KILLING ME SOFTLY (3 page)

"Marjorie," he said, pressing the intercom button. "Tell Vince I'll be there in five."

Frowning, he loosened his tie and leaned back, wondering what in God's name was keeping Cain from New Orleans. His cousin had been itching to settle the score ever since he'd been railroaded out of town. But he couldn't settle it against a ghost, so he'd been forced to wait. And wait.

For months, there'd been nothing. No rumors, no chatter, no whispers. The mysterious
Oncle
had vanished the second Cain intercepted a sizable shipment of money on its way out of the country. It had been a crippling blow to
Oncle's
organization, but rather than receive credit and commendations, Cain had taken the fall right along with
Oncle
. Because of Savannah.

More than just a woman disappeared that night in the swamp. A vital part of his cousin had, as well.

Frowning, Gabe glanced across the stack of folders on his desk, past a snapshot of his mother and sister, to a framed black-and-white taken at Pat O'Brien's two years before. They'd been celebrating that night, high on life and love and the lead that promised to bring down
Oncle's
crime syndicate. Cain had never been one to smile casually, but even he'd been animated, brought to life by the break in the case and the woman sharing his bed. In the picture, he had Savannah tucked against his side while lifting a beer for a toast. Grinning, Gabe also had his mug extended, while keeping Val close to his side.

Val.

Gabe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, but he could still see Val as she'd been back then, laughing and vibrant and … happy. It was hard to believe how quickly things could change, how viciously the events in someone else's life could affect your own.

Val didn't deserve the fallout from Savannah's disappearance. She hadn't deserved to pay the price for actions and decisions that had nothing to do with her.

They'd drifted. Val had grown to resent Gabe's long hours, the endless meetings that he'd been unable to discuss with her. She'd accused him of being obsessed, and he'd had a damn hard time defending himself. She felt shut out, she told him. Alone. Left behind. And she had been.

"Gabriel," came Marjorie's molasses-tinged, maternal voice from the intercom. "It's been five minutes."

He opened his eyes and glanced at the Rolex Val had given him for his thirtieth birthday three years before, then at the picture. "I'll be right there."

But Val might not be. She'd made that clear.

The hotel room looked as if it belonged in a pre-Civil War plantation home, not a sleepy bayou town southwest of New Orleans. The furniture alone, a massive mahogany bedroom suite, must have cost a small fortune. It wouldn't be hard to imagine a Southern belle sleeping in the big poster bed or primping at the dainty vanity. "This is gorgeous."

The hotel manager breezed in beside Renee. "Isn't it though?" Millie Comeaux, a petite Creole woman with dark hair and dark eyes, had bustled to life the second Renee walked through the door and hadn't stopped chattering since. "When the Robichauds do something, they do it right."

Renee stripped the surprise from her face before turning toward the armoire. When opportunity knocked… "The Robichauds?"

Millie threw open the doors, revealing a television and DVD player. "Oh, I just assumed you knew the Robichauds—everyone does. This is their town, you know. Their parish, really."

Their everything. "Yes, I—"

"When they bought the hotel, they tore it down and rebuilt from scratch. Didn't want a run-of-the-mill hotel, said people had a certain expectation of the Deep South, and it was their duty to give it to them."

Duty and expectation. They were odd words in conjunction with former police detective Cain Robichaud, but with his Uncle Etienne serving in the United States senate, Renee guessed the family was trying to scrub their image clean.

The hotel was impressive. If any of the senator's cronies chose to visit and didn't want to stay in the Big Easy, they could stay in style in Bayou de Foi. The hotel's facade resembled a Greek Revival plantation, complete with Corinthian columns, a wraparound porch and an upstairs verandah. Bushy ferns hung from the exterior rafters, while overflowing barrels of petunias flanked the front door. Inside, the reception area spilled into a foyer, where a curved staircase led to the second level. A massive crystal chandelier oversaw it all.

Millie crossed the room to fiddle with the heavy brocade curtains, drawing Renee's attention from the furniture to the walls. The pale salmon color complemented the bedding and offset the black-and-white artwork. Three gilded silver frames embraced photographs of Louisiana sunsets, stark, haunting images accentuating the play of shadows and light.

One featured a bayou, with two small children in baggy overalls standing with their backs to the camera, looking at the sleepy canal of water, fishing poles at the ready.

There was a shot of the marsh, with a skeletal cypress tree in focus and everything else artistically blurred, while the sun sat low on the horizon.

But it was the third photo that stole Renee's breath.

In a palette of grays, a row of crumbling columns stretched toward the hazy sky. A cluster of graceful oaks stood in the background. The perfect symmetry of the columns made it clear they'd once flanked a home, but the brick and mortar were no longer there.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" Millie asked with a sigh. "They were taken by a local."

"He certainly makes an impression."

"Keeps a gallery down on Pecan Street, he does, if you'd like to take any of his work back with you."

Renee found a polite smile, but knew Cain's gallery was the last place she belonged. It was bad enough she'd had to step into his world. His intensity bled into his photographs, even without the use of color. Through the lens of a man who'd once frequented grisly crime scenes, even birds and trees and sunsets looked stark and uncompromising.

"Thanks," she said, because it was the right thing to do. "I may have to take a look, though I'm pretty sure I'm the last person he wants to see."

"What on earth makes you say that?" Millie asked, turning. "Pretty girl like you, I'd think Cain would be more than happy to show you his work."

Showing her the highway was more likely. "Somehow I doubt that. I ran into him out by the old cottage and when I mentioned Savannah—"

The hotel manager sucked in a sharp breath.
"Savannah?"

Renee chose her words carefully. As deep as the hunger for information ran, the need for discretion ran even deeper. "I was trying to explain why I'd come to town."

"Ah, child." Millie's voice was thick, tense. Sad. "That explains it then. Nobody speaks that girl's name to Cain. For all intents and purposes, Savannah Trahan never existed."

Renee had known coming here would be hard. She'd realized she might learn things she didn't want to know. But the matter-of-fact words landed like a quick punch to the stomach.

"Has he come to hate her that much?"

"It has nothing to do with hate, nothing at all." Millie glanced at the door before continuing. She almost looked … nervous. "Their affair was the talk of the town. Everyone knew they were carrying on in that cottage at the back of his property."

"Then why doesn't Cain want her name spoken?"

Millie's eyes went dark as she did a quick, shaky sign of the cross. "Because he killed her."

CHAPTER TWO

T
here was a vase of roses sitting atop a white lace doily. Renee stared at the crimson-tinged yellow petals and the dark green leaves, the long, thorn-lined stems dipping into the blown glass. A quick glance in the mirror revealed her expression to be one of careful, practiced indifference, revealing not one trace of the chill seeping through her.
Because he killed her
.

Four words. That's all they were. Cold, clinical, to the point. Words Renee had heard before, insidious claims largely responsible for drawing her to Bayou de Foi.

The media had an appetite for scandal, the darker, the juicier, the better. When one of their own was involved—believed murdered by her cop lover—the fascination escalated into a feeding frenzy. Everywhere Renee looked, she'd been confronted by the rumors and allegations and so-called exposés, but the black, typeset words had never quite seemed real. It had been like reading a disturbing story. But here now, hearing the words spoken aloud, by someone who'd lived through the ordeal, stripped away the bandage of denial.

"Killed her? Are you sure?"

The hotel manager frowned. "They say he was just fooling around with her to keep tabs on her investigation. Even Eddy—that's his uncle—said their affair was just a physical kind of thing. Lust."

Lust
. The word sounded so dirty. "Is that what Cain said?"

"As far as I know, he never said one way or the other."

"So no one really knows. It could have been more."

"
Could haves
don't matter," Millie shot back. "All that matters is that girl vanished and Cain was found with her blood on his hands."

The image chilled. "You really think he did it?"

Millie closed her eyes, opened them a long moment later. "I've known that boy since he was knee-high to a nutria. I saw him grow up. He gave me this job. He's always been good to me. It's hard to accept that he could kill in cold blood…"

But all the evidence indicated that he had. Notes from Savannah's apartment indicated her investigation into corruption within the New Orleans Police Department was pointing at her lover. Then she vanished. Seven weeks later her car was found submerged in Manchac Swamp.

Savannah Trahan was never seen again.

Renee turned toward the photograph of the solitary columns and felt the ache deep in her bones.

"You never really know what's beneath the surface." And that was the rub. Everyone had their secrets, buried deep, little half-truths and lies that shaped them into who they were—and the mirage they wanted the world to see. "You might think you know, hope you know, but at the end of the day, the only person you ever really know is yourself."

Millie sighed. "Cain's not someone you want to cross, hon. That boy has never been one to forgive."

"Forgive?" Renee twisted toward her. "Forgive who?"

The widening of Millie's eyes was the only warning she got. "I'd say that's between my nephew and Father Voissin," came a low masculine voice, and on a rush of adrenaline Renee turned to find a tall man dominating the doorway, broad of shoulder and long legged, without a trace of middle-aged spread at his waist. Silver dominated his hair, but enough dark remained to hint at its original color.

Cain's uncle was far more attractive in person than in the angry photos that had once filled the press.

"Ed—Sheriff…" Millie's voice wobbled on the word. "I didn't realize you were stopping by."

"Non?"
he drawled, and though his eyes glimmered with potent sexuality, he sounded more like a parent indulging a forgetful child. "Weren't you the one who told Becca we have a visitor?"

Renee realized her mistake immediately, the foolishness of thinking she could make a single move without a Robichaud breathing down her neck.

"Well, yes." Millie was saying. Flushing, she glanced from Renee to the sheriff. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

"Obviously not," he said quietly.

"But she mentioned Savannah, and I thought I should let her know why that's not a good thing to do around here…"

"Very kind of you, too, sugar." The sheriff stepped toward her and put a hand to her waist, steered her toward the hall. "Now be a sweetheart and give me a few minutes with our visitor. If I discover you've left anything out, I'll be sure to fill in the blanks."

"Of course." With a slightly awed look at Edouard, Millie hurried off, leaving Renee alone with Cain's uncle. He turned toward her with the cool, assessing eyes of a cop—but his easy smile was pure Southern gentleman.

"Ms. Fox," he said in a slow molasses drawl. "As sheriff, I like to personally welcome all visitors."

Especially those he wanted gone. "I appreciate it," she said with a forced smile. Now was not the time to provoke. "It's a lovely little town you've got here, almost picture-book perfect."

Unless you looked too close. Then it was neither picture book. Nor perfect.

"It's no secret we've had our trouble," he said, "but we've done a damn fine job of putting all that behind us. Folks around here know I don't tolerate shenanigans." His eyes bored into hers. "They also know not to talk about Savannah."

Her throat went tight. "I'm not here to cause trouble, if that's what you're worried about."

"Not worried at all," he said mildly. They might have been discussing antiques. "Just curious. Bayou de Foi is hardly on the beaten path. It's not often a lady like you comes to our little backwater—unless, of course, she's one of Cain's."

The insinuation scraped. So did the truth. There were very few legitimate reasons for her presence. Soon, she'd have to throw them a bone. "Just passing through," she said.

His gaze slipped to her two suitcases. "Traveling alone?"

Instinctively she glanced at her purse lying on the bed, was relieved she'd snapped it shut and nothing could spill out. "For now."

"Anyone know where you are?"

She stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"Law enforcement isn't pretty," he drawled. "I've seen things I don't like to think about, much less discuss with a lady. I know the danger that comes from being alone. Something happens … it can be a long damned time before anyone realizes it."

The chill was immediate. "I appreciate your concern,
Sheriff
, but I assure you I can take care of myself."

"Glad to hear it," he said, and his eyes were on hers again. "But know that if you need anything—
anything at all
—I'm never too far away."

Sheriff Edouard Robichaud had been in law enforcement long enough to recognize a bluff from a parish away—they didn't call him the Silver Fox simply because he'd returned from Vietnam a twenty-two-year-old with hair the color of his grandfather's.