Forbidden Fruit (41 page)

L
iz smiled wearily at her bartender. “I'm out of here, Darryl. You're sure you've got everything under control?”

He grinned and his usually nondescript but pleasant, freckled face became absolutely devilish. “Got it, boss.”

“You're certain you know the closing procedure? If you have any hesitation, I'll stay the extra hour and—”

“Get lost,” he answered, waving her toward the door. “You look beat.”

“I am.” She hoisted her tote bag to her shoulder. “Nine in the morning to ten at night makes for a long day.”

“So take off.” He shook his head. “I've got everything covered. Besides, if anything comes up, I know where to find you.”

After making one last, visual check of the place and calling goodbye to her two waitresses, Liz left the restaurant and started for her car.

She had parked it in a lot located two blocks up to Bourbon, then one block over. She didn't mind walking, even though she rarely left before ten-thirty. This area of the Quarter was heavily trafficked and she always carried her ever-faithful can of Mace.

Ever-faithful. Unlike Santos had been.

Liz pushed the thought aside and drew in a deep breath, enjoying the crisp, night air. She had to go on; she understood that. She was a survivor. The long days—and nights—at her restaurant were as much of her own choosing as a necessity. The longer and harder she worked, the less time she had to think about Santos; the less time she had to miss him, to hurt.

Even after everything, she still loved him.

She drew in a swift, angry breath. She wouldn't forgive him for the way he had hurt her. The way he had betrayed her with Glory. If she knew of a way to make him pay, she would.

Liz reached Bourbon Street and started across, glancing to her left and right, then stopped, blinking in surprise. Hope St. Germaine was crossing almost right in front of her, from the opposite side of the street.

Liz frowned, stiffening with distaste. French Quarter nightlife hardly seemed like
her
cup of tea. Unless she was down here on some mission of moral mercy. That was it—she had probably come to the Quarter to sanctimoniously ruin someone's life.

But alone? At this time of night?

Without pausing for second thought, Liz turned in the opposite direction of her car, and followed Hope St. Germaine, becoming more curious when, moments later, the woman ducked into Paris Nights, a strip club owned by a sleezeball named Chop Robichaux. Whenever the Association of French Quarter Merchants met, the man always looked her over, as if wondering what she would be worth on the open market.

Liz shuddered. She had heard about his past operations, about his run-ins with the law. And from some of the other business owners, she had heard stories about Robichaux that had given her nightmares.

She shook her head, told herself that Hope's reasons for being in Paris Nights was none of her business, then followed Glory's mother into the club, anyway. She stopped just inside the door, taking a moment to adjust to the dark, smoky interior. When she did, Liz saw that Hope St. Germaine was at the bar, talking to Chop. But instead of turning away, as if she'd gotten directions to a pay phone or a bathroom, Hope waited while the beefy club owner came around the bar, and the two went toward the back of the club together.

Liz narrowed her eyes.
What business could high-and-mighty St. Germaine have with low-down and dirty Robichaux?

She followed them, though careful to keep her distance. They had slipped into a booth on the other side of the stage. Liz craned her neck to see around the gyrating dancers; she saw Hope slide what appeared to be an envelope across the table.

“Hey, baby.” A man reeking of whiskey fell against her and grabbed her arms. “Wanna dance?”

“No, I don't.” Disgusted, she reeled back from the man, wrenching her arms free. “Excuse me.”

She began to back out of the club, but the drunken man followed her. “Aw, c'mon, darlin'. I bet you can really shake your wild thing.” He leered. “Those girls up there have nothing on you.”

They had nothing on. Period.
Liz glowered at the man, doing her best to look fierce. “I said no.”

He made another grab for her, this time for a spot south of her elbow. She slapped his hand, then kicked him in the shin. Surprised, he made a heavy sound of pain and stumbled backward.

Liz turned and ran.

F
orty-eight hours after being arrested, Glory bailed Santos out. She took him directly to the hotel; there Jackson waited.

Santos didn't waste time on pleasantries. He barreled into the room and across the floor, stopping to stand before his partner. “What the hell's going on, Jackson?”

His partner folded his hands calmly in his lap. “Seems Robichaux went to the district attorney, claiming you were shaking him down. Said you threatened to hurt him and his family if he didn't pay.”

“What!” Santos glowered at Jackson. “That's bullshit!”

“Hold tight, partner, there's more.” Jackson drew what sounded like a careful breath. “Chop claims you were a part of the busted operation six years ago. Make that the French Quarter Five.”

Santos sank to a chair. The past was coming back to haunt him. He remembered the suspicious glances, the open hostility from his fellow officers. He had felt so betrayed by them, first when he discovered what they had been up to, the way they had bastardized their badges for profit, then worst of all, when one of them had accused him of being a part of their operation.

To have his integrity questioned, his honor under attack, had been the ultimate slap in the face. And now it was happening again.

Unable to sit still, Santos leaped to his feet and began to pace.

“Chop claims you weren't only a part of the operation, but that you were the leader,” Jackson continued. “He claims that you got wind I.A. was onto you, so you let your fellow officers take a dive to save your own ass. Chop went along with you, he says, because you threatened his family. Of course, as he freely admits, he had nothing to lose since he was offered immunity from prosecution.”

“The slimy little bastard!” Santos stopped and swung to face his partner. He flexed his fingers. “If I could get my hands on him right now, I'd wring his fat neck.”

“What I don't understand,” Glory said suddenly, speaking for the first time since arriving at the hotel, “is why Internal Affairs is so quick to believe a character like this. The man's a criminal, for heaven's sake.”

Jackson smiled grimly at Glory. “It does seem ridiculous, doesn't it? But, politically, this a bad time to look innocent. There have been so many scandals in the department, so many incidents involving dirty cops, the public's perception is that we're all dirty. Hell, “60 Minutes” has done two unflattering exposés on the N.O.P.D., and Chief Pennington came into office looking for corruption, vowing to clean up the department. It's a witch-hunt atmosphere right now. Right now, as far as I.A. is concerned, you're guilty until proven innocent. And they keep coming back to that original officer's insistence that you were involved.”

“So,” Santos said, beginning to pace again, “Robichaux goes to the district attorney with this fairy tale. They go to Internal Affairs with a deal. I.A. sets up a sting. Robichaux tells them I'm coming by for a payment. They give him the marked bills, and he has them planted on me.”

Santos stopped pacing and swung to glower at his partner once more. “Of course, everybody buys his story. Not just those pricks from I.A., but all the guys. They all believe a low-down dirty scumbag before me. Just great.” He fisted his fingers. “Just fucking great.”

“Not everybody,” Jackson said quietly. “But to some, it looks bad. Because of your past involvement with Robichaux, because of the way you handled the original case, going to Chop before I.A. And you were there, in his place that night.”

“Robichaux called Santos,” Glory said quickly. “He said he had information on the Snow White. I was there.”

“But you weren't on the phone. So, as far as I.A.'s concerned, you weren't there.” Jackson turned back to Santos. “And you had the envelope of money. The marked money.”

“Which was planted on me.”

Jackson held up a hand. “I know that. And you know that—”

“But we have to get I.A. to know that,” Glory murmured. She looked from Santos to Jackson. “But how?”

“To learn that,” Jackson said, “we need to know why. Why,” he repeated calmly. “Think, Santos. You don't work vice anymore. You're not a threat to Robichaux. There are enough homicides in this city to keep you busy in your own division. Why risk everything to set you up?”

“Money. That's the only thing a person like Robichaux cares about. Somebody's paying him to do it.” Santos narrowed his eyes. “But who?”

“That, my friend, is the question of the day.”

The hotel manager called, and Glory spoke with him a moment, then excused herself. “Duty calls,” she murmured, crossing to the door. “If you need anything, my secretary will have me paged.”

Santos crossed to stand beside her. He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. “Thanks,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes, realizing in that moment that he needed her far more than was wise. “For everything.”

She smiled and curled her fingers around his. “You're welcome.”

Seconds later, the door shut behind her. Jackson whistled under his breath, then looked at Santos. “That's one exceptional woman. She stood by you like you wouldn't believe. Called everybody she knew. You have any idea what you're doing with her?”

Frowning, Santos glanced back at the door through which Glory had just exited. She had stood stalwartly by him, that was true, publicly challenging the charges, doing what she could to help. The night of the arrest, she had called Jackson, then had contacted a top defense lawyer; when bail had finally been set, she had arranged for it and this meeting with his partner.

And yet, through it all, he had wondered why she was doing it. He had wondered when the ax would fall. And right now, he felt like a class-A piece of shit because of it.

“Do I know what I'm doing?” he repeated softly. “When it comes to Glory, hell, no, I never have.”

Jackson nodded. “That's what I thought. Figure it out. Or you'll fuck up. Again.”

“Meaning?”

“Liz.”

Santos looked away, then back at his partner. “I didn't love her, man. It just wasn't there.”

“And it's there with Glory?”

Was it? He had thought he loved her once, but that had been a long time ago. Back when he had still believed the world was made up of shades of gray.

Santos made a sound of frustration. “What's the fascination with my love life? We don't have enough to think about?”

Jackson laughed, then sobered. “Our reluctant witness was in.”

“Tina?”

“The very one.” Jackson steepled his fingers. “She says she's being followed. Stalked by the Snow White Killer.”

Santos searched his friend's expression, frowning. “But you don't believe her?”

“She doesn't fit the profile. She's too old. Her hair and eyes are wrong.” Jackson shook his head. “She seemed genuinely scared, though. But I also think the woman's got snakes in her head.”

“Probably a case of the power of suggestion causing a runaway imagination.” Santos rubbed his index finger along the side of his nose. “You checked it out, anyway?”

“Of course. I also attempted to get her to talk, but that was another no-go.”

“Big surprise.”

“There's another reason I didn't put much stock in her claim of being stalked by the Snow White.”

At his partner's tone, Santos braced himself. He had a feeling this was going to be his least favorite news on a day already filled with bad headlines. “Spit it out.”

“We found another body. In Baton Rouge.”

“Baton Rouge!” Santos jumped to his feet, fury and impotence raging inside him. “He's getting away. The son of a bitch is walking!”

“We don't know that. He could have been—”

“Give me a break, Jackson! You know as well as I do that he's out of here.” Santos flexed his fingers. “This guy doesn't stray. He picks a place he likes, a place he feels safe. And he stays until it gets too hot for him. Then he moves on.”

His partner didn't argue, because he couldn't. After a moment, Jackson cleared his throat. “I'm heading over there, to see what they've got and to confirm it's the real deal and not a copycat.”

“The palms—”

“Marked with the cross.”

“Dammit! This is my guy, Jackson. I'm coming with you.”

“Right. Then we'd both be off the case.” Jackson stood. “I don't think so, buddy. If the captain found out I was even talking to you, my ass would be in a big-time sling.”

“This is such a bunch of crap.” Santos scowled. “What am I supposed to do? Sit on my hands and wait around while our guy gets away?”

“Basically.”

“Screw you.”

Jackson laughed and thumped Santos on the shoulder. “We'll get you out of this. Somehow, we'll get the proof we need to get you off.”

For a moment, Santos said nothing, then he met his friend's eyes. “But what if we don't? Forget jail for a moment, I could lose my badge, Jackson. What would I do then? I'm a cop, it's who I am.”

Jackson squeezed Santos's shoulder and nodded. “I know. But we'll get you off. Somehow, we'll find out who did this to you and we'll fry their ass. All you've got to do is hold tight.”