Dead on the Delta (25 page)

“Oh yeah? And what might that be?”

Hitch squints over my shoulder. “I think your friend is innocent. I questioned him this morning.”

Thank God
. “Finally. Someone who doesn’t have their head up their ass.”

“I still want to check out the ground where the body was discovered,” Hitch continues, “but I don’t think we’re going to find any serial killer souvenirs.
My gut is saying Grace’s murder isn’t connected to the others. But even if it is, I don’t think Fernando killed Grace or anyone else.”

“I know!” The knot of tension at the base of my neck begins to ease. Fern has someone on his side and Hitch isn’t here to talk kisses! Double score for me. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe Cane and Abe can’t see that charging Fernando with murder is ludicrous.”

“It’s not ludicrous if you’re looking at the evidence.”

“What is the evidence, if you don’t mind me asking?” I ask, suddenly conscious of the men loitering outside the barbershop a block away. A couple of them are Cooper family friends, and won’t hesitate to report anything they see or hear. I take another step away from Hitch and try to look casual. “I don’t know what they’ve got on him, and I know I’m not
supposed
to know, but … ”

“Walk with me.” Hitch gestures down the street. “I’ll tell you what I know, but if anyone asks—”

“We never had this conversation,” I finish, falling into step beside him.

“Right. Unless I say we did.”

“Absolutely. You’re the big boss. Whatever you say.”

“Right.” His lips twitch and for a second I think he’s going to smile, but he doesn’t. “So, as I understand it, a call came in last night from someone saying Fernando sold them a sizeable quantity of illegal drugs. Breeze, in particular.”

Breeze.
Crap.
I’m disappointed. Fern knows better.

“Someone like who?”

“I don’t know. It was an anonymous call.”

“An anonymous call?” That’s
strangely
timed. “How anonymous? Was it a man or a woman? If it was a townie, I’m sure someone will be able to recognize the voice on the recording.”

“Ah, but that’s the bitch of it all.” His voice slips into his native drawl, the way it used to when we were alone and there was no need to be anything but ourselves. “The recording was mysteriously erased from the system sometime between last night and this morning. They’re blaming the temp on phone duty, but … ”

“Right. Crap.” My concerns about Cane and Abe bump up another notch. All you have to do is mention Breeze to a Baton Rouge judge and you can get a warrant to search anyone, anytime, anywhere. A little lie about a call that never came in is all it would have taken to get the DPD into Fernando’s.

“That was my feeling.” Hitch turns the corner and heads south toward Railroad Street. “Crap. Shady crap, which is why we’re having this conversation. I don’t think you’re in on the shady crap.”

I glance up at him, heart doing a few of those weird squeeze-thump-flutter things it does so well when he’s around. It shouldn’t feel so good to have this man imply that he trusts me—at least not to be an accessory to crookedness—but it does. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He spares me the smile he withheld
before. “So the DPD got their warrant and searched the bed and breakfast and found a mini-fridge with Breeze inside in Fernando’s storage room.”

“How much Breeze?”

“Not enough to hold him on distribution charges. If it hadn’t been for the hair tangled in the refrigerator door, he would have been facing a minor possession charge at the very worst.”

“Hair … Grace’s hair?” It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Hitch nods. “Cat hair, and a couple of blond hairs that seem to match a sample from Grace’s hairbrush that Libby Beauchamp brought in early this morning.”

Poor Libby, no wonder she was sobbing in the bayou.

“We won’t know if it’s Grace’s hair until the results get back from the lab in Baton Rogue, but—”

“But it was enough for the judge to hold Fernando without bail.” I finish with a curse. This is bullshit, but I can’t see that there’s much I can do. At least not right now.

“I seriously doubt the hair alone will be enough to get a conviction,” Hitch says, “not unless they find something else.”

“Which they won’t. Fernando didn’t do this. They’re not going to find jack.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hitch says. “Fernando told me someone else put the refrigerator in his storage room. He acted like he had an idea who that “someone”
was, but he wouldn’t name any names. It seemed like he was afraid to say too much.”

“Why would he be afraid while he was in police custody? Unless … ” Unless he’s afraid the police can’t keep him safe, or …

Or that the police are the ones he needs to be afraid of.

T
his is bad. “Blergh.”

Hitch sighs. “Exactly.”

“Cane’s sister, Amity … ” I push away the feeling that I’m betraying Cane with every word I speak.

I have to tell Hitch what I know. He’s trusted me with a lot of privileged information about this case. The only way to get Fern out of trouble is to return the favor. I can’t let an innocent man, a friend, stay in jail for a murder he didn’t commit because I’m afraid I might get my boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend or whatever Cane is to me now, in trouble.

“Amity and a friend of hers attacked me outside the police station this morning.”

“Attacked you? Physically?”

I nod. “I was getting my head smashed into the pavement a few minutes before you showed up.”

Hitch stops, turning to me with concern in his eyes that I try not to take personally. “Are you okay? Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“No, I’m fine.” And I am, mostly. My head doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it should, all things considered.

“Annabelle, more head trauma is the last thing—”

“Yeah, I know. I’m fine.” I wave away his concern and decide to keep my glasses on so he can’t get a good look at my eyes. “But Amity had Breeze injection marks under her arms and what looked like a fairy bite near her face.”

“That poor family.” Hitch crosses his arms. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s thinking about his own family, but I know there isn’t anything I can say to make that old pain any less painful.

I press on in the name of giving us both something else to think about. “She also kept asking me where ‘it’ was. I’m thinking ‘it’ is probably the drugs that were missing from the fridge. The full amount that should have come from a Breeze operation the size of the one in that house.” I fill Hitch in on my scout of the Breeze house and environs, about the fridge that was missing, and the fact that I’m guessing the cat hair the police found is from my very own Gimpy. “So maybe Fernando is afraid to name his connection because she’s his arresting officer’s sister?”

“Could be,” Hitch says. “But that shouldn’t matter.”

My stomach drops. “No, it shouldn’t.” Not if Cane and Abe are playing fair.

“To be honest, I see an internal affairs investigation in the DPD’s future,” Hitch says. “I’m going to recommend Stephanie stop sharing information and
put in a call to the review board in Baton Rouge. If the DPD planted that evidence, then—”

“No. Cane and Abe wouldn’t do that. I know them.” I pray my words are true. They might have bent the rules to get into Fern’s, but they want to find Grace’s killer. Her
real
killer. Sketchy methods in the name of justice, I can believe. Obstruction of justice and framing an innocent man, I cannot. “Someone else must have put it there. Amity, or someone else Fern’s afraid of.”

“Fern?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“It fits him.” Hitch smiles again, a real smile that makes it hard to breathe.

“It does. Jail, however, I’m sure does not,” I say. “But I might have another suspect to throw at the police. The man who attacked me last night was also very interested in where
I
put something he was looking for. I’m guessing he and Amity are both hunting for the drugs that weren’t in the fridge.”

“But why would they think you have them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m friends with Fernando? Or because I tied that woman up yesterday?”

“Or because you’re immune and it would be easy for you to hide a stash where very few people could find it.” Hitch bites his lip. “But if Amity and this man are both looking for drugs, then why would either of them plant the empty refrigerator in Fernando’s storage room?”

“I … I don’t know.” I shake my head, struggling
to clear out the cobwebs. “Maybe the woman who attacked me yesterday planted it, to throw the other two off her trail? Or maybe there’s someone else we don’t know about yet. But I definitely think the man in the bayou could have something to do with Grace’s murder. The footprints outside her window and the ones I took pictures of this morning could be a match. Dom’s looking at them now.”

“You’ve been busy this morning.” Hitch turns left on Railroad and heads straight for Swallows. Thank God. He must still have his own caffeine dependency to attend to.

“I wanted to take pictures of the crime scene and the Breeze house before this afternoon. I … I thought maybe … ” I hesitate, wondering how honest I should be with the partner of the woman investigating my performance for the FCC. I trust Hitch to help me clear Fernando, but as far as my own life is concerned …

“You thought Stephanie might take it easy on you if you showed initiative?” He grunts. “That could work … or not. Were you careful not to contaminate the crime scene?”

“Very careful. I used gloves and the whole bit. I’m not a complete waste, you know.”

Hitch reaches for the door to Swallows, but doesn’t pull it open. “I know you’re not.” Tension spikes between us, and the morning air suddenly seems hotter, stickier. “So why did you quit?”

I swallow and stare at his white knuckles. I really
don’t want to go over this again. “I’m not going to quit; I’m going to help the FBI any way I can,” I say, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Come on, let’s get a coffee. My treat.” I make a grab for the door, but Hitch doesn’t move his hand. Our fingers brush, the world slows, and I swear I can hear his heartbeat speed in response to my touch.

“You know what I mean,” he says. “Why did you give up?”

“I didn’t give up.” I pull my hand away.

“Sure looks like it. Your file was of the saddest things I’ve read in a while.” He leans closer while I hope someone will burst through the door and stop this before it gets any worse. “I know I was an asshole yesterday … ” Hitch’s voice drops, low and intimate, touching things in me I don’t want to be touched. “But if any of this is because of us … because of the way things ended … ”

No, he isn’t going there. Not here and now, on the street in broad daylight.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Screw playing it cool; I just want this conversation to end. Five minutes ago.

“Annabelle, you’re throwing your life away.”

I manage a disdainful laugh. “Spare me the melodrama, Hitch. I’m fine. I like my life. Things are going great.”

“Really? You were brilliant, near the top of our class. You could be saving lives. Instead, you’re a borderline alcoholic working a job a trained monkey
could do,” he says, his words making my jaw drop. A trained
monkey
? “Is that great? Is that what you wanted to be when you grew up?”

“This from the guy who drinks a six-pack every night?”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Neither am I, borderline or otherwise, and my job is a job that needs to get done.” I’m getting angry. Really angry. “And who the hell are you to pass judgment on my life, anyway?”

“Who am I?” He shakes his head. “I was your
friend.
For years. I cared about you. No matter how things ended, I don’t want to see you—”

“Give me a break.” My laugh is real this time. “Just how arrogant are you?”

His eyes narrow. “I’m not arrogant, I’m concerned.”

“It’s been
six years,
Hitch. Six.
Years
. I’m not ‘throwing my life away’ because I’m still carrying a torch for you, believe me.” My tone is so harsh I almost buy my own load of crap. “You think entirely too much of yourself.”

“Fine.” His jaw clenches and his left eyelid does that twitchy thing it does when he’s really angry. “Fuck me for giving a shit.”

“No, fuck you for being an asshole.”

“Right. Fuck me for being an asshole.” His hands lift into the air as he backs away from the door. “But if nothing else, you need to wake up and realize how serious this review is. You could be fired or serve jail time if Stephanie—”

“Screw Stephanie,” I say. “Really, why don’t you go screw Stephanie and leave me the hell alone.” I sound jealous and immature and stupid, but I don’t care. I just want him to go away, to take the pity in his beautiful blue eyes and scram before I do something embarrassing. Like cry. Or apologize. Or cuss at him some more.

Or worst of all, give in to the temptation to tell him the truth …

What would he say if I confess I can’t remember how I ended up in bed with his brother? That the world went fuzzy after those first few drinks?

Last night in the dark, with the fear of losing him so close, maybe I could have said the words. I probably should have said them years ago, on the night he came home with the certainty of my guilt in his eyes. But I didn’t. He’d been
so certain
that I’d willingly slept with Anton.

And maybe I did. Maybe I told his brother I liked it rough and we went at it all night like bunnies on roofies, just the way he said. I still can’t remember. A few too many drinks coming off a triple shift pulling hurricane victims from the wreckage and I blacked out. I was craving oblivion and Anton had been there with a bottle of Jack and an easy smile.

Maybe, I said yes to that oblivion in all its forms … Maybe not … Either way, it doesn’t matter now. The past is the past and no amount of painful truth can change it.

“I’ll go.” Hitch’s soft voice doesn’t fool me. He’s
still livid. “But keep your damned phone on. If Stephanie or I call you, I want you to answer on the first ring.”