Waters Run Deep

“I’m not sure. Most of the staff and crew know Tawny calls Spencer ‘birdie.’ The whole thing could be a sick joke. No one has tried to hurt him, so it could be someone wanting to get the Keenes’ goat. Someone who wants to use fear against them.”

“Nice thinking, Watson,” he quipped.

“What? You asked,” she snapped, her happy-camper vibe gone. He liked her better serious with her feathers ruffled. Felt right.

“I thought it sounded good.” Picou nodded, her eyes earnest.

Actually it was valid. Someone was using terror as a weapon against the couple. He knew how powerful the love between a parent and child was. Not firsthand. But he’d watched his parents’ marriage unravel with Della’s disappearance and murder. They’d never healed. His thoughts flickered back to the folder. He needed to talk to his mother before word leaked out at the office. Someone, namely Kelli—the bigmouth in the unit—was bound to squeal about the woman asking questions down in Lafourche.

Nate set the bagged bird on the wrought-iron table and turned to Annie. “Did you use this door this morning?”

She shook her head. “Almost, but I went back to talk to Tawny. After that, I checked on Spencer and slipped out the side door. I didn’t see anyone around Beau Soleil, but I wasn’t looking either. The only person up this morning was Mr. Keene and he was in the kitchen fixing coffee. Maybe he heard someone.”

Briefly the idea of Keene staging the threat for press or to suit his own needs crossed Nate’s mind, but he quickly discarded it. Only someone with no soul would falsely threaten his own child for attention. Keene wasn’t a nominee for Humanitarian of the Year, but he didn’t seem to be lacking in love for his son, not to mention he’d tried to keep the threats quiet. No, someone else was playing a sick game with the Keene family.

As far as Nate was concerned, the dead bird on the doormat meant game on. The need to best the perpetrator welled up inside him. “Let’s find out. Is Keene around?”

“His Jeep is.” Annie pointed toward the gravel parking area at the side of the house.

“Grab him for me.”

Annie narrowed her eyes. “Just because I’m the Hispanic nanny doesn’t mean you can order me around. I don’t work for you.”

“Just like his father,” Picou said, putting her hands on her hips.

Nate stiffened. “I’m not like my father.”

Picou shrugged. “You could have fooled me. Annie may work for the Keenes, but she’s a guest in this home. Go get Carter yourself. We’ll watch the crime scene until someone from the department gets here.”

Nate hated being compared to his domineering father, though he knew there was much of the man in him. For one, he looked like Martin and for the other, he had abnormally high expectations of those around him. Hard to fight the need to command and have people jump to fulfill his orders. He’d been called asshole more than once. Just like his old man.

“Sorry. I didn’t intend it as it came out, and it certainly had nothing to do with your ethnic background or gender.”

Annie nodded. “Apology accepted. I’m heading inside to shower and assume my duties, so I’ll tell Mr. Keene you need him.”

“Thanks.” Nate looked at his mother as Annie headed toward the side door. Picou studied him, a hint of a smile on her lips. He knew then and there she approved of Annie Perez, which both pleased and distressed him. He knew his mother. She’d been throwing women in his path for the past five years, groaning about dying without having grandchildren. She’d be pushing the capable, sexy nanny his way every chance she got. The question was would he be waiting? “Don’t you have something better to do, Mom?”

“No,” she said, folding her thin frame into a patio chair and stretching her arms overhead. “You know I’m fascinated by police work, so I’ll enjoy watching you in action. I won’t have to watch Cold Case reruns this afternoon.”

“Not much to watch, Mom.”

“You trying to get rid of me?”

He drew a deep breath and held it for three seconds before releasing it. His mother was many things, topping out at fascinating, but she also had a childish, bratty nature. He looked at her, and she smiled winningly.

“Actually I’m here because of you.”

“I know. I birthed you.”

He gave her a deadpan stare.

“Okay, not funny, but I am glad you came by to check on me. Gets lonely out here all by myself.”

“With all these people around, I can see you’re starved for attention.” He buried his guilt under sarcasm. He should check on Picou more. It was his duty.

The crunch of several cars sounded in the gravel.

“The cavalry has arrived, so I’ll leave you to it. Come in later and tell me why you’re really here. In the meantime, I’ll hope it has something to do with that adorable little nanny. She’s got spit and fire.”

He heard car doors slam and the voice of Blaine Gentry, the St. Martin Parish Sheriff. “I’d hate to smother your matchmaking plans, but this has to do with Della.”

Picou stopped in the middle of the path. “Della?”

Nate swallowed, wishing he could snatch back his flippant words. Wrong move. Should have waited. “Probably nothing, but a deputy down in Lafourche called me about a woman asking a couple of flag-raising questions. They sent a file on her, but we’ll talk later.”

Sheriff Blaine Gentry tromped onto the patio. “Morning. What we got here?”

Picou muttered “morning” before heading inside. Her shoulders were taut and he didn’t miss the way the sunshine had been sucked out of her. Yeah, talking about Della did that every time.

“A dead bird.”

Blaine’s eyebrows chased his hairline. “You called us out here for a dead bird? Kelli said you found a body.”

Nate stifled aggravation. Along with a big mouth, Kelli was known for exaggeration, one of the main reasons he’d hot-footed it out to Beau Soleil to tell his mother about the query in Lafourche. “And a note.”

Nate’s sometimes-partner Wynn Mouton ambled toward the bird sitting in the plastic bag. He lifted the bag and eyed the contents.

“Wow, you bagged this all by yourself and wrote the date on it, too. Your talent amazes me.” Wynn grinned like the smart-ass he was.

Nate ignored him, walked to the mat and lifted the folded paper, opening it. “Yeah, I can write my name, too, asshole. But you can write my name when you write up the report.”

“The hell I will,” Wynn said, dropping the bag back onto the table. “It’s a dead bird. Why we running lab on it?”

“You owe him, Mouton,” Blaine said, his dark eyes taking in the perimeter. “And this ain’t no regular dead bird. Feels like an iceberg case with lots underneath we can’t see.”

“Ah, hell,” Wynn muttered, absentmindedly rubbing the shoulder he’d had surgery on after falling during a foot chase.

“Take a look,” Nate said, holding the letter toward Blaine but not allowing him to touch it since he wore no gloves. It was regular copy paper with typed words centered on the page. Times New Roman font. Size 12.

“Twisted bastard,” Wynn said, looking over the sheriff’s shoulder.

Birdie, Birdie in the sky

You will pay an eye for an eye

Tell your whore mother to draw a line

Or her precious baby will soon be mine

“A rhymer,” Nate commented, sliding the letter in the bag he held in his other hand. He sealed it. “Anger’s directed toward the mother, so the kid’s a tool.”

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