Hall, Jessica (2 page)

Just like Marc.

She made a face as she thought of how awkward she'd felt the last
time they'd met. How hard it had been for her to know what to say and how to
act, never mind dealing with all these new emotions. She hadn't even been sure
if she wanted a relationship with him.

Marc, on the other hand, had been so happy that nothing seemed to
matter except that they were together. He had listened and watched her
intently, and treated her like she was the most precious thing in the world. As
important and busy as his life was, he'd said she was now his first priority.

I hope I don't disappoint him.

She glanced down at her suit. It was severely tailored, charcoal
gray, with a plain white shell. Dress
like one of them lawyers on Ally
McBeal,
her cousin Hilaire had advised,
and you'll fit right in with
that crowd.
She'd never felt comfortable around wealthy, powerful people,
but Marc would help her—he had assured her of that.

They're just like everyone else, Isabel. Besides, now they'll know
you're mine.

Commercial property in the city of New Orleans
was
at such a premium these days that the only way to get an affordable space was
to tear down something else or build on top of it. Since Sable's program was
financed solely through fund-raisers and other private donations, she hadn't
been able to afford either option.

You ain't got no business messin' with them folks in the city,
her
aunt had said when Sable had told her about Marc's offer.
Caine's right—they
don't care about what happens to us.

Her smile faded as she remembered that, and what Caine Gantry had
been doing to sabotage her project. Like most of the other Cajuns on the
Atchafalaya, he'd come with his whole crew when Sable had held her first
planning meeting at St. Mary's Church. The fishermen had stood silent at the
back of the sanctuary, listening to her presentation but not once joining in
the discussion of the project.

When Sable was finished, Caine had been the first to walk to the
front of the church, but he had ignored the sign-up sheet she'd held out to
him. He'd loomed over her, then had very calmly taken her roster and torn it
up.

We don't need your charity or your friends from the city coming in
and snooping round here.

Why, Caine?
She looked at him, then his crew. She
knew they were fighting with the wardens from the Department of Fish and Game
over new licensing and equipment requirements, and half of them were into
illegal smuggling and God knew what on the side.
Do you have something to
hide?

He'd leaned over the desk, his black eyes as cold as his voice.
Go
back to Shreveport, Isabel. You don't belong here anymore.

The juxtaposition of her old ties to the Cajun community and her
new relationship with Marc LeClare
sank in. The future
governor of Louisiana seemed willing to face anything for her sake, but Caine
Gantry had already proved to be a big obstacle. So would the press, when they
found out about her and Marc. It would be open season on both of them.

How many times you got to get burned 'fore you learn, child?
her
aunt had demanded.
You don't belong in the city.

It was true that she hadn't been back to New Orleans for years,
not since she'd transferred from Tulane to Louisiana State. Not since the night
of the Summer Magnolias dance—aka the absolute worst night of her life.

Hey, coon-ass! Where's your boyfriend?

Afraid he'll stand you up for someone with shoes?

Don't forget your corsage!

And the laughter, the cruel laughter that still rang inside her
head after all these years...

No.
She refused to brood over Jean-Del and the humiliation she'd
suffered because of him another second.
That is ancient history; everything
is different now. Marc makes everything different. I don't have to be afraid of
them anymore.

A sound from overhead tugged her from her thoughts. It sounded
like shoes shuffling.

"Hello?" Her voice boomed in the emptiness, and she
cringed and lowered it a notch. "Marc, are you up there?"

There was the sound of a cough, then, "Yeah."

"I'll come up." Sable picked up her briefcase and headed
up the staircase. The wrought iron squealed under her weight, making her grab
the railing. "Whoa. Great building, but I think we need new stairs."
When she reached the top all she could see were vague
shapes
and shadows. "Marc? Can you switch on the lights?"

Something moved, making a scraping sound, but no lights came on.

"Did we blow a fuse?" A faint, unpleasant odor made her
wrinkle her nose. "Do you know where the electrical box is?" As her
eyes adjusted to the dark, she put down her briefcase and tentatively moved
toward the sound. That smell—
gasoline and...fish?
—grew thicker.

"Marc? Are you all right? M—"

Her foot slammed into something immobile, and she fell forward.
Her arms went out automatically as she landed on her hands and knees in a
sticky puddle of liquid, next to something large and solid. A heavier, terrible
smell made her stomach clench. Lights overhead flickered on.

She was kneeling in a pool of dark blood. Right next to a man's
body.

He lay facedown, and her wide eyes focused on his short silver
hair. A wide, deep indentation distorted the back of his head, and the hair
around it was black with congealed blood.

"Oh, God." She grabbed him, rolling him over with
frantic, bloody hands, shaking her head. "No, not you. Not—" She went
still.

Marc LeClare's face was slack, and his kind brown eyes stared
blindly up at the ceiling.

Sable wiped the blood from her hand on her blouse before she
pressed her fingertips to the side of his neck. His skin was clammy and cool,
and she could feel no pulse.

He was dead—had been dead for some time.

"Please, God, no." She scrambled to her feet, but her
knees were shaking so much she nearly went down
again. Bile rose in
her throat and she choked it back down, looking wildly around them.

Did he fall? What did this to him? Who
—She
glanced up at the lights and slowly backed away toward the stairs. The smell of
fish and gasoline grew stronger.

Whoever did this turned on the lights. He called me up here.

Something swung out of the dark at her, glancing off her head,
knocking her back down to the floor. She slipped in the blood, trying to push
herself up. The stench of fish and gasoline and death smothered her. "Stop
it—don't—"

This had gone straight to hell in a hurry.

Billy Tibbideau reached down and adjusted his crotch. His balls
felt like they were curdling, and sweat made a wide streak down the back of his
green Gantry Charters T-shirt. He'd never hit a woman before, and the bad feelings
were knotting up his chest.

You don't put your hands on a woman in anger, Billy,
Caine
had told him, over and over.
You're a man. You're strong. They're weak.

"I had to do it." Billy Tibbideau paced a circle around
the unconscious woman and the dead man. "She ain't got no business comin'
here, snoopin' around."

Damn women are God's curse on men.
That
was what his daddy always said. When he was a boy, his father had about killed
himself trying to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table, but had
his mother ever appreciated it? Had she ever let the man have a moment of
peace? No, sir, she'd harp on him from the minute he stepped foot in the house,
whining about
his drinking or money or Billy, until his daddy had to give her
the back of his hand, just to shut her up.

William Tibbideau Sr. said that was all women were good for
anyway—walloping or screwing—and you had to give them plenty of both to keep
them in line. Caine might not wallop them, but he screwed plenty.

The tightness in Billy's chest made him want to kick the woman,
but he crouched down to look at her face, and saw it clearly for the first
time. "Aw, shit."

It was her—Isabel, Remy Duchesne's girl, the one who'd stirred up
half the bayou with her do-gooder nonsense. Remy should have beaten some sense
into her years ago, but the old man never had been able to control his women.

You don't hit women,
Caine's voice echoed inside
Billy's skull.

Had she seen his face? Had she recognized him?

Billy tossed aside the culling pole he'd used to knock her out and
went to the window to look down into the back alley. No one in sight, but he'd
have to get a move on if he was going to finish the job. Not that he had to—he
could wash his hands of this and walk away. But that wouldn't get him the rest
of his money.

He'd earned that money and then some.

The pint of Jack he kept in his back pocket was half empty; he
drained the rest before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The bad feelings
receded an inch or two. First place he was stopping on the way home was a
liquor store, get him a couple of fifths. His wife wouldn't like that, but
unlike his mother, Cecilia knew better than to open her mouth to him when he
was in a mood.

"Nothin' to it. Torch the place, Billy, that's all." He
grabbed the box of bottles he'd brought and carried it to the stairs.
"That's all, my ass."

The bodies changed things—they'd have to burn along with the
building. He wasn't taking a murder rap just because Remy's girl didn't have
the sense to keep her nose out of other people's business. He used his lighter
to ignite the strip of rag stuffed in the top of three bottles and then threw
them into the corners of the loft. The rags ignited the gasoline inside the
bottles as soon as they shattered.

Gotta hurry.
He hauled the box downstairs and slipped
out into the alley, then tossed the remaining bottles through the windows
before he looked up to see how the second floor was burning.

He saw bloody fingers appear in a gap between the boards over the
windows. They clenched the edge, straining at it.

She was alive. She was trying to get out.

"Playing possum on me, sneaky little bitch." Billy ran
around the side, checking the street from the corner before he slipped out to
the front of the warehouse. She wouldn't be able to get out the windows, but if
she got down the stairs—

Isabel knew Caine. She'd
tell
Caine.

His hands shook as he frantically searched his pockets, then found
the key he'd been given. He shoved it into the lock and turned it, but he used
too much force and the key snapped in half.
"Goddamn."
He
tried to pull out the broken bit, but it was jammed, along with the lock.

Dumb-ass firemen wouldn't notice it, Billy decided. Heat and smoke
were pouring out of the first-floor windows; in a few minutes the whole place
would go up. The important thing was, Isabel wouldn't be walking out of there
alive. She wouldn't go tattling to Caine on him.

He could almost feel his daddy's big hand clap him
on
the shoulder.
One less whining bitch in the world—you done good, son.

Watching the fire and imagining the woman inside burning made the
last of the bad feelings go away. He had a whomping hard-on for some reason,
though. That was fine with him; he'd nail Cecilia as soon as he got home. The
distant sound of an approaching siren made him dart back around the building
and trot down to where he'd parked his truck.

Billy climbed in and started the engine, and rubbed his palm
against his crotch. His dick was so hard he might not be able to wait until he
got home. He'd just drive down a ways from the building, park, and watch it
burn.

"Mind telling me why we're responding to a
ten-twenty-six?"

J. D. Gamble glanced sideways at his partner, Therese Vincent.
"The warehouse belongs to Marc LeClare."

"Ah." Terri watched a mother pushing twins in a double
stroller cross at the light in front of them. "Cort busy again?"

J. D. nodded. "Fire safety conference in Biloxi."

"He call?"

The light turned green, and he cruised through the intersection.
"Yeah."

"So Cort sends us to do his job, as a favor to your dad's
college buddy." She shook her head. "That makes perfect sense. Should
we stop by the firehouse and fill out his reports for him afterwards?"

"Cort types better than you."

"Monkeys type better than me." J. D.'s partner studied
her painfully short fingernails. She kept them that
way
to avoid biting them. "J. D., have I mentioned lately that your brother is
an asshole?"