Submission Page 11

  “That’s why I thought it might be a good idea for us to meet,” Molly said. “So I can share what new information I have.” She smiled. “And perhaps convince you to share with me the evidence that points in another direction….”

  She left her words purposely hanging, watching as the two shared a knowing glance.

  “Okay, what do you got?” Claude asked, folding his arms across his impressive chest, while Akela took a seat across the table from her.

  “First,” Molly said, pulling out Claire’s diary, “I’ve been reading this since I got my sister’s personal belongings from you, Akela.” She flipped open to a passage of interest. “Here she says that ‘C’…” Molly didn’t know if she had to explain who “C” was.

  Akela nodded. “The married man Claire had been seeing.”

  “Right. Anyway, here she mentions that ‘C’ tried to take the diary away from her. Which means—” she carefully closed it with the bookmark in it “—that C’s fingerprints might be on the diary itself.”

  Akela frowned. “A lot of people have handled that diary, Molly.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”

  “Even if I were to get the FBI forensics team to lift an original fingerprint, the odds that we could use it are slim. After I handed it over to you, there’s no identifiable chain of custody. Then there’s the period before that, when her roommate, Joann, had it.”

  Molly put the diary back into the clear Ziploc bag she’d stored it in. “Okay.”

  “Is that it?” Claude asked.

  Molly smiled at him. “No.” She pulled out the key chain Alan hadn’t taken much of an interest in. “I happened by Claire’s old apartment while her ex-roommate was moving out. She found this.”

  Akela took it. “Are you sure it belonged to your sister?”

  “Positive.”

  She was intrigued that Akela didn’t question her further. Merely accepted her statement as fact.

  “Do you know what it opens?” Claude asked, taking the key and squinting at it.

  “Not a clue. I went to the bus station the other morning but the task seems too enormous. Do you think you can do anything with it?”

  Akela looked at her over the key. “Maybe. At the very least, we can narrow down where it originates from.”

  “Wait,” Molly said, taking the key from her before she could pocket it. “You don’t need the ring, do you?”

  “No.”

  She removed the key and handed it back to the agent, then squeezed the tiny troll in her palm.

  A cacophony of sound started from somewhere upstairs, then continued down what Molly could only gather were the stairs. Within seconds a girl of about four or five burst into the room wreathed in giggles, five pups on her heels.

  “Save me, save me, Claude!” the girl squealed, lifting her arms.

  Claude scooped her up, and one of the puppies had a hard time stopping on the tiled floor, skidding into the Cajun’s shins.

  Akela was shaking her head across from Molly. “This is my daughter, Daisy. And the puppies…well, they and their mother essentially came with the house. Meaning they were camped out on the back porch.”

  Molly patted one of their heads and instantly found herself accosted by all five. The black pups with white spots looked like a mix of border collie and golden retriever, with border collie winning out.

  What had to be the mother’s toenails clicked in the hall. She stuck her nose into the room, sniffed, then barked. All five of the rambunctious pups fell over each other to get to her. Claude put a suddenly squirming Daisy down to follow.

  “Daisy, go wash up,” Akela said. “The bus gets here in twenty minutes.”

  “Aw, Mom,” the girl protested, then chased the dogs from the room.

  Claude chuckled. “You wouldn’t happen to be in the market for a dog, would you, Molly?”

  She reluctantly shook her head. “Sorry, no. Before too long I’ll be heading back to Toledo, and I don’t think my condo neighbors would be very happy if I brought one of these home with me.”

  The reality that soon she’d be leaving New Orleans dampened the high spirits raised by the girl and the puppies. She didn’t appreciate the cards fate had dealt her. She was here to help find her sister’s killer. But the instant she did that, she would have to leave the city—and Alan—behind.

  “So,” she said, taking a deep breath and looking at Akela and Claude. “Your turn.”

  “LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE having a hard time over there, Chevalier.”

  I slanted a glare at one of the junior detectives in Vice as I negotiated the rolling path from hell that was the treadmill. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d worked out until I’d gotten on the damn thing, set the pace, then found myself huffing and puffing a minute into my workout. This, and I’d long since stopped smoking.

  “You need someone to spot you?”

  I grimaced and slowed the pace, deciding my best course of action was to ignore the pain in the ass. That, and I was afraid of how I might sound if I did speak. A rasped threat didn’t hold the same weight somehow.

  Three miles. Damn. There was a time when I could have easily run ten. But that had been almost a year ago, and I was essentially going from a flat-out stop to a full-out run. I was lucky I had a naturally athletic physique—a lean build, a tight stomach—or I would have only Jell-O for muscles right now. I pulled the towel from the handle and draped it over my neck, using the end to wipe the sweat dripping from my forehead. I smelled the bleached white cloth, half surprised my sweat didn’t hold the scent of bourbon. I grabbed my water bottle and downed half the contents, looking at my watch as I did.

  Only nine o’clock.

  The time since I’d left Molly sleeping in my bed alone yesterday morning had been torture. I’d driven past her hotel no fewer than five times the night before, trying to make out which room would be hers in the countless windows facing the street, gripping the steering wheel tightly in case I’d be tempted to get out and go up to her.

  Instead I’d driven to a nearby church where I knew an AA meeting took place three nights a week, Sunday being one of them. A kind of pep talk for the week ahead. I’d gone in, taken a seat in the back and watched without participating.

  You see, what my ex-wife didn’t know was that I’d not only been to the meeting before, I was a full-fledged member. Had joined during that time when she’d noticed that I would spend night after night locked in what had once been my father’s office, the library of the house.

  Oh, I knew the rules well. And that was when I’d taken up smoking, trading one bad habit for another. Although while both would chase me to an early grave, cigarettes wouldn’t get me arrested for DUI or make me a target for MADD or get me fired from my job.

  Thankfully I’d been able to quit cigarettes without joining another group that would get me hooked on Mrs. Fields cookies or something.

  At any rate, I hadn’t been to a meeting in more than five years, and it had been strange sitting there listening to the others’ stories.

  Had I really fallen back that far?

  Yes, I realized, I had.

  And the reality hit in me in the stomach like a sucker punch.

  I’d recognized a couple of the guys there, and one had come up to me midway through the session, before I could duck out.

  “Hey, Alan,” Tom had said, sitting next to me. Part of the process involved being sponsored by someone in the group when you were new and then returning the favor and advancing further on down the path to sobriety by becoming a sponsor later. I’d sponsored Tom. And was a little surprised to find him still there.

  “Relapse?” he asked me.

  “Somewhat. You?”

  “No. I come every now and again just to remind myself that even a glass of wine can lead me right back to where I was. And I sponsor every now and again.”

  Tom had come from a long family of drinkers and had hit the bottle hard when his wife and kids had left him.
Not only had he stopped drinking, but he’d reconciled with his wife. An all-around success story.

  I’d looked down at my wrinkled clothes and wondered what that made me.

  Which is why I was now running myself through the ringer at the gym around the corner from the precinct.

  Well, I was using the word running loosely. In reality, I was walking really fast.

  I stepped off the treadmill, then headed for the showers. I didn’t kid myself into thinking it would be easy pushing the bottle aside for a second time. But I had to start somewhere.

  I was in the locker room putting my stuff away in my bag when my cell phone rang.

  I didn’t recognize the number on the display.

  “You are screwing your ex again,” came Astrid’s scathing indictment.

  I sighed. “How in the hell did you get my direct cell number?”

  “From one of your sisters.”

  I stiffened. I didn’t like the thought of Astrid being in contact with members of my family.

  As for her accusation, I admit, for the first couple of years after Val and I split, we’d get together for what we called “ex sex.” Essentially they’d been one-night liaisons designed to relieve stress with someone we already knew we liked and had great sex with. That had stopped about three years ago, though, when we’d decided that constant intimacy might put our friendship in jeopardy. And neither of us had been willing to risk that.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

  “I wasn’t aware you’d asked one.”

  “Are you sleeping with your ex?”

  I remembered that day ten months ago when I’d given myself over to lust and bedded Astrid. As we’d lain in bed afterward, she’d asked about my ex, and I’d answered, telling her that we’d slept together from time to time but that there was no passionate love there.

  Now, just as then, I felt compelled to answer her. While I couldn’t claim any real lasting emotion for her, the truth wouldn’t hurt if it provided her relief. “No, Astrid. I’m not.”

  Shortly thereafter, she hung up.

  Christ. When I’d acknowledged that giving up the bottle would be difficult, I hadn’t factored in situations like the one with Astrid. I hefted my gym bag and headed for the door to see what other problems fate had lined up for me, personally and professionally.

  15

  MOLLY SAT AT THE FAR end of the bar at the Gas Lantern later that night, again waiting for Alan. Their agreement was that they would meet there regularly at nine until her sister’s killer was found. She glanced at her watch. Only it didn’t look as though Alan intended to keep up his end of the bargain.

  Again.

  She took a deep breath. He hadn’t made the last meeting, and she’d gone to his apartment. She didn’t think it was a good idea to do that again, for obvious reasons. No matter how loudly her body and heart protested.

  She shifted uncomfortably on the stool, glad the place was quiet tonight, the band replaced by a jukebox.

  Alan had never been easy to read. Her first impressions of him when she’d spoken to him on the phone from Toledo hadn’t been favorable. He’d stonewalled her, shut her out. And he’d begun to do the same when she’d met with him for the first time down here. But now…well, the puzzle pieces she was beginning to collect from several different people were forming a picture that only made him all the more enigmatic.

  It had begun when Claude had asked about Alan before sharing the evidence that pointed away from Claude, namely surveillance footage of a black-cloaked mystery woman—or small man—coming out of the Josephine moments after the estimated time of Claire’s murder.

  How well do you know Detective Chevalier? Claude had asked.

  For a reason she had yet to fathom, she’d felt curiously uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his intense gaze. She’d suspected he’d known of her growing feelings for Alan, no matter how impossible that had seemed. Put it down to a guy thing maybe, but she was convinced he’d known more than he was sharing. Maybe in the course of their own investigation, he and Akela had picked up on her and Alan’s connection.

  With that question out of the way, they’d then shared a few pieces of information about Alan that she hadn’t wanted to believe but had known were true just the same. Not just because she trusted Akela. But because they just…fit.

  She thought about the man she’d seen in the picture with his three sisters. She now knew he’d become entangled with his supervising captain’s estranged wife, which had put the captain on a mission to see Alan fired. Add that he had arrested the wrong man, by way of Claude, for Claire’s murder and…

  Well, you got the man she knew now.

  “The guy ought to be taken out back and taught a lesson,” the bartender, Jack Cadieux, said, freshening her drink even though she hadn’t asked him to.

  She smiled at him, reminding herself that he didn’t know what she’d been thinking. “I take it knowing exactly the right thing to say comes with owning a bar.”

  He chuckled. “You could say that. Although in this case, I mean it. Leaving a pretty woman like you sitting waiting all by yourself has to be a crime somewhere in the world.”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately not here.”

  Another customer came in and Jack moved down the bar to serve him.

  Molly watched the exchange, wondering what she should do next. Go back to the hotel? She thought of the diary she still had in her bag, along with the key-ring troll, and knew that she didn’t want to go back to her room just yet. She’d rather wait around here, even if the spotlight of stood-up woman was shining on her.

  Yes, she knew that her heart played a huge role in her growing attachment to the mysterious detective. Maybe because not much time had passed since she’d lost her twin sister and her emotions were close to the surface, her heart exposed and vulnerable. Definitely because something within him reached out to her in a way that she couldn’t ignore, much less refuse.

  “C!”

  She snapped upright to find Jack shouting out the greeting to someone who’d just walked in. In more ways than one, she was surprised to find it was Alan.

  JACK PUT DOWN MY USUAL bourbon bottle and clean glass in front of me when I walked down the bar to stand next to Molly.

  “Sorry, Jack, not tonight,” I said.

  While Molly had yet to wear another dress similar to the little red number I’d seen her in the other night, she still captured my attention in a way that set off alarms. And not only on a sexual level. Whenever I was with her I felt…whole somehow, even though I’d never considered myself empty.

  “You look…different,” she said quietly.

  I glanced down at my new shirt and pressed slacks, then rubbed my freshly shaved jaw. “Not so you wouldn’t recognize me on the street,” I said.

  My overcoat was still creased and wrinkled. That, I couldn’t help. Not until I could buy a replacement, because I wasn’t willing to wait even an hour while it was dry-cleaned. Not now. Not in the middle of an important investigation.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m reasonably sure I would have passed you without a second glance.”

  I stared at her.

  She motioned with her hands. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” She nudged her glass around in a circle in front of her. Bourbon. But it looked like she hadn’t touched it.

  My mouth watered.

  “Come on,” I said, grabbing my hat from where I’d put it on the bar. “Let’s go someplace else.”

  She blinked her pretty blues at me, and I motioned for her to lead the way out. Partly because that’s what a gentleman did for a lady. Mostly because it gave me a grade-A view of her backside.

  If it also prevented her from looking at me too closely, that was between me and the wall.

  Truth was, I wasn’t all that keen on her thinking she was responsible for the changes I was making to my life. Although it might come a little closer to the truth than I was comfortable with. I mean, if I hadn�
�t met Molly Laraway, would I now be back at the gym and refusing a glass of bourbon? Or would Val’s talking to me have been enough?

  No. I knew that all roads to where I currently stood began with Molly. Mostly because I hadn’t liked the man I saw through her eyes. In the beginning, I’d tried to stave off my attraction to her to save myself the trouble. But once we’d crossed the line and I’d gotten a really good look at myself back at my place…well, I knew I had to make a few changes, but quick. If only so I could live with myself.

  “You look good,” she said, walking next to me.

  Nowhere was the click-click of her heels against the promenade, because she wore flats rather than stilettos. But she was woman enough that she didn’t need the props.

  “Thanks,” I said, rubbing my chin again. My skin itched. It wasn’t used to being without the stubble, and I imagined it putting up a protest.

  “Here,” I said, opening the door to a coffee shop.

  She entered and motioned toward a table near the front. I instead led her toward the back, where we both sat, me with my eye on the door.

  “I thought you might not come.”

  I grimaced. “Sorry. I got caught up with a lead on Zoe.”

  “Your sister?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I got a line on the kid Frankenstein said she’s dating.” If her brief smile was anything to go by, she caught my reference to the bartender at the Goth bar. “I stopped by to talk to his parents. He hasn’t been home for the same length of time Zoe’s been missing.”

  Missing. I hated saying that word. It implied too much.

  And I was starting to worry.

  Molly nodded. Clearly she was preoccupied. I thought I knew her well enough to see that.

  Of course, it would stand to reason that she might be feeling a little uneasy herself. After all, we’d slept together. And I hadn’t called. Worse, I was not only acting like it hadn’t happened, I’d been late for our regular meeting.

  “You okay?” I found myself asking and cringed.