Submission Read online

“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.

  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 to
ld 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.”