Submission

“Happened in your sister’s case since I saw you a couple of hours ago?” He shook his head. “No.”

“Hello, Detective Chevalier. The usual?” the young waiter asked the man across from her.

“Yes,” he said. “And bring the same for the lady.” He considered her. “Unless you’re a vegetarian?”

Molly said that whatever he’d ordered was fine.

The waiter disappeared, leaving them alone again.

Well, alone really wasn’t the applicable word. The small restaurant was packed with other diners, despite the early hour. But as far as Molly was concerned, they could have been alone in the popular eatery.

“So, Miss Laraway, what is it that you do for a living?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

His eyebrows rose.

“You seem surprised.”

“Your career doesn’t impact me one way or another, Miss Laraway.” He shrugged. “Which branch of law?”

“Right now I’m assigned to business law at the firm where I work.”

“But you hope to…”

“Eventually move on to criminal law.”

He nodded, as if expecting the answer. “A defense attorney.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

He looked over her suit as if trying to put the pieces of her together. “Getting off the same people I bust my ass trying to put behind bars?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t have a problem with that.”

Molly tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Anyway, my career isn’t the reason we’re here, is it?”

“Ah, yes.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on top of the table. “Your sister.”

Had he forgotten?

She realized with some interest that it appeared he had. And that he didn’t seem concerned about the fact, either.

An unwelcome thrill raced through her bloodstream as her gaze took in his hands. Strong hands, clean, nails clipped and neat, dark hair peppering the backs of his thick, square fingers. They were capable hands, manly.

And she was paying them far too much attention.

Molly cleared her throat and took a notepad from her bag.

“Were you and your sister close, Miss Laraway?”

“Molly, please.” She pulled out a pen and laid it against the pad. “And, no, unfortunately my sister and I were never very close. Despite the belief about twins, she and I were nothing alike. And when she moved down here last year, we pretty much fell out of touch.”

She didn’t like admitting that. Seeing as they’d been the only two siblings in their single-parent household, she thought she should have made more of an effort. Called her sister. E-mailed her. At least kept track of how she was doing.

“Do you know if she was dating anyone at the time of her death?”

Molly shook her head, unable to bring herself to meet his gaze.

“Isn’t that the type of thing a sister—forget a twin—would usually know?”

“Do you have any siblings, Detective Chevalier?”

He seemed taken aback by her response. “That’s not at issue here.”

“And my closeness to my sister is?”

He squinted at her, bringing out the crinkles at the sides of his eyes. Were they brown? No, they were green, she realized. A deep leaf green.

“I thought you wanted to help find the person responsible for your sister’s death.”

Molly drew in a deep breath. She did. That was the whole reason she was there.

Appetizers were served and Alan chatted with the waiter for a couple of moments, talking about what had been brought in this morning. After the young man left, Chevalier motioned for her to help herself.

“It’s meant to be shared,” he said.

She accepted a small plate on which he’d placed two of the thick shrimp scampi—or did they call them something else down here?

“I have three sisters,” he said, looking at his food rather than her as he spoke. “All younger. And I couldn’t tell you much about what’s going on in their lives, either.”

Molly felt as though he’d just pressed a thumb against a low pressure point, releasing the tension there.

She smiled easily. “Thanks.”

He shrugged, considering her warily. “Don’t mention it.” He ate for a couple moments, then asked, “So when do you go home?”

Suddenly Molly stiffened again, because it was obvious he’d meant as in today or tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest.

He leaned closer to her, his expression intense. “Look, Miss Laraway, I know your intentions are good, but the fact is, there’s nothing you can do down here. You might as well go back home and resume your life. Nothing you can do can bring your sister back.”

Molly leaned forward, as well. “Tell me, Detective Chevalier, how many unsolved homicide cases do you have open at any one time?”

His eyes narrowed.

She picked up her purse and took out a photograph. “This is a picture of me and my sister taken at our college graduation.” She put it on the table in front of him. “Look at it.”

“Miss Laraway—”

“Look at it,” she repeated.

He sighed and picked up the shot.

“My twin, my sister, was a living, breathing human being, not just a crime victim.”

He tried to hand the picture back.

“No, you keep it. Put it on top of the countless ones you probably have of her postmortem.” She crossed her arms. “The sooner you accept that I’m not going anywhere, Detective, the sooner we can push aside all the BS and get down to the business of catching this killer before he takes the life of someone else’s sister.” She swallowed hard. “And before you have someone else like me to deal with.”

He seemed unfazed by her words, looking at her much the way he had when he’d first sat down at the table.

Molly searched for more arguments with which she might convince him. “I’m a lawyer, Detective. Familiar with the law. Use me. I can do legwork you might not have time for. Investigate far-fetched angles you’ve already ruled out that might still be viable. Make sure you’re not without a cup of coffee at all times.”

“You’re personally attached to the case,” he said.

“Which means I’m doubly committed to seeing the job gets done.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Coffee, huh?”

His lopsided smile made her retract a few claws. But just a few. Because she had the feeling that if he did take her on, he’d send her out for coffee…permanently.

Still, her options were few. “If that’s what it takes to be included in the investigation…yes.”

“Well, then,” he said quietly, “while department policy prevents anything official, it looks like you’ve got yourself a job.”

Her pulse leaped.

“But let’s get a few things straight. I define the job as we go along. I’m the boss and you’re the subordinate. And you cannot tell anyone else about this, ever. Do anything I tell you not to and our little arrangement ends. Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded, incapable of words.

“Good, then.” He grinned, although his eyes remained watchful. “My first order is that we enjoy this meal before we get down to the gritty details….”

3

I STOOD ON THE CURB outside Tujague’s and watched Molly Laraway walk toward the nearest intersection, her jacket folded over her arm as she hailed a cab. The woman was a stunner, that was for sure. She had a swing to her walk that caught not only my attention but the eye of every breathing male within a two-block radius.

I stared at the guy next to me watching Molly in the same way I was, then grimaced and patted my front shirt pocket, even though what I was looking for wasn’t there and hadn’t been there for years: cigarettes.

Truth was, I wasn’t sold on the idea of having a loose cannon like Molly running around doing Lord only knew what. But I admired her spirit. And I had the feeling that no matter what I said or did or threatened her with, she would go ahead with her own investigation into her sister’s death. Might as well try to channel some of that energy to my own advantage…and keep her safe at the same time.

I patted my coat pockets and took out my cell phone. By directing her actions, I could keep her away from anything remotely dangerous. Not that I thought she was in danger, but at this point I wasn’t taking any chances.

And if working with her also kept her in close physical proximity, where I could continue to admire those great legs and possibly charm my way between them…well, I wasn’t complaining.

I pressed the auto dial for Steven Chan.

“Tell me you’re not calling about this morning’s body,” he said by way of hello.

“It was worth a try.”

“I haven’t even unpacked the samples yet.”

“Yeah, well, do it. I need the results yesterday.”

I closed the phone and walked in the opposite direction from where Molly had gone.

MOLLY CHECKED THE address on her notepad. A modified pickup truck sat in front of the place in question, and a guy was carrying a box out and putting it in the truck bed.

“Excuse me,” she said, approaching him as she tucked the pad back into her bag. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find Joann Bennett?”

The guy stared at her. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m Molly Laraway, Claire Laraway’s sister.”

Since he didn’t seem to recognize her, she suspected that he’d never met her twin.

“Oh, yeah. Joann’s ex-roommate. You’ll find her inside.”

Molly looked over the items already crammed into the back of the truck. “Thanks.”

She stepped over the curb and nearer to the door, knocking on the jamb when she found the door was open.

“Miss Bennett?” she called out.

A woman carrying another box came out of what looked like a bedroom, the small living room before her empty of furniture. She looked at Molly, then put the box on top of another one, flushed from her activities. “Are you here to see the apartment?” she asked, pushing her hair back. Then she seemed to get a closer look at Molly and her face went white.

“I’m Claire’s twin,” Molly said quickly. “I was hoping you might have a couple of minutes.”

“Jesus, for a minute I thought you were her.”

“I’ve been getting that a lot lately.” She moved out of the way of the guy, who was coming back inside. “I won’t keep you long, I promise. I just wanted to ask a couple of questions.”

Joann looked at the man, who shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” She sighed. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I’ve already cleared out the kitchen.”

“Moving?” Molly stated the obvious.

“Yes. I was having a hard time finding another roommate and, well—” she lifted her left hand “—my boyfriend proposed.”

Molly smiled. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

She moved aside again as the guy—apparently the fiancé—hefted another box and made his way back outside. “I’m sure Claire would have been happy for you.”

“I don’t know about that. Claire never met Nick.”

“So you two didn’t spend a lot of time here?”

“More like Claire didn’t spend a lot of time here. Do you mind if I work while we talk?”

“No. Go ahead.” Molly moved nearer to the door she’d disappeared into. “So you and my sister weren’t close?”

“No, unfortunately, we weren’t.” Joann wrapped a ceramic knickknack and placed it in an open box. “Truth is, we never got much of a chance to get to know each other well. She only moved in two months before she…died.”

Molly remembered her mother giving her the change of address, although she’d never had cause to use it herself.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” she asked. “Living with someone you don’t know well?”

Joann shrugged as she wrapped another item. “I’ve had at least seven roommates throughout college up until now. I’ve never run into any problems. Well, not many, anyway, you know, beyond loud nighttime activities and a piece of jewelry or designer clothing going missing. But even that didn’t happen often.” She began closing the box. “It’s hard to make the rent as a single nowadays, as you may know.”

Actually, Molly didn’t know. Straight out of high school she’d interned at a law office that had hired her part-time. Then in college she’d become a P.A. and later assistant to a local appellate-court judge. She’d never been rolling in money, but she’d never had a problem making the rent. And she’d always been single.

Joann passed her with the box she’d been carrying when Molly had arrived. “Would you like me to bring this one?” she asked.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Molly picked up the other box and followed her out into the living room, where Nick took the carton out of her hands and disappeared outside again.

“You wouldn’t happen to have come across anything more of my sister’s while you were packing, would you?” She adjusted her purse still slung over her shoulder.

“Funny you should mention that.” Joann put down the box and walked into the kitchen. A moment later she came back with a key on a ring that held a pink-haired troll with a blue ink stripe across its face. Molly immediately recognized it as belonging to Claire. She’d bought it to top off a Christmas gift years ago, and her sister had lamented that she’d put a pen mark on it during a phone conversation shortly thereafter.

Molly hadn’t paid much attention. Until now.

She took the key.

“I don’t know what it opens. Not the apartment. I already tried. And Claire didn’t have a car.”

“Maybe it’s to the place she lived before?”

Joann shrugged. “Maybe. But Nick thought it looked more like a locker key—you know, like the type you see at the bus station? Only it doesn’t have a number on it or anything.”

Molly ran her thumb over the top of the key, noticing where a line of jagged orange plastic seemed to indicate something had been removed. Nothing but the name of a popular key company was imprinted on the key itself.

“Is there maybe something you’ve remembered since Claire died?” Molly asked. “Something you haven’t told the police?”

“No. I’ve told them everything I know.”

Nick came back inside for the last box. “You ready?” he asked Joann.

“Yeah, give me a sec to double-check.”

Molly stood exchanging glances with Nick as cupboard doors were opened and closed in the kitchen, then in the bathroom. Within moments Joann was back in the living room.

“That’s it.”

“Lock up. I’ll be in the truck.” Nick disappeared again for a final time.

The key bit into Molly’s hand where she held it so tightly.

“Hey, look,” Joann said. “I’m really sorry for your loss. I mean, what happened to Claire…” She crossed her arms and rubbed her hands over the bumps that dotted her skin. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now.”

“Thanks.”

Joann began to pass her.

“Would you mind if I asked for your forwarding address? In case I have any other questions?” Molly asked.

Joann looked hesitant.

“I promise I won’t call unless I’m absolutely convinced you can be of help. In fact, chances are you’ll never hear from me again.”

Molly pulled her pad and a pen from her purse. And, after a sigh, Joann took it and scribbled down an address and a phone number.

“Thanks,” Molly said again, unsure how any of this helped her but glad that she’d caught Joann before she’d left.

Molly led the way outside, then stood watching as Joann climbed into the truck cab, gave a final wave and drove away.

THE GOOD THING ABOUT being a homicide detective was that you didn’t spend a lot of time at the office. The bad thing about being a homicide detective was that when you did need to be at the office, you were at a desk in a room shared by a dozen others.

Phones rang, voices chattered, computer printers printed. And one of the younger narc detectives was even trying to figure out how to use the manual typewriter in the corner—and not having much luck, judging by the occasional string of profanities he muttered.

At least I was no longer the center of attention. Ten months ago I couldn’t walk into a precinct room without it going completely silent, everyone staring at me.

I guess that was what happened when you bedded the captain’s estranged wife.

While few incidents could trump the losing card I’d dealt myself with that stupid move, the more time passed, the more people moved on with their own lives, leaving me alone to see to the ugly details on my own. Although I’m sure an office pool was running to see when the captain would finally fire my sorry ass.

And that day would be soon if I didn’t catch a break in the Quarter Killer case.

I edged my chair closer to my paperwork-covered desk and leafed through the mess that threatened to topple over into my lap. Actually, it appeared to have slid onto the floor and been piled back up by someone, because it was messier than usual. I sighed and started sorting through it, knowing it was too much to hope that somewhere in there I would find the clue I needed to solve the Laraway and Arkart murders.

The phone on the corner rang. I ignored it.

“Chevalier, line two for you,” a junior detective called out.

“Take a message.”

“Take your own damn message. What, do I look like your secretary?”

I glared at him, wondering when he’d grown a pair of balls when only a short time ago he’d been all about pleasing everyone, then snatched up the receiver.

“What?”

“Alan?”

A female voice. More specifically, a female voice belonging to the oldest of my three sisters, Emilie.

I took a deep breath. “Now’s not really a good time, Em. Can I call you back?”

“Normally I would say yes, but what I have to say really shouldn’t wait.”

I rubbed my forehead, wishing for a cup of coffee. “What is it?”

“Zoe hasn’t been back to her dorm room in two days.”

My hand froze.

Zoe was the youngest of the Chevalier family, although at twenty-one she liked to pretend otherwise. Em and Laure had long ago tried to convince me that they were overcompensating for the loss of their parents by spoiling her, but neither of them had seemed capable of doing anything differently. After all, Zoe had only been eleven at the time, and while they both had their own ghosts to wrestle with, it seemed easier to focus their attention on their youngest sibling than address their own needs.

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“I talked to her roommate.”

“Does the roommate have any idea where she might have gone?”

“Not a clue. Her overnight bag is still there and nothing seems to be missing.”

Another junior detective called out. “Chevalier? Call on line four.”

I gritted my teeth.

Emilie said, “That’s not like Zoe at all. She usually lets everyone know where she is and what her plans are. Including me.”

She was right. From a young age, all of us had drilled into Zoe the importance of keeping in contact at all times. And she’d complied. Probably because the one time she hadn’t, when she was fifteen and had gone to the movies with a male friend, she’d found half the NOPD drawing guns on her in the middle of the theater.

“I’ll stop by sometime this afternoon,” I told Em, then rang off.

I grabbed my hat and started to get up, half relieved that I wouldn’t have to tackle my desk just then.

“You still have that call waiting on four,” the junior detective shouted.

I picked up the receiver again and punched the button for line four. “What?”

No one said anything.

Good. They’d hung up.

“Alan?”

Another female voice. But this time it didn’t belong to one of my sisters. It belonged to a person I’d never expected—scratch that, never wanted—to hear from again.

Captain Seymour Hodge’s wife, Astrid.

4

THE WOMAN WAS A certifiable nutcase.

And as much as I wanted to hang up the phone, I couldn’t, because essentially she had my nuts in a case.

“Um, hello. How are you?” I said lamely.

I looked around the room, but no one seemed to notice my sudden distress. I sat back down in my chair, the paperwork on my desk nothing but a blur as I tried to recall what had motivated me to get involved with this woman, who had caused far more trouble than she’d been worth.

“I’m sorry, Alan. I didn’t mean to call, but I had to.”

I opened my desk drawer, looking for aspirin to quell the headache that had been with me since I’d gotten up that morning and that had just doubled in size.

“I mean,” Astrid continued, “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I thought we both agreed that further contact wouldn’t be wise.” My exact words the last time we spoke had been Talking to you again would be akin to professional suicide, but I didn’t like thinking the words, much less saying them again.

“I want to see you.”

“Impossible.”

“I’ll keep calling until you come over.”

I winced. “So call.”

Then I did something I also didn’t think was wise and hung up.

MOLLY SAT IN THE MIDDLE of her hotel-room bed. She’d showered and had on the hotel robe, her hair up in a towel, even though it was only six o’clock. The contents of the box of things she’d gotten from FBI agent Akela Brooks were spread out in front of her, her sister’s diary the focal point. But try as she might, she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Instead her gaze kept going to the key in her hand, and her mind kept retracing a path to her lunch with Alan Chevalier earlier.

She’d wanted to call him, tell him of her find. But they’d already agreed to meet at a nearby bar on Bourbon Street tomorrow night to trade any information either of them had come across, even though she had a pretty good idea she’d be the only one trading anything. She supposed it could wait until then.

Besides, she knew the instant she told him about the key he’d take it, and she’d likely never see it again, much less find out what was in the box it opened.

Of course, she actually had to find the box first if she hoped to learn anything, an impossible task given her outsider status in the investigation. Bus station aside, she wouldn’t know where to begin looking. After all, there was the little matter of the number that had been removed from the key.

How many lockers were at the bus station? Was there only one station or were there several? Did the airport have lockers? Could it be there?

“For all I know, the box could be in Toledo,” she said aloud.

She stretched out her arm and put the key on the nightstand, then rubbed the arch of her left foot. Lunch aside, she’d been pretty much upright all day, pounding the pavement in shoes that were made for walking but not to the extent she had walked in them. She had blisters on her heels, and her toes looked swollen to twice their normal size. So on the way back to the hotel she’d stopped inside a shop and bought comfortable flats, a couple of pairs of casual slacks and lighter-weight blouses, a wardrobe more conducive to the type of work she’d be doing in the days to come.

She’d also bought a flirty dress that she had no business buying. A deep-red number that looked more like a slip than a dress, really, and felt like a cloud against her bare skin—and left a lot of that skin bare to the naked eye.

It had to be the city. She’d never been one to dress so provocatively—not even when she was younger—much less give herself over to such an impulsive buy. She’d always been practical to the max.

No, the purchase would have been much more something Claire would have made, even if it meant maxing out a credit card. “Retail therapy,” she’d called it.

Molly had called it stupid. If you didn’t have the cash, you didn’t need the buy.

Molly certainly didn’t need the dress, yet she’d gone ahead and bought it anyway. Perhaps with thoughts of seeing the look on Alan’s face when she wore it.

She sighed and slid from the bed. What was she talking about? She wasn’t interested in the burned-out detective. She was the girl next door; he had a dark, edgy side. He appeared to have little ambition beyond what he was going to eat that day; she had a list of fifty things she hoped to accomplish before she was thirty and was aware of that list at all times. She put attraction and physical chemistry on the back burner; he put it out there for anyone to see, no matter the consequences.