Bayou Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Really,” she said drolly. “Because I don’t remember liking any of your girlfriends when we were married. Where did you meet her?”

  “Where she works. Down on Bourbon Street.”

  His face turned a deeper shade of crimson, the change having nothing to do with the heat, and it made Alia choke back a laugh. “You’re dating a stripper, aren’t you?” God, he was so predictable. “On second thought, if we ever work things out...” She gave him the same sort of sly look he’d passed her way earlier.

  “I’ll just shoot myself.”

  * * *

  God love Saturday nights, it didn’t matter how hot, humid, chilly or dreary they were, people still flooded the Quarter in general and Blue Orleans in particular. Landry had this one off, though, so he wasn’t behind the bar, filling orders, visiting with friends or engaging in a little harmless flirtation with pretty tourists. He didn’t feel like staying in the apartment, either, watching crap on TV and listening to the drone of the window air conditioner, so he’d headed out soon after the sun went down, aimlessly wandering the streets.

  Now he was seated on the steps across from Jackson Square, listening to a lone saxophone down the street, punctuated by an occasional ship’s whistle from the river. People thronged the sidewalks, drifting from restaurant to bar and out again, lining up for carriage rides, laughing, letting the good times roll. That was what New Orleans was known for, right? Laissez les bons temps rouler.

  Miss Viola had been a good one for celebrating. She’d ridden Mardi Gras floats, dined at the finest restaurants and danced in the streets. Now she was gone. He’d seen her in her casket, had listened to the prayers said for her eternal soul, had watched her children and grandchildren cry, and still none of it seemed real. She’d been in his life forever, the one person he could always count on, and it was too damn wrong that he would never see her again.

  “Hey.”

  It took him a moment to realize the voice was addressing him. He shifted his gaze from the Saint Louis Cathedral on the far side of the square to the woman—no, girl—standing a few steps down from the one he sat on. She was blond, slight, smiling at him the way the Kingsley family’s Chihuahua likely eyed the T-bones Alia had talked about. He nodded in greeting, hoping she would go away, knowing she would...eventually.

  The girl cast a look over her shoulder, and he followed her glance to the three girls watching a few yards away, all of them blond and slight and enjoying their night in the Big Easy. They were dressed for the weather and for fun, their four dresses combined falling short of enough fabric to make a decent tablecloth.

  Not that he had anything against skimpy.

  The nearest blonde smiled again, and the tiny stud in her nose flashed in the light. “My friends and I thought you looked lonely.”

  “You did, huh.”

  “We did.” She tugged her tight blue dress down an inch or so before seating herself on the warm concrete beside him. Expensive perfume and cheap beer caught on the air for a moment, too much of both. “We thought you might like a little company.”

  He gave her a long look. If she and her friends showed up in his bar, he’d definitely card them and, depending on the quality of their fake IDs, probably wouldn’t serve them. Obviously, not all bartenders had his high standards, he thought sardonically. “I appreciate the invitation, but—”

  A flash of long legs in killer heels caught his attention. The newcomer stopped a few feet from the other girls and said in her dry, steady voice, “Whoa, catch and release, Landry.”

  Slowly he looked upward over lean calves, muscular thighs and a white dress as short and snug as any of the girls’ to Alia’s face, her smug smile, her black hair done up in some style that bared her neck. Oh, hell, yeah, he appreciated skimpy, even more on a woman who did it such justice.

  “What does that mean?” The girl beside him didn’t sound as if she was smiling anymore, a fact confirmed by a glance that showed her brows drawn together into a pouty frown.

  Sure she wouldn’t appreciate being compared to an undersized fish tossed back into the water, Landry shrugged. “Like I said, I appreciate the invitation, but...”

  Scowling, the blonde stood, tossed her long curls, flounced down the steps and took off across the street with her friends.

  Alia watched them. “They’re too young to be allowed in public without a chaperone.” Then she looked back at him. “I hope your tastes don’t run that young. They’ll get you in trouble.”

  “My tastes didn’t run that young when I was that young.” He let his gaze slide down again. “So you do have something other than ugly shoes in your closet.”

  “You try running around in heels all day. You’d prefer ugly shoes, too.” She grimaced. “My feet are killing me. I intend to take them off as soon as I get to my car.”

  “An early end for a date, isn’t it?”

  “My friend got a babysitter at the last minute, so we had dinner at a new place over there.” She waved off past Jax Brewery. “Unfortunately, Mom with a seven-month-old doesn’t stay out late.”

  He didn’t allow himself to consider that bit of relief he felt at hearing she hadn’t dressed like that for a particular man. It wasn’t his business who she dated or if she dated. “The dress is a nice change from the suits.”

  She glanced down at herself, then smiled. “Yeah, I like dressing up from time to time. I look pretty damn good.”

  Amen.

  Gesturing to the foot traffic around them with her small white purse, she said, “Best free entertainment around, isn’t it? The last time my parents visited, their favorite pastime was people-watching. Mom critiqued their outfits, Dad their behavior.” She gave a soft regretful sigh. “If I’d ever left the house wearing dresses like your young friends’, he would have sent the MPs after me—and trust me, there’s not much more embarrassing to a teenage girl than being escorted from a party by MPs.”

  “You mean dresses like the one you’re wearing?”

  “Yes, but I’m thirty now, and Dad’s retired. He doesn’t get a say, and the MPs are no longer an option. Mom’s only complaint, on the other hand, would be that I’m six inches taller than her so she couldn’t wear it.” She shifted her weight side to side, looked away, back, then asked, “You want a drink?”

  Landry gave it a thought or two, though there was no question what his answer would be. He worked at a bar; he lived above it. Drinks were never hard to come by. But drinks with Alia... Even if he didn’t have a taste for alcohol tonight, the company was worth his time.

  “Sure.” Pushing to his feet, he dusted his cargo shorts, then took the few steps to the sidewalk. “Where?”

  “I—” Another shifting of feet in killer heels, another look away, then back. “I know a quiet place. My car is in the lot back here.”

  They were surrounded by bars, and she chose one not in walking distance. Again, not that he minded.

  They moved in silence from concrete to gravel to pavement, then she stopped beside her gunmetal gray car, the same one that had been parked in Miss Viola’s driveway on Tuesday. She beeped the doors open, then slid easily into the driver’s seat. As he settled opposite her, true to her word, she slipped the heels off and tossed them into the back.

  “I know women are supposed to have a great appreciation for heels,” she said, bending forward to ruefully rub first one foot, then the other. “Mom has never worn anything else my whole life, but damn, I don’t have that kind of pain threshold.”

  He watched the silky dress stretch and tighten across her shoulders, gleaming in the thin light of the streetlamps to contrast against the dark expanse of her bare arms. The sight was enough to form a lump in his throat that made him swallow hard. “You know, stores are filled with shoes that are flat or have a low heel that aren’t ugly.” He sounded strained, hoarse.

  “Pardon me
if I don’t take footwear advice from the man wearing the rattiest pair of sandals I’ve seen in a long time.” Leaning back, she fastened the seat belt—another enticing sight where the belt crossed between her breasts, then across her flat abdomen from hip to narrow hip.

  In need of a breath, he took it and wound up snorting. “They’re nowhere near the rattiest. I’ve got way rattier ones at home.”

  Her smile flashed as she backed out of the parking space. In a moment they were on Decatur, passing Jackson Square, heading toward the market. The restaurant they’d eaten at last night appeared, then flashed past, and the street got quieter, the sidewalks emptier, the streetlights fewer and farther between.

  When she slowed, then turned onto a narrow street, he blinked. “You hang out on Serenity Street?” The neighborhood was small, only three main streets plus one two blocks long that connected them. The original houses had been stately, smaller versions of the Garden District homes—Greek Revivals, Creole cottages, Queen Anne Victorians—but as the crime rate went up, the families moved out and gangs moved in. Fifteen years ago, paramedics had required backup from the police before they would answer a call here. Ten years ago, the cops had required their own backup before coming in.

  She pulled to the curb in front of an apparently abandoned house and shut off the engine. “Actually, I live on Trinity. About a half block down. It’s not a bad place.”

  “Uh-huh. Miss Viola used to own a rental house at the end of Serenity Street. She wanted to check on it one day, so I came with her. We couldn’t go any farther than this because some guy had gotten shot next door to her house because the beer he’d given his buddy wasn’t cold enough.” Landry got out when she did, looking around while she fumbled for her shoes, then circled the car to join him. “I don’t suppose you’re armed.”

  She gave him a dry look, arms held out from her body. “Do I look like I’m concealing a weapon here?”

  Yeah, foolish question. But a man could do worse than an invitation to closely inspect a beautiful woman’s body—visually, at least. He couldn’t do much better than an invitation to repeat it physically.

  Music and laughter came from down the street, and they headed in that direction. The sounds weren’t from the bar Alia turned into, though—O’Shea’s on the right side of the block—but originated in the yard of the house on the left side, where a dozen or so adults sat under tall oaks and an equal number of kids ran wild around them, ranging in age from barely toddling to watchful teenagers.

  On his one trip to Serenity Street, he hadn’t seen a single kid. Their parents didn’t allow them to play outside, Miss Viola had told him, a sorry state from back in the day when it had been a real family neighborhood.

  A half dozen whistles and appreciative calls greeted Alia as she made her way between tables in O’Shea’s. She acknowledged them with a wave before claiming a table near a set of open French doors. Landry wondered about her choice when he glanced at the tall shutters that protected the glass from weather and saw what looked like a half dozen bullet holes in the much-painted wood.

  But hell, why would he pay attention to bullet holes when he had Alia to look at?

  * * *

  The waitress, a college student who lived on Divinity Street, made Alia stand and turn so she could get a good look at the dress before switching her attention to Landry, in cargo shorts and snug-fitting T-shirt that said Welcome to New Orleans. Now Go Home. “Okay, guys, either one of you is way overdressed or the other is seriously underdressed,” she commented in a drawl. “You need to coordinate your wardrobes better next time you go out.”

  Alia didn’t correct her mistaken impression that they were on a date. She did spend a moment, though, thinking about a next time. She’d seen Landry dressed up and thought they’d make a damn good-looking couple. He’d seen her dressed down and didn’t seem to mind. They’d still be damn good-looking. Besides, it was the couple part that made her heart go pitter-patter.

  It had been a long time since that happened.

  “Rum and Coke for you, Alia?” Tish asked, waiting for her nod before turning to Landry. “What about you, sweetie?”

  He looked amused by the endearment and the motherly way she said it when she was at least eight or ten years younger than him. “Just a Coke.”

  As Tish left the table, Alia gazed out the door at the market they’d passed on the corner. Just the fact that the neighborhood had a market to provide its residents access to fresh and affordable food was a huge improvement, but the shutters bolted across the front, all the way from one brick wall to another, were a sign that not everything was changed. Like every part of every city, there were still problems.

  Alia just might be facing a problem of her own. She shouldn’t be here with Landry—should have kept walking back there in the Quarter, shouldn’t have asked him to have a drink and damn sure shouldn’t have brought him here, into her neighborhood. If he weren’t a murder victim’s son, if she weren’t assigned to the case, no one would think twice about their sharing a purely social evening out. But he was a victim’s son, and she was assigned to the case. Their spending time together could be construed as unprofessional—she was fairly certain her boss would think so—and Alia never did anything that even hinted at unprofessional.

  Maybe she should. Maybe, just once, she could do what she wanted instead of what she should. The world wouldn’t stop turning. Chaos wouldn’t descend. What was the worst that could happen?

  She could get a slap on the wrist at work, maybe more.

  She could get her heart broken.

  But she could have a hell of a good time in the process.

  Landry sprawled in his chair, his long legs stretched out under the table. “So what’s the story? You were new to town and didn’t know the history of the area when you bought your house?”

  She angled her own chair toward him, sliding back a few inches, giving herself room to cross her legs without bumping her knee on the tabletop with every breath. She didn’t miss the shift of his eyes to her legs or the smoky look that glazed his eyes for an instant. “Oh, I knew. Jimmy told me, and the real estate agent stressed repeatedly that the neighborhood had had its share of trouble.”

  She smiled a thanks to Tish when the girl brought their drinks and took a cooling sip before waving at a couple across the bar. “That’s Sam and his wife, Shawntae. He’s an FBI agent, and they live down the block. The house over there belongs to Jamie, the man behind the bar and owner of O’Shea’s, and his wife, Karen. They just moved their women’s shelter out of the house and into an apartment building down the street. Their son, Reid, helps out both here and at the shelter, and his wife teaches in Serenity’s very own private school.

  “The couple sitting on the top step at Jamie’s are Nicholas, a lawyer who does pro bono work for families, and his wife, Lainie, who used to be an FBI agent but now volunteers around here herself. Remy Sinclair, the special agent in charge of the local FBI office, and his wife are raising their family on Divinity, and Smith Kendricks, the US Attorney for the Eastern District of Louisiana, and his wife, Jolie, an investigative reporter, live four doors down from me. Smith’s and Remy’s best bud, Michael, is an NOPD detective who moved into the house at the very end of the block a couple years ago, and his wife also teaches at the local school.”

  “And though DiBiase didn’t stick around, you did.”

  She nodded. “Jimmy’s really not a home owner kind of guy. He doesn’t like doing maintenance or yard work or not being able to pick up and move on a whim. Buying the house when we got married was his idea, not mine, but it turned out to be a much better fit to me than him. This is the first time in my life that I’ve lived in the same state, let alone the same house, longer than three years.”

  That acknowledgment gave her pause. Frequent moves were a staple of an NCIS career, same as the navy. Some agents would stay at a command
as long as possible to avoid pulling their kids out of school too many times or because their spouses’ careers weren’t easy to pick up and start over in new locations, but she’d never thought she would be one of them. She’d already been here longer than she’d expected, with no clue when orders might come down.

  Later rather than sooner sounded good at the moment.

  “Anyway,” she said with a shrug, “my point is that things have changed around here. Serenity’s not perfect, but people are doing their best to get it a little closer. There’s a lot of good folks living here.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He took a long, lazy drink of pop before adding, “But I bet you sleep with your gun nearby.”

  “I keep my gun nearby no matter where I am. There are criminals everywhere, even in Paradise.” After a pause, she clarified. “Which, for the record, is located on the coast of Hawaii. Any coast. Year-round.”

  “One of those places you lived less than three years?”

  “Two years, eleven months, three weeks. I fell in love with surfing, SPAM and a boy called Kanani. I was in third grade when we moved, and I thought my heart would never heal, though I was never quite sure what I missed most—Kanani, the surfing or the food.”

  “I’d lay my money on the food,” Landry said drily.

  Thinking of the number of times the ocean had sent her and her board tumbling and of the dark-eyed little boy who’d held her hand during recess through all of second grade and part of third, she sighed. “You’re probably right. I blame my mom. Food is an important part of Vietnamese culture which she definitely passed on to me. She loves to cook, and I love to give her feedback.”

  “What’s your favorite dish?”

  “Che ba ba,” she said without hesitation. “It’s a dessert. Sweet potato, taro, tapioca. Incredible.”

  “I’ve had it. Mama Tranh makes it.”