimeter, his own in the middle.
The integrated group of uneasy allies?
He walked to the front of the desk and perched. “No one should ever trust a man who materializes out of the darkness, Mia. I told you Rogue would identify himself. If you’re watching this video, he’s done just that. Reid’s one of the best in the business. Unfortunately, the best is what you need right now. Trust him, Mia. Trust me. But don’t trust another living soul. Take care.”
The screen went blank. Mia glanced at Bogey’s dangling cigarette and gave her head a mildly humorous shake. “Well, that was Bond to the core. I wonder if the man who killed Helene has a gold prosthetic finger.”
“Did you know her?”
She returned her attention to the man across the desk. “Helene Dubose? No. She looked up at me, and then the killer looked up at me. A second later, he was gone, and so was I.”
“Where did you go?”
“To an inner office. I bolted the door and phoned the police. If you ask me did he try to climb onto my balcony, I’d say no. My flowers were undamaged. They would have been broken or at least displaced if he’d pulled himself over the rail.”
Rogue slid his eyes to the French doors.
“The exterior alarm’s activated,” she said. “And the light’s angled to come on if anyone attempts to breach the barrier. Now, I have two questions for you. Exactly how do you plan to keep me alive, and do I have to call you Rogue?”
“I think we’d both prefer it if you didn’t.”
She’d also prefer it if he didn’t use those amazing eyes or that quiet, sexy voice on her. “So, what was it Crucible called you?”
He started around her desk, didn’t look at anything except her. “Leave it at Ryde
r. I don’t like my first name. Storm’s getting worse. We need to go.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere he might think to look, but isn’t likely to find. To the swamp, Mia. The bayou.”
“People can get lost in swamps, Ryder. Good guys and bad.”
“Not if you know the terrain.”
“And do you know it?”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Her lips formed a smile. “In that case, laissez les bon temps rouler.”
* * *
The phrase was Cajun, but overall, the bayou as a hiding place suited Mia just fine. Someone—either Crucible or Captain Martin—had told her that Helene Dubose came from the bayou. She supposed it gave her another strong reason to want the killer caught.
“Do you have pets?” Ryder asked as they descended from shadow-filled light into a soft red haze of stereo music and muted cop voices.
“I had a cat once, and a mynah bird. Not at the same time and nothing at the moment. You?”
“A dog named Blackbeard. Chocolate Lab, no beard. I liked pirate movies. Did you pack heavy or light?”
“By your standards, heavy. By most females’, painfully light.”
“Mia! Kitten.” Iona rushed across the club floor, arms outstretched. “You’re not leaving the city in this storm.”
At Ryder’s skeptical expression, Mia smiled. “Iona’s a fortune teller. She works primarily in the tearoom.”
“You!” The older woman stabbed an accusing finger at Ryder’s face. “I see darkness in your soul. Darkness and danger.” She squinted at him. “And treachery.”
“Fortune teller,” Mia repeated when his eyes narrowed, “equals drama queen in Iona’s case. I’ll be fine,” she promised and patted the woman’s plump arm. “Ryder was handpicked—”
“By that other dangerous man,” Iona finished. “You trust too easily, pretty kitten.”
“I either trust someone, or I die.” Mia gave her arm a decisive last pat. “I’m not ready for the grave. You and Henri are in charge while I’m gone. I hear voices. Are all the police still lurking?”
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