Submission Page 6

  He really had great hands. Manly hands. Big and thick-fingered and rough. No, Alan wouldn’t know what lotion was, much less use it. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, and she couldn’t remember being with someone with hands so masculine and capable.

  She caught the direction of her thoughts. Was she really contemplating moving beyond the obvious attraction to a sexual liaison with the brooding detective? Yes, she realized, she was. And the acknowledgement sent a heated thrill running over her skin.

  “I understand the Quarter Killer has struck again,” she said quietly.

  Alan grimaced, trying to look everywhere but at her. But time and time again his gaze strayed from the innocuous to what he must have deemed forbidden territory. From his drink to the deep V of her dress. From the bar to her neck, bared by the upswept style she’d tamed her hair into. From the door to her legs, where they stuck out to the left of the small table.

  “That’s what the media would have you think.”

  “But it’s not the truth?”

  The thump-thump of the jazz drum seemed to vibrate straight through her as she waited for his response. Though she’d visited a couple of similar bars on Bourbon Street during the day, talking to those who might have seen her sister the night before she’d been killed, this was the first time she’d been in one at night. The dim lights, the smoky room, the band, all combined to create a provocative atmosphere more intoxicating than the bourbon she had yet to touch. She was ultra-aware of the darkening of Alan’s eyes as he tried not to look at her but did anyway. The feel of the fabric rubbing against her taut nipples as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. The weightlessness in the pit of her stomach that she could only credit to anticipation. The sudden dryness of her mouth that wouldn’t be quenched by her drink.

  “No. I don’t know.” Where she felt inordinately mellow and sensual, Alan seemed about ready to jump out of his skin. “I’m beginning to think the second murder may be a copycat.”

  It took a moment for Molly to register what he was saying. In fact, every piece of stimuli was taking her more time than usual to process. “That means someone familiar with the details of the first case is the murderer of the prostitute.”

  He nodded.

  “Which means you now have two separate killers on your hands.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it means.”

  Of course, it also meant there would be zero additional evidence to help them find her sister’s killer.

  She understood that in any investigation, the first twenty-four hours were the most important. The more time that passed, the odds against finding the killer grew exponentially. Especially if there was no solid evidence to support an investigation.

  Silence settled between them again, as if the sensual cloud enveloping her was now including Alan.

  “Excuse me,” a man said, coming to stand next to their table.

  Molly looked up at him as though surprised someone else was in the room.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  Molly blinked, then glanced toward the area in front of the band. Two couples were indeed dancing to the slower jazz tune.

  “Sorry,” Alan said, getting up from his chair, dropping a couple of bills onto the table, then picking up his hat. “The lady and I were just leaving.”

  8

  I WASN’T ALTOGETHER SURE who was more surprised by my abrupt response to the guy that had asked Molly for a dance—her or me. But I did know that it was something I’d never done before. And that bothered me on a level I wasn’t ready to explore.

  Okay, so the lady looked great in a dress. Especially this dress. And, all right, great didn’t begin to cover it. The snug fit and sexy design verified what I could only suspect before: that she was built. Her body was long and shapely, emphasizing the fullness of her pert breasts and hips. And those legs…

  I was already aware of my want of her. But her appearance tonight had turned that want into an unfamiliar burning need.

  My reaction to the guy asking her for a dance told me something else was at work here. Something strange. The only time I’d essentially told another guy to get lost was when one was stupid enough to approach one of my sisters in my presence. And since Molly wasn’t related to me…well, I could only put it down to a need within me to protect her from lechers.

  Lechers like me.

  “Where are we going?”

  I grew aware that I was walking down the street as if a rabid dog was snapping at my heels, and slowed my step. Molly appeared relieved as she halted briefly and leaned against a storefront to adjust one of her decadent sandals. I was overly fascinated with every movement. The way her slender hand rested against the warm brick front. The arch of her neck as she bent to her task. The slide of her index finger as she edged it under the slender strap to straighten it.

  I swallowed hard.

  Good question. Where were we going?

  “I have something else I need to do tonight. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone.”

  More like I needed to get out of that bar before I either downed the bottle of bourbon or sucker punched the guy, who hadn’t been pleased with my response and had told me he’d been speaking to the lady.

  My reaction had been to ignore him and grab Molly by the arm, haul her none too gently from her chair and lead her outside without saying another word.

  Me caveman, you Jane.

  Beyond stupid.

  Interestingly, however, Molly hadn’t seemed to read too much into my actions. Maybe she thought I went around doing stuff like that on a regular basis.

  Or maybe she wasn’t used to men doing what I had, just as I wasn’t used to doing what I had.

  I gave her another long once-over and stifled a groan. The way she looked, I was surprised she didn’t encounter reactions like mine at least daily.

  She glanced at me. “That’s fine, but it didn’t really answer my question.”

  “No, I guess it didn’t.” I put my hat on to avoid completely crushing it in my hand. At times like this, the old-fashioned fedora served a double purpose. It helped me feel more professional. And I hoped that by extension it made me appear that way. It was my camouflage. My cue to switch gears and focus on something within my control when matters were veering beyond it.

  I became all too aware of the wrinkles creasing my overcoat and the condition of the clothes underneath, wondering who I was kidding. I probably looked like Columbo on a bad day. And while Columbo had always gotten his man, women were few and far between.

  I concentrated on the promenade before me, trying to ignore the click-click of her heels against the brick walkway. Unfortunately I had the feeling I’d be hearing it long after the sound had stopped.

  I said, “We’re going to a place on Bourbon. I need to ask the bartender a few questions.”

  “Regarding the Quarter Killer?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  I didn’t realize I’d said the words aloud until she stopped and stood staring at me.

  I resisted the urge to smooth a tie that would probably never be straight again. “My youngest sister has, well, fallen out of contact, and I’m trying to find her before my other two sisters bug me to death.”

  I wasn’t clear on why I’d shared that. My personal life had no connection whatsoever to this woman, who had an agenda regarding her own sister.

  “Do you think she’s okay?”

  I started walking again. “I’m sure she is. It’s not the first time she’s done something like this.”

  The click-click started again.

  “But you’re worried anyway.”

  Yes, it dawned on me, I was worried. “A man can’t be a homicide detective and not be concerned when the twenty-one-year-old baby of the family won’t answer her cell phone.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  I squinted at her as we walked, my attention focused on her face rather than her too-hot body for the first time since spotting her in the bar. “No. Bu
t thanks. This is a family matter.”

  I caught her wince and cursed myself under my breath.

  Here I was going on about family matters when she had her own very serious family matters to concern herself with.

  I knew about her mother. Had been the one to contact her about Claire’s death. Not only had Mona Laraway—now Sanchez—not seemed surprised, she hadn’t seemed saddened by her daughter’s death, either. When I tried to give her the information on how she could recover the body for burial, she’d just about hung up on me.

  And five minutes later had been the first time I’d heard from Molly.

  “So…what else have you been up to?” I asked. “Besides finding out there’s been another murder?”

  “I stopped by the prosecutor’s office this morning.”

  Likely Bill Grissom had stonewalled her with his very efficient secretary.

  “He seems nice but wasn’t able to give me any more information than I already had.”

  “You met with him?”

  She must have picked up on my surprise, because she smiled. “I have a few strings at my disposal.”

  She had more than a few, in my opinion. But right now I wasn’t a good judge. I was more focused on the tightness of my groin than on anything going on in my brain.

  “Well, that’s not entirely true,” she said, gesturing with her hand. “Not about the strings. Those are real enough. I mean about my not finding out anything I hadn’t already known.”

  I didn’t respond. Her comment was leading. Probably purposely so. And it had been a long time since leading comments had worked on me.

  I felt her stare on my profile. “You didn’t say anything about evidence pointing in another direction.”

  “Away from Lafitte,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Because there was really nothing to say.”

  “I figured that’s what you’d say. That’s why I called Akela Brooks. She met with me this morning.”

  It seemed Molly Laraway had been very busy today.

  The mention of the FBI agent aggravated me. It wasn’t that she’d been right about Claude Lafitte’s innocence so much as her method for proving her point. Okay, so I’d been distracted and in no frame of mind to consider what she’d had to say with an open mind. But given her personal involvement with the suspect, I’d had good reason to shelve her arguments, as well.

  “And?” I did a bit of obvious leading of my own.

  “And she said the same thing Grissom did—there was evidence leading in a different direction, but she wouldn’t tell me what the evidence was or in what direction it was leading.”

  Smart woman, Agent Brooks.

  But her playing her cards close to her chest told me she was still working the case, something I’d already suspected given her presence at my questioning of Lafitte this morning. Molly’s information had just verified my suspicions.

  As far as I was concerned, that meant two too many damn cooks in the kitchen. A definite recipe for disaster.

  We’d walked a few blocks down Bourbon Street from Canal, and I stopped in front of the open doorway to Club Bijou, a popular hangout for the Goth crowd and a place Zoe had been known to frequent. Just last month I’d met her there for a drink at her request.

  “This it?” Molly asked.

  “This is it.” I took a deep breath. “Brace yourself.”

  MOLLY WASN’T TOO SURE why she would need to brace herself. And since she had no idea what she should brace herself against, she was wholly unprepared for the scene that greeted her just inside the open doorway to the club.

  The walls were painted black and purple. And so were the people inside. A lot of people. And she got the impression that, Halloween week or not, the patrons would be dressed exactly the way they were now, minus a skull ring or two.

  She tried to narrow her eyes from their wide-open position, watching as two women in their early twenties passed, their hair black with purple spiky streaks, their faces white and their lips painted black. She shuddered.

  “Regular freak show,” Alan said under his breath, although she couldn’t be sure if he was talking to her or himself.

  The place was crowded with people who looked almost exactly the same. There was something unsettling about her and Alan looking strange dressed the way they were when everyone in the place was dressed strangely. Clothes ranged from the very risqué with pushed-up cleavage and fishnet stockings to Elvira, Mistress of the Dark to Death himself.

  Alan found a free stool at the end of the bar, closest to the door, and indicated for her to sit on it. With a few awkward tugs on her skirt and some careful maneuvering of her heels on the lower rung of the stool, she finally managed to do as he’d invited. He stood next to her.

  “Halloween is a national holiday for this bunch,” he mumbled.

  The slow bass beat coming over the speakers placed along the walls filled the place with an earsplitting rock song. Where in other places there might be a whoop of excitement and a race for the stage to dance, instead people moved toward the area in the back of the bar as if in a trance. Then they stopped and began moving in a jerky way. It took Molly a second to realize they were dancing.

  Wow.

  She leaned closer to Alan. “Does your sister dress like this?”

  “Zoe?” he asked from where he was motioning toward the bartender. “No. She has a few piercings, and I’ve seen her with temporary color in her hair, but…” He shrugged and looked around. “Then again, who’s to say? If she did dress this way, she could be in here and I wouldn’t even know it.”

  The bartender had what looked like a silver dog chain fastened from his brow to his nose, then down to a nipple revealed by an open leather vest. Molly couldn’t help gaping. Didn’t that hurt? It looked painful to her.

  “Give us a couple of glasses of bourbon,” Alan said. “And I was wondering…”

  The bartender looked at Molly, then walked back down the bar, ignoring the beginning of Alan’s question.

  She listened to him curse.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Molly opened her mouth to object, but he had already stepped from her side and was making his way through black and white and purple bodies down the bar.

  Frankly she thought he should have waited until the bartender returned with their drinks to talk to him. And the bourbon arrived just as Alan made his way to the other end of the bar.

  Molly smiled at the bartender and offered him the money for the drinks plus a hefty tip. He smiled back in a way that told her the money wasn’t his only incentive.

  She blinked at him, unable to decide if she liked the attention or if she should pack the dress she was wearing away forever when she got back to her hotel room tonight.

  Finally he turned from her and made his way back down to the other end of the bar. Molly lifted one of the drinks, then downed it, the unfamiliar liquid burning a fiery trail down her throat. She coughed, then smiled at the girl next to her, who gave her a long look and sipped from her own martini glass, which held something iridescent red.

  Molly stretched her neck and turned her attention back to Alan, who had finally gotten the chained bartender’s attention. He held out something, and she saw the young man look at it, then shake his head. Alan’s mouth was open, apparently midsentence, when the bartender walked away to wait on another customer.

  “No luck?” she asked when Alan finally rejoined her.

  His answer was another curse.

  She nodded. “That’s what I thought. Can I see the picture?”

  He hesitated for a moment, looking at her. Then he held out the photo.

  The four-by-six-inch shot had been folded back to focus on a pretty blonde with a smile as wide as Louisiana was long.

  “She’s lovely,” she said.

  She opened the picture so that the whole shot was revealed. Three beautiful young women were grouped together with Alan posed behind them, his wide arms more than long enough to envelop them all in a bea
rlike hug. She squinted and held the picture closer to the candle on the bar in front of her. At least, she thought it was Alan. The guy in the picture was different somehow from the man with her now, pretending not to care that she was studying the photo so closely. He was clean-shaven, had neatly trimmed hair and was minus his forever-present overcoat. And he was grinning with pride and happiness.

  Definitely not the man she had come to know over the past couple of days.

  He held out his hand for the picture.

  Molly didn’t give it back to him as she slid from the stool. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  9

  THE RED OF MOLLY’S dress and the shine of her silky blond hair standing out in the sea of black was like a surreal movie shot as she made her way through the place, following the path I had taken a few minutes earlier. I couldn’t seem to take my eyes from her. And neither, it appeared, could a lot of other guys in the place. Including the bartender.

  I raised my eyebrows and watched as she motioned for him, and he went to her immediately.

  The guy on the other side of me leaned closer. “Hot,” he said.

  I wondered what damage tugging on the ring in his nose would do. “Stick to your own kind.”

  He shrugged. “Hey, just because you like your meat well-done doesn’t mean you don’t want something fresh and raw every now and again.”

  I winced at the description of Molly and looked down at the two glasses in front of me. One was empty.

  Molly laughed at something the bartender said, leaning across the bar so that her full breasts nearly spilled out of the top of her dress. I suddenly found it difficult to swallow. But somehow I managed as the bartender leaned closer to her, blocking my view.

  I downed the other bourbon, then ran the back of the same hand across my mouth.

  “Rafe’s popular with the ladies,” my new friend imparted. “I wouldn’t leave her with him too long.”