Submission

Molly swallowed thickly. That was what she was really responding to, wasn’t it? The fundamental call of attraction. It had been there in his eyes as he’d sat across from her. No need for words, for his movements and expressions spoke for him.

She absently tidied up the room. She wasn’t used to that. That…knowing. More often than not she was genuinely surprised to find a man interested in her. Oh, not so much because she didn’t think she was attractive. But because in the Midwest, men—people in general, really—tended to keep their true emotions in check. Perhaps it was tied into pride. Or maybe she just wasn’t really good at reading emotions because she’d spent so little time contemplating her own.

But today had shown her that she didn’t need a degree in sociology and human behavior to know Alan Chevalier had been attracted to her.

Or that she had been just as attracted to him.

What remained was whether or not she acted on it. Because another thing Alan had made plainly clear was that she held all the cards. It was up to her to ante up or to fold and walk away from the table. He would not force her hand. Would not sandbag or bluff or try anything underhanded to get her to do what he wanted.

No. In his case, what you saw was what you got.

And Molly found something undeniably appealing about that. She really hadn’t encountered it since her sister. Whatever Claire had been thinking, feeling, you knew it the instant she did. While Molly didn’t believe in any sort of paranormal connection to her twin, they had been closely connected. Partly because of the emotional unavailability of their mother, who’d gone through her share of pain in her lifetime—the first and foremost her unexpected pregnancy with them when she’d still been in high school and no support system of her own when her family members had turned their backs on her.

While later on they’d grown apart, she and Claire had been tighter than tight while growing up.

And she was seeing the same potential in her attraction for Alan. She sensed the possibility for a connection that went beyond the physical.

And her need to explore that possibility loomed almost as large as her desire to find her sister’s killer.

OF ALL MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS, I counted my sisters as the most important.

Of all my failures, my sisters ranked number one by a long shot.

Years ago the department shrink told me that was to be expected. Most parents experienced mixed feelings when it came to their children. Both of us had known at the time that my family situation wasn’t supposed to be the topic of conversation; rather my shooting of a minor holding what had looked like a handgun but had turned out to be a water pistol was. But her psychological digging had turned up the conflicts I’d been facing at home.

Both of us had also known I wasn’t any kind of parent, either, although it was the role I’d been forced to take ten years ago, when I was twenty-six and my sisters were sixteen, thirteen and eleven. When my father had been targeted by carjackers and had decided his secondhand Mercedes was more important than his life and his wife’s, my stepmother’s. The incident was what had inspired me to become a homicide detective rather than a beat cop.

It was also what had made me the unprepared parent to two teenagers and a preteen.

My father’s family was among the first to settle here when my great-great-grandfather was assigned a judgeship by none other than Jefferson himself back in the early 1800s. With ancestors who were among the first important founders of the city, my father felt our family bore a certain responsibility. But his take was one I’d never really subscribed to. Probably because my own mother had been of questionable heritage (read: she’d been a stripper on Bourbon Street when my father had met her) and had thrown his unnamed title into his face when she’d left us both when I was four.

So when my father and his wife had died, I’d moved back into the mammoth house that had been in my family since my ancestors had moved down to Louisiana from the Boston area, and tried my best to be a surrogate parent to my three younger sisters.

It was that same house I now stood in front of, experiencing myriad mixed feelings.

Emilie and Laure still lived there. It was where Emilie had gotten married two years ago and now had a child of her own. A house that Zoe hadn’t seemed to be able to get out of fast enough when she was eighteen and moved to a dorm on the campus of Tulane. I rubbed the back of my neck, marveling at how similar her actions had been to my own so long ago. Before I was forced back into that house and into the role of “guardian.”

“Thank God you’re here,” Emilie said, opening the door at my first knock. “I still haven’t heard anything from Zoe. She’s not answering her cell phone, and Laure hasn’t had any luck getting anything out of her friends.”

It also appeared Emilie was having problems in other areas as she bounced one-year-old Henri on her hip, the toddler’s face red and damp from tears.

She led the way back to the kitchen, where they had always spent a great deal of their time. There, Emilie’s young husband, James, was making what looked like dinner by way of sandwiches, and Laure was on the phone, apparently talking to another of Zoe’s friends.

I put my hat on the rectangular table that sat six and shrugged out of my overcoat, taking Henri when Emilie thrust him at me.

“He’s teething,” she said.

I went to the sink and placed the toddler on the counter next to me while I washed my hands, then picked him back up.

“Is there some way you can trace her cell?” Laure asked, disconnecting from her call.

“Only if she answers it,” I told her.

Henri had taken to chomping on my index finger. I winced, discovering that a tooth or two or three had already broken through his tender gums and were now breaking into my flesh.

Out of the three girls, Zoe was the one most capable of taking care of herself.

And the other two had been old enough when their parents had died that the trauma of losing loved ones had never completely left them.

Suddenly every eye was on me, including the two big blues of the baby in my arms.

“What?”

Laure waved her hand. “What what? What have you done since Emilie called this morning?”

I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t done anything. “I was waiting until I came over here for details.”

“You already have all the details,” Emilie said, taking Henri away from me as if he’d been a gift she was now rescinding.

I shared a look with James, who immediately went back to making sandwiches that for all intents and purposes had been done five minutes ago.

“So what are you going to do? Have you put an APB out on her? Have you gone to the dorm?”

“I’m guessing you already have,” I said.

“Of course we have. But we don’t have badges.”

“I don’t think Zoe would appreciate my flashing my badge around campus.”

“I don’t care what Zoe appreciates—and that’s assuming everything’s okay.”

Laure shuddered and wrapped her arms around her slender torso.

“Look,” I said, picking up a piece of salami and putting it into my mouth, “this isn’t the first time Zoe’s pulled something like this.”

Actually, it wasn’t the second or third, either, but I wasn’t going to point that out. To do so would be to hurt Emilie and Laure by trivializing their concern, and I wasn’t prepared to do that.

“Two days isn’t all that long a period of time.”

“But what if she’s been kidnapped?” Emilie asked.

Her fear must have manifested itself physically, because Henri suddenly started crying.

James took him and mumbled something about changing his diaper as he disappeared from the room. Neither of my sisters appeared to notice.

“If she’d been kidnapped, then surely a ransom demand would have been made by now.”

As if on cue, the phone rang, echoing eerily throughout the silent house.

Laure and Emilie raced for it, while I put the top on one of the sandwiches and took a bite. Hey, I hadn’t eaten since lunch and I was hungry.

“Hello?” Laure said, winning the race.

Her tensed shoulders relaxed as she listened to someone who was apparently not a kidnapper.

“Hi, Rose. No, no word yet. I want to keep the line open in case…she calls. I’ll let you know the minute we hear anything.”

She hung up again and looked back to me.

There were few things that could floor me. But the two women staring at me as if waiting for me to pull answers out of my sleeves like a magician’s never-ending scarf was one of them.

“All right, I’ll look into it,” I said under my breath.

Emilie hugged me, and Laure looked more relieved than I felt comfortable witnessing.

Was it really only yesterday I’d been helping Laure with her homework while Emilie had braided Zoe’s hair in this very kitchen, a pot of gumbo on the stove while the radio played tinny zydeco or jazz?

Yesterday and ten years ago.

“Thanks, Al,” Emilie murmured, her cheek soft against my stubble-covered one.

“Not that I think it’s going to accomplish anything. Watch and see if our renegade little sister doesn’t call herself before I can find out anything.”

“We can only hope that’s the case,” Laure said.

The telephone rang again. James walked back into the room with a still-wailing Henri, and Emilie went to put the sandwiches on plates.

Laure picked up the phone. “Oh, hi, Valerie. No, no word yet. Yes, yes, he’s here now.”

My ex-wife.

I dry-washed my face to hide my frown from Em. “You called Valerie?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said from the other side of the counter. “Even though you two are divorced, Val’s still like family to us.”

“No, not yet,” Laure was saying. “We’re going to call around to the hospitals now.”

An image of my father’s slack face where he’d lain in a curtained-off area of the hospital emergency room flashed through my mind.

And for the first time I knew a fear that my sisters’ concerns might be warranted.

5

“IT APPEARS YOU HAVE significant contacts, Miss Laraway.”

Molly wasn’t sure if the smile prosecutor Bill Grissom was giving her was genuine, but she was certain his words were. She’d spent the better part of the morning on the phone with the Toledo law office where she worked, probing who knew whom and what help their extended circle of professional acquaintances could offer her. She’d lucked out when it turned out a junior partner’s wife’s family was from New Orleans and her father-in-law was a prominent judge in Jefferson Parish.

A few more phone calls later and she was standing in the prosecutor’s office, shaking hands with him.

“Do you have any suggestions on what I might send Judge Giroux by way of thanks?”

Grissom chuckled. “A good bottle of bourbon should do the trick. In fact, a case wouldn’t be turned away.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please, have a seat.”

She did, and then he rounded his desk and sat down, as well.

“So what can I do to help you, Miss Laraway?”

“I need to know what information you have on my sister’s murder case.”

He clasped his hands tightly on the desk before him. “Ah, yes. I was afraid when I heard your last name that’s what you would be interested in.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but even if you were related to the president of the United States, I couldn’t share information like that with you.”

Molly frowned. “Mr. Grissom, I assure you that I’m not on a vigilante mission. I’m merely interested in seeing that my sister’s killer is brought to justice.”

He returned her stare.

“I understand that a Claude Lafitte was originally arrested for the crime.”

“Yes. And he was promptly released.”

“Why?”

He smiled patiently. “Because we ascertained that he couldn’t have committed the crime.”

“And the evidence that supports that?”

“Is in my file.”

“Does that mean there’s another suspect under investigation?” Molly held her breath as she considered the possibility.

“Not per se. Let’s just say that the evidence pointed us in a different direction.”

“But you don’t have any one person under consideration.”

“Not at the moment, no.” He gripped his chair arms and sat back. “I understand you’ve been in contact with the detective in charge of the case.”

“Alan Chevalier. Yes.”

He nodded. “And he’s being accommodating?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

His expression registered brief surprise. “Well, then, he’d be more the man to talk to. Whatever happens goes through him before reaching this office. And until we do get that one suspect…”

“I understand,” she said, rising. “I just thought it would be a good idea to touch base with you. Let you know I was in town and willing to help in any capacity I can.”

“I appreciate the gesture.”

She shook his hand again. “And I appreciate your hospitality. Thank you for meeting with me.”

Molly walked out of the office and released a long sigh. She’d suspected that meeting with the prosecutor wouldn’t yield much. But surprisingly it had given her more than Alan had. So Claude Lafitte had been released because evidence had pointed in another direction. What evidence? And in which direction did it point?

She’d put on her suit for the meeting and decided to make a trip back to the hotel to change. Which would also give her the opportunity to call FBI agent Akela Brooks. Perhaps she could get the answers to those two questions before meeting Alan tonight at the bar on Bourbon Street.

“DETECTIVE CHEVALIER? I have another emergency call for you. I’ll patch it through.”

I nearly snapped the cell phone in two.

This was the sixth call I’d received in three hours. It seemed Astrid was keeping her promise to keep calling me until I agreed to stop by and see her. During my last brief, tense conversation with her, she’d said she wouldn’t try anything; she just needed to see me.

Somehow I didn’t believe her.

I quickened my step as I walked from the precinct to my car and climbed inside. At least she hadn’t told dispatch who she was. I could be thankful for at least that much. But there was no telling how long that would last. Astrid Hodge was a woman used to getting what she wanted. And for some godforsaken reason she wanted me.

“Hello, Alan.” Her voice came through the tinny speaker dripping with self-satisfaction.

My every bone tensed.

“You know, your calls can be traced via your home number,” I said. “What’s your husband going to say when he sees the bill?”

“I’m calling on my personal cell. And he doesn’t have access to the bill.”

Which made her intent doubly suspicious.

“When are you stopping by, Alan?”

“Never. I value my job too much.”

She made a tsking sound. “More than me.”

“Much more than you.”

“That hurts.”

“Not any more than you’ve hurt me over the past ten months.”

“We both know that what happened between us was mutual.”

Was it? I was no longer sure. I mean, for all intents and purposes, I’d believed that in the beginning. But as time wore on, and after she’d accidentally told her husband—my captain—about our affair of one night, I was beginning to wonder if I’d fallen into some sort of dark trap designed to help Astrid spice up her marriage.

“Give it up, Astrid. I’m not coming over.”

She started to say something, but I clicked the phone shut on her.

I sat for long moments in the car, staring at everything and nothing. All I could do was hope that she’d finally give up and stop calling. But a part of me knew that she wouldn’t. That eventually she would win and I would have to go over to her place.

The sex hadn’t even been that good.

I put the car into gear and pulled from the curb, my destination Hotel Josephine. I’d received an anonymous tip that the hotel’s only guest wasn’t who he claimed to be. While the owner, Josie Villefranche, had told me Drew Morrison was in town for a convention, it turned out her guest’s intentions weren’t quite that innocent. A few calls had verified that while he was registered at the Innovation in Auto Parts convention at the Marriott, his area of expertise wasn’t car engines; it was in getting people to sell what they didn’t want to. Namely he was there to convince Josie to sell her hotel.

While it didn’t make him suspect material—especially since the Quarter Killer’s first victim, Molly’s twin sister, had been killed more than two weeks ago—it did shine a poor light on him. And it was worth checking out if only to see what else Mr. Morrison might be lying about.

The cell I’d dropped into my lap chirped again. I hated these damn devices. There was a time not too long ago that you could escape the telephone. When you walked away from the office, you were out of contact. Period.

At the very least, couldn’t they make the damn things sound like a real phone?

“What?” I barked after fumbling to answer it.

“Alan?”

My ex-wife.

MOLLY MADE ARRANGEMENTS to meet with FBI agent Akela Brooks in Jackson Square at three. It was a week before Halloween, and she guessed that this time of year was a busy one for the city, second only to Mardi Gras for pulling in visitors. People clogged the tourist attractions, signs all over touting the weeklong All Hallow’s Eve festivities beginning tonight. A group of five individuals of about her age brushed past her dressed in full-out vampire gear, their faces painted white, their black capes flapping in their wake.

Molly gave a shiver.

“Takes all kinds, doesn’t it?”

She turned at the sound of Akela’s voice. She’d met the agent when she’d picked up the box of her sister’s things upon her arrival. While the meeting had been brief, Molly had liked her. She was direct, no-nonsense and friendly. And the fact that she’d held on to Claire’s things even though their mother hadn’t wanted them to be forwarded to her spoke volumes.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Sure.” Akela looked over her shoulder toward the Café Du Monde. “You want to get some coffee and walk while we talk?”

Molly agreed, and after they stood in line at the popular spot, Akela handed her a coffee and a sugar-covered beignet.

“You can’t come to New Orleans and not try the Café Du Monde beignets,” she told her.

Molly smiled and accepted both.

“So, what’s on your mind?” Akela didn’t waste any time getting to the point as they walked across the square.

“I met with the prosecutor this morning.”

“Ah, Grissom.”

“Yes. And he mentioned something about Claude Lafitte being released from custody as the result of specific evidence pointing in another direction.”

Akela looked at her as she ate her own beignet and sipped her coffee. She didn’t say anything.

“I also understand you have a personal interest in the case.”

The agent sighed. “Well, I guess that wouldn’t be too hard to find out.”

Molly pinched off a piece of the French doughnut and put it into her mouth, not answering until she’d swallowed. “You’re right. It wasn’t difficult. All I had to do was access the Times-Picayune between the time of my sister’s death and now.”

Akela nodded. “Yes, I do have a personal interest,” she said. “Let’s just say that I’m as interested in finding the Quarter Killer as the NOPD. More so, actually.”

“Are you working the case?”

“In an unofficial capacity, yes. You see, until the real killer is found, Claude won’t be completely ruled out as a suspect.”

“So the evidence pointing in another direction isn’t that strong.”

“Strong enough to get the department to release him but not enough to completely take him off the suspect list.”

“I see.” Molly squinted at her through a shaft of sunlight. “You wouldn’t happen to want to share that piece of evidence, would you?”

Akela made a face. “I don’t like playing coy, but right now that evidence is about my only ace in the hole.” She cleaned her hands with her napkin after finishing her beignet. “You do know there’s been another Quarter killing, don’t you?”

The coffee sliding down Molly’s throat turned bitter.

“It’s all over the morning papers and the news on TV.”

She’d been so busy, she hadn’t thought to read the newspaper or watch local television since her arrival. Especially since she was in the middle of chasing down leads in her sister’s case.

But if there’d been another murder, that might mean more evidence.

“Yes, Chevalier questioned Claude on it this morning. But I got the impression the action was somehow just his covering all the bases.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. I think he doesn’t necessarily believe the two murders are connected, even though they took place at the same hotel and, apparently, in the same way.”

“The victim’s neck…”

“Was cut,” Akela finished when Molly didn’t.

“When?”

“Yesterday morning.”

Yesterday morning. That meant that Alan had known about the killing before he’d met with her for lunch. The coffee hit her stomach like a stone. She’d known that she couldn’t rely on his sharing everything with her, but concealing that there had been another murder went beyond the mere protection of important facts.

Or was Akela right in that he didn’t believe the two murders were linked?

Whatever the reason, she fully expected him to share what he knew when she met up with him tonight. And she would do everything in her power to see that he did.

6

DREW MORRISON, THE ONLY guest at Hotel Josephine, didn’t have anything to do with Frederique Arkart’s killing, of that much I was sure. But right now everything was up for grabs. Because ruling out Morrison didn’t change the fact that I had two dead women on my hands and zero solid suspects.

I drove through the narrow streets of the Quarter, heading in a direction I didn’t want to be heading as I checked my cell phone. I typically leave it in the car when I’m questioning a potential suspect or witness because there are few things like a shrill chirp and an unwanted caller to throw me off my game and put me back to square one when it comes to any kind of rhythm in my questioning tactics.

There was an art to getting what I wanted out of someone. A certain way of phrasing a question, pausing for just the right amount of time, that netted me information I wouldn’t get otherwise. I had taken great pride in that talent at one time.

But now I seemed to be just going through the motions, more aware of the shadows lurking behind me, trying to catch up and pull me into the darkness, than what lay in front of me.

Two messages from the precinct indicating emergency calls had come in while I’d been at the Josephine. Astrid, it had to be. My sisters had my cell phone number, so there was no reason for them to go through dispatch. I stopped at an intersection and scrolled through the calls. My ex-wife’s number popped up and I winced. Probably she was calling about Zoe again.

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