A Christmas Kiss (12 page)

The panicked look on her face cleared a path for her through the tourists, street kids and drunks.

Cori was completely unaware of the people she passed. Her mind was focused on what Danny Dupray had said. Kit could not have had anything to do with the noxious display she'd just witnessed. He had talked with Danny Dupray, had visited the Twinkle because it was part of his duty. He had to hang out with lowlifes like Danny to get tips and information on people who were worse scum bags. But Kit would never, sever have taken the token of their affection and suggested it for use on the costume of a stripper.

She looked up and found she had traveled four blocks through crowded streets without realizing it.

She forced herself to slow down, to start glancing behind her to see if she was being followed. Yet everywhere she looked she saw the image of Candy dancing behind the glittering lights, the foil of her costume shimmering with each gyration of her hips. Silver bells. Kisses. Kit. One step led right to the next.

The conclusion was inevitable. If Danny did know about the chocolate kisses, if Kit had somehow slipped up and revealed her fondness for them, then it was also possible that the person tormenting her was Danny. He knew what Kit looked like. He knew well enough to find a near double. It was possible that Danny Dupray had been hired by the DeCarlo family to drive her insane, or to make her too afraid to testify.

Heart pounding, she stopped before a secondhand clothing store that specialized in fanciful gowns of lawn and lace. The faceless mannequins, draped in finery from decades past, gazed sightlessly toward the street. Cori pressed her cheek against the cool glass, hoping the pane would calm her heart, stop the ache that was pounding behind her ribs.

"Ma'am, are you all right?" An elderly lady stepped through the shop door and came to Cori's side.

"Are you diabetic, or epileptic or something? Is there some medication I can get for you?"

Cori forced herself away from the cold glass and stood. "No," she answered. The woman was old enough to be her grandmother, and perfectly turned out in a red velvet dress and black choker with a cameo on it. A white lace shawl was pulled tightly around her shoulders, and her hair was silvery white, pouffed and tucked into a perfect Gibson girl. "I'm okay," Cori said.

"Would you like a cup of hot tea? It's a chilly morning and I have a nice fire in the stove. One of those old space heaters the city frowns on now, but the best ever to put your feet in front of and toast your toes."

What kindness had brought this woman into her life? Cori smiled, steadied by the compassion of a total stranger. "No, but thank you. I didn't mean to upset you. I just had a start and..."

"No need to explain." The woman took her arm. "Come into my shop and have some tea. It would do us both good."

Cori hesitated. She didn't want to impose on a total stranger. But she also didn't want to be rude, and the woman certainly seemed to want someone to visit. "Your clothes are beautiful." She drew the woman's attention to a hand-crocheted dress overlaid on a pale pearl sheath lining, which hung in the window.

The older woman stepped back. "Now, that's a dress for you. Artsy. It would suit you perfectly.

Some of those dangly gold earrings. Stockings. Not those wretched panty hose things, but real stockings with a seam up the back." She nodded vigorously. "Maybe you'd like to try it on?"

The dress appealed to her, but Cori shook her head. "I really have to be going."

"And not even tea?"

Cori looked at the dress one last time. It was lovely. She was about to say goodbye when a reflection in the glass caught her attention.

The man wore a mahogany-colored overcoat, and the sun struck fully in his curly, sandy hair. The morning light slanted across the left side of his face, leaving the right in shadow. But it was enough for Cori to know that the man who watched her so intently from across the street was no one but Kit Wells.

The bustling police precinct that Willet Blake called home was in the heart of the French Quarter and one of the busiest station houses in New Orleans—but certainly not the worst. Normally the French Quarter crime ran from petty thievery to sex crimes with the occasional homicide thrown in on a more and more regular basis. But it was nothing like some of the districts with housing projects and street gangs. The Quarter had a kinky side, but it wasn't as lethal as other areas.

Settling in to his morning, Blake pulled the files on the top of the stack toward him, ready to get down to the business of a very busy day.

Joey saw the captain begin to work, and he opened the door without knocking. He closed it behind him and twisted the lock into place.

"I hope there's a reason for this behavior." Willet Blake was a third-generation policeman. He'd earned his captain's bars, had worked his way up through the ranks.

"I need a little of your time, without interruption." Joey wasn't certain what role Blake played in Cori's problems. Had the man made every effort, as he'd claimed? Or was he playing along by another set of rules?

"This better be good, Tio. I've heard from some of my men that you stepped all over them yesterday. I hope that's not an attitude problem you're developing." Blake tapped his pen on the desk for emphasis.

"The problem that's developing is the fact that one of those men, and my money is on Jake Lewis, dropped the dime on my witness. Someone identified her to the newspaper, thereby putting her life and also a big portion of the DeCarlo case in jeopardy."

"What's she doing in New Orleans? Isn't it your job to see that she remains safe, and anonymous, until the retrial?" Blake didn't give an inch.

"It would be a lot easier to keep her safe if someone from the local PD wasn't
selling
information to the paper."

Blake came out of his chair slowly. "You better have proof to back that up."

"Look at the morning paper. Lewis knew the witness. He recognized her. The other three officers wouldn't have known her, but he remembered her. Call the paper and ask who identified the woman in the picture."

Blake's eyes narrowed. "I'll do that, and if it was one of my men, they'll find themselves suspended without pay."

Joey nodded. The only thing he could do was take Blake at his word on this matter. No officer liked to see another sell information, particularly one of his own men. It was a bad reflection on the entire force.

"If that's why you're here, you've made your point. And I've got work to do." Blake resumed his seat and picked up his pen. When Joey didn't leave, he looked up, pen in midair, as if he were about to execute a stroke of penmanship of the greatest importance.

Joey finally spoke when he had the captain's full attention. "What's the status of Kit Wells? Anything new?"

"That woman sent you, didn't she. She finally got someone to come over here and make sure we're doing our jobs. Well, you can repeat to her that the Wells case is closed. It has been closed and will remain closed. Period."

"I told her I'd ask. I have to get her out of town, Blake. For both our sakes she needs to get out of here. Her husband is the reason she's in New Orleans. She's decided to track him down herself."

The pen lowered to the desk and remained there. "Kit Wells is dead."

"How can you be certain?"

Blake reached to the side of his desk and opened a file drawer. After a moment he brought out a folder with Kit Wells's name on the tab. He held it a moment, then opened it on his desk.

"On December 24, 1993, Kit married Brently Gleason in Jackson Square. Half the force was at the wedding. Hell, / was there. The reception was held at Riches'. I saw Kit hand Brently into the limousine.

He was going to pick up some champagne. Someone had given them some expensive stuff as a wedding present and Kit was determined to get it himself and put it on ice so it would be chilled for the toast."

This was all old hat to Joey, but he didn't interrupt.

"We all followed the limo to Riches'. The band started playing, and we were dancing and Brently was talking with the guests, making apologies for Kit being so long. No one thought much, until an hour had passed and no Kit. Brently was about to cry."

"I can understand that."

Blake nodded. "It was a bad scene. I thought he'd probably been in a traffic accident—one of those freak things that happen—and that he was probably in some emergency room waiting to get a few stitches or a leg set. It never occurred to me that Kit had been abducted."

"And that's what happened?"

"Yes."

"How can you be certain?" Joey asked again.

"There was an eyewitness to the abduction."

Joey's eyes narrowed. "There was never a report of any eyewitness or any abduction. The report I read showed Kit Wells vanished. No trace, no witnesses."

"That was the report we released."

Joey felt the anger building. "That woman, his wife, has been hanging on to hope for two years. Why was that information withheld?"

"There are other concerns greater than one woman's hopes.'' Blake's voice was terse.

"Such as?"

"According to our witness, Wells had compromised the force. He was playing both ends against the middle, and he got caught."

"What are you talking about?" Joey was beginning to see a bigger picture, and he didn't like the outline. The way it was shaping up would put Cori squarely in the role of sacrificial lamb.

"The night of the wedding, Wells was surprised. He went to pick up the champagne and was cornered unexpectedly by two men who have been affiliated with the DeCarlo family as enforcers. They took Kit at gunpoint, saying he had double-crossed Antonio DeCarlo and that they were going to make sure he suffered and that his body was never found." Blake closed the folder.

"Did your witness see the hit?"

Blake hesitated. "He heard a sound like a muffled shot, a silencer we figure, and Kit crumpled. He was shoved into the trunk. And that was the last anyone saw of him."

"This witness, you're sure he's solid."

"As solid as a source like that can be. He knew Kit. They'd worked together." Blake tapped his pen on the folder. "There was some evidence that Kit had met with some of the men associated with Ben DeCarlo. There is the possibility that Kit knew the DeCarlo hit was coming down."

"And had his fiancee there as a witness. The woman with the memory too good to be true." Joey wanted to find Kit Wells and feel his windpipe give under the pressure of his bare hands.

"Looking back at it, it was terribly convenient that Kit was in the bathroom at the moment DeCarlo was killed."

"So was Kit on the take from Antonio or Ben?" Playing it either way, it didn't make sense. One died and the other went to prison. It was a lose-lose situation for the DeCarlos. It didn't make a bit of sense.

Blake tapped his fingertips together lightly. "The way I figure it, he was aligned with one of the smaller competing families. D'Amatus, Giacosta, one of those. Of course we don't have any proof to support this. It's my personal theory."

A doubt, so bitter and so deadly, prompted Joey to step forward and grab hold of the captain. "You don't suppose Ben DeCarlo was actually set up, do you?"

"Now, I might believe he was voodoo-hexed and turned into a zombie, or hypnotized, or given mind-altering drugs that made him kill his mother and father without knowing he did it. But as far as the facts go, Ben DeCarlo pulled the trigger on that gun. There were five eyewitnesses, and Ben made no effort to hide his identity."

Joey paced the room for a moment. "That's exactly what's troubling me. Why
didn't
he hire a hit man to do it, or do it privately? Why do it in a restaurant with dozens of witnesses?"

"You want to ask questions like that, work for the defense lawyer." Blake picked up his pen. "Ben DeCarlo is guilty of double homicide, and Kit Wells is dead. Those two facts are indisputable. The motivations behind them are up for grabs. We never had any real proof that Kit was dirty, but we uncovered some things that weren't exactly on the up and up."

"Could you be a little more specific?"

"Evidence from cases that didn't get turned in."

"Drugs?"

"Sometimes. The stash would be a little short. Not enough to warrant an investigation, but some grams of coke here and there. You know. The junkie could have been lying about the amount. Anyway, Kit's association with that club owner and his girls, that was an avenue that no one pursued."

"I have a lot of sources and contacts on the seamy side of life. It doesn't mean I approve of their life-style, or that I'm participating in it, or providing recreational substances for my sources." Joey found himself defending a man he'd never known and didn't like.

"Kit's wife is another problem. Brently Gleason wasn't your typical cop's wife. Not by a long stretch.

Some of the officers felt that Kit had betrayed them by getting involved with an artist." Blake held up his hands to ward off Joey's denials. "I know a man's wife is his business, but Kit was one of the guys. When he started seeing Brently, he changed. He started going to art openings and the theater. The officers felt like he was developing airs, and of course they couldn't blame him, so they laid it at the woman's feet.

That's life." "Would one of those men happen to be Jake Lewis?"

Blake nodded. "Lewis was one. He was at the wedding and very opinionated about the dim prospects for the survival of the marriage. It was almost as if he hoped it would fall apart so Kit could return to 'the brotherhood in blue.'"

"What about you? What was your opinion of the bride?" Joey found it disconcerting to refer to Cori as Brently or "the bride."

"Beautiful, talented, shy. Not exactly the best material for the wife of a detective. But she loved Kit.

That was easy to see."

"And did he love her?"

Blake took a breath. "That's a harder question. Kit was always playing the angles. Every day. He liked to analyze and calculate. Maybe he really loved the woman. Or maybe she was a calculated addition to his life. I guess we'll never know, but I always felt it would be better to leave all of this buried.