Read the book: «Flash Point»
“I guess it’s fortunate that I showed up when I did.” Following his lead, she opened the passenger door of the car, and nearly gagged on the stench of stale whiskey and cigars as she slid inside. Still, she forced herself to pull the door closed, shutting out the noise from the street musicians and revelers who’d flocked to New Orleans’ French Quarter to celebrate Halloween.
“Fortunate is right, missy. I’m a busy man,” he said. “I’ll have you know I’ve got better things to do with my time than wait around for the likes of you.”
“Then let’s not waste any more of each other’s time, Doctor. Did you bring the document?”
“’Course I brought it. But first I want to see the money.”
She opened the black tote bag that was filled with $100,000 in cash. Opening it, she angled it so that the light from the street lamp fell on its contents. There was no mistaking the lust in the man’s bloodshot eyes. When he reached for the bag, she snapped it closed. “Not so fast, Doctor. First I want the document.”
“Sure. Sure.” He fumbled inside his coat pocket, drew out an envelope and shoved it at her. “Here.”
“You sure this is the only copy?”
“What? Yeah, it’s the only one,” he muttered, still distracted by all the cash.
She tucked the envelope inside her purse and reached for her gun. “Then I guess this is goodbye, Doctor,” she said politely as she pulled the trigger.
Also available from MIRA Books and METSY HINGLE
BEHIND THE MASK
THE WAGER
DEADLINE
Flash Point
Metsy Hingle
www.mirabooks.co.uk
For Valerie Gray, Editor and Friend With thanks and affection for the guidance, creative vision and unending support
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While I was creating this book, I spent countless hours alone with the characters of this story as I tried to bring them to life. But the finished product would not have been possible without the help of many people who assisted me both technically and emotionally. My heartfelt thanks go to the following people for their help in bringing life to Flash Point:
Dianne Moggy, editorial director of MIRA Books, for her trust and support.
Karen Solem, my agent, for her unending support and guidance, and for being my voice of reason.
The amazing MIRA staff, who continue to astound me with their support.
The MIRA art department, which is truly the best in the business.
The MIRA public relations team of Tania Charzewski, Sarah Rundle and Maureen Stead for their support.
The wonderful fans who allow me to entertain them with my books.
Diane Hingle Anding, my sister-in-law and friend, who makes me proud we are family.
Sandra Brown, my dear friend, for her friendship, love and support.
Carly Phillips, friend and fellow writer, for her friendship, support and e-mails.
Dixie Kane and Hailey North, dear friends and fellow writers, for their love and support.
A special thank-you goes to my children and family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.
And, as always, to my husband, Jim, who is my love, my family and all things to me.
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Flash Point. I’m both grateful and honored that you’ve chosen my book when there are so many wonderful books available. If this is the first time you’ve read my work I do hope it won’t be the last. For those of you who are familiar with my books, you won’t be surprised to find Flash Point is set in my hometown of New Orleans, a city and people that continue to inspire me and make me proud to call them my own. I hope you enjoy reading my latest tale of romance and suspense as much as I enjoyed writing it.
As always, one of the great joys for me as a writer is hearing from readers, and I’d love to hear from you. In fact, as a special thank-you, I’ve had a commemorative bookmark created just for Flash Point and, while supplies last, I’ll send one to each reader who writes and requests one.
Happy holidays!
Metsy Hingle
P.O. Box 3224
Covington, LA 70433
U.S.A.
www.metsyhingle.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Prologue
“It’s about damn time you showed up. I’ve been waiting in this alley for twenty minutes and nearly got mugged twice.”
“I was detained,” she said coolly, giving no indication of how much she detested having to deal with the sorry creature.
“Well, you’re damn lucky I waited,” he informed her, his Mississippi drawl even thicker due to the liquor. “Another two minutes and I’d have been gone.”
“Then I guess it’s fortunate that I showed up when I did.” Following his lead, she opened the passenger door of the car and nearly gagged on the stench of whiskey and stale cigars as she slid inside. Still, she forced herself to pull the car door closed, shutting out the noise from the street musicians and revelers who’d flocked to New Orleans’ French Quarter to celebrate Halloween.
“Fortunate is right, missy. I’m a busy man,” he said, puffing up his chest and straining the buttons on his dated suit coat. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than to wait around for the likes of you.”
Better things like drowning in a bottle of whiskey or slithering into the nearest casino, she thought, even more repulsed by the man now than she’d been when he’d first sought her out six months ago. “Then let’s not waste any more of each other’s time, Doctor. Did you bring the document?”
“Of course I brought it. But first I want to see the money.”
She retrieved the black tote bag that she’d filled with $100,000 in cash. Opening it, she angled it so that the light from the streetlamp fell on its contents. There was no mistaking the lust in the man’s bloodshot brown eyes as he gazed at the money. Like a drug addict about to get his next fix, she thought. But when he reached for the bag, she snapped it closed. “Not so fast, Doctor. First, I want the birth certificate.”
He fumbled inside his coat pocket, drew out an envelope and hesitated. He narrowed his beady eyes. “You know, your daddy sure loved that little girl. Used to call her his princess. I imagine he’d have paid a lot of money to find out she didn’t die in that fire after all.”
“Unfortunately for you, my father’s dead. And I can assure you I don’t place the same value on her that he did. My one concern is protecting my family’s good name. It’s the only reason I agreed to pay you for that birth certificate.”
He tapped the envelope against his palm, gave her a measuring look. “I imagine your sister would be willing to pay a great deal to learn who her daddy was. Of course, if you was to—”
“I don’t have a sister,” she snapped. Fury caused her vision to blur for a moment before she regained control of herself. More calmly she said, “And I suggest you quit trying to shake me down for more money, Doctor. Otherwise, I might reconsider whether or not I’ve made a mistake by not going to the police and telling them about your offer.”
“Now, hang on a second,” he said, alarm in his voice.
“There’s no need to go dragging the police into a little business transaction between friends.”
“You and I are not friends, Doctor. And I doubt that the police would see your proposal as a business transaction,” she said, toying with him and enjoying the fact that she was making him nervous.
“We had a deal and it’s too late for you to try to back out now,” he countered, and shoved the envelope at her.
She took the envelope. And while he pounced on the bag of cash and began pawing through the stacks of bills, she withdrew the faded sheet of paper from the envelope. An icy-cold rage whipped through her as she stared at the form, read the names and examined the signatures. For a moment she was eight years old again and listening at the door as her father told her mother he was leaving them. She crushed the paper in her fist. Reaching deep down inside of herself, she channeled her anger, just as she had that night all those years ago, and focused on what had to be done. “You’re sure this is the only copy?”
“What?” He glanced up briefly. “Yeah, it’s the only one,” he muttered and went back to counting the cash.
She tucked the envelope and crumpled paper inside her purse and reached for the gun. “Then I guess this is goodbye, Doctor,” she said politely and calmly pulled the trigger.
One
“No,” Kelly Santos cried out as flames went up all around her. Bright orange tongues of fire licked at the curtains and raced greedily up the walls, devouring the rose-patterned paper. Terrified, Kelly turned in a circle, searching for a means of escape. But everywhere she looked there were more flames shooting up around her.
Surrounding her.
Trapping her.
She struggled to see past the blaze and to find her way out of the inferno. But the fire was so hot, the smoke too thick. Her eyes stung from the heat. Tears streamed down her cheeks. As the smoke filled the room, she began to cough. Her lungs burned, felt as though they would burst in her chest at any moment.
Have to get out. Have to get out.
Scarcely able to breathe now, she tried waving the smoke away from her face so she could get her bearings. And then she saw the door. Her heart leapt in her chest—part relief, part panic—as she noted the burning beam that dangled overhead in the space between her and the door. Terrified that the beam would collapse on top of her, Kelly was afraid to move, yet afraid to stay still.
Suddenly an explosion ripped through another section of the house and, without thinking, she raced toward the door. The moment she reached it, she grabbed the doorknob.
She screamed as the hot metal scorched her fingers, burning her flesh. Sobbing, she fell to the floor, cradling her throbbing hand. As she lay there, the burning beam came crashing down to the floor and landed in the spot where she’d stood only seconds earlier. Kelly screamed again. Petrified and in pain, she crawled over to a corner of the room and pressed her body against the wall. “Tell Nana where you are! Come to Nana,” she heard a familiar voice call, first by the door, then by the window. Paralyzed with fear, she said nothing. And as the flames ravaged the room, filling it with smoke and depleting her oxygen, she started to choke.
Coughing violently, Kelly jerked awake. Still unable to breathe, she sat up in bed and continued to struggle for air for several moments longer. Pressing a hand to her chest, she dragged air into her lungs. It was just a bad dream, she told herself as she tried to shake off the vividness of being trapped in the fire, of being overcome by the smoke and the heat. With unsteady fingers, she brushed the hair away from her face, discovered her brow damp with perspiration.
“Just a dream,” she murmured aloud. Not real. There were no flames, no stench of burning wood and fabric and smoke. There was no fire. Just a dream. Unwilling to delve into what might have triggered the old nightmare this time, Kelly closed her eyes and drew in one breath, then another. She followed the ritual she’d used since childhood to rid herself of the aftereffects of the nightmares and visions that had plagued her most of her life. Continuing to focus on her breathing, Kelly attempted to erase from her mind all traces of the dream by replacing the fire and smoke with the soothing images of blue skies, white sandy beaches and a rolling surf.
As her breathing steadied, she could almost hear the surf rushing to the shore, could smell the saltwater in the air, could feel the cool breeze on her cheek. Finally, Kelly opened her eyes. She blinked once, twice and a third time as she adjusted her eyes to the darkness of the room. Scanning her surroundings, she noted the drawn drapes, could make out the table with her camera equipment atop it, her suitcase just inside the door. A glance at the illuminated clock on the bedside table read a few minutes past ten. Morning or night? she wondered, and then she remembered.
New Orleans.
She was in New Orleans. Suddenly all the events of the past few days came rushing back. Returning from the month-long photo shoot in Europe to find a message on her answering machine from the Mother Superior, telling her that Sister Grace was dead. The message had been more than two weeks old.
Two weeks.
Sinking back against the pillows, Kelly closed her eyes again. Silent tears slid down her cheeks. They’d buried the only person in the world who had ever cared about her and she hadn’t even managed to attend the funeral. Silently she cursed herself for the hundredth time for not checking her machine for messages. It didn’t matter that the only persons who ever called her were Sister Grace on holidays and her agent who had known where she was. She still should have checked the thing. If she had…if she had, she might at least have made it back in time to see the nun one last time.
A new wave of grief washed over Kelly and she covered her face with her hands. Sobbing, she gave in to the pain and wept aloud. And as she sat in the dark hotel room and cried, she thought about the nun who had been the closest thing to a mother she’d ever known. The tiny nun in her navy-and-white habit had been the one person who had made growing up at St. Ann’s Orphanage bearable.
Memories came tumbling back. Sister Grace wiping tears from her six-year-old cheeks when a potential adoptive family had returned her to the home, claiming she was the devil’s spawn because of the visions. Sister Grace soothing her eight-year-old heart when she’d realized no one was ever going to want her to be their little girl. Sister Grace comforting her as an unhappy eleven-year-old when the other kids taunted her, whispering that she was a witch. And Sister Grace rescuing her as a lonely thirteen-year-old by giving her her very first camera. That camera had been a lifeline for her. It had opened a window to the world and eventually it had provided her with a means of escape.
And she had escaped, she’d escaped and had never once looked back. After all, with the exception of Sister Grace, New Orleans held no fond memories for her. She’d closed that door to her life more than ten years ago, allocating the unhappy memories of her early years to a sad chapter in her life. It was a chapter she’d never intended to open again. Just as she’d never intended to return to New Orleans again.
Yet she had returned. Only, she’d come back too late, Kelly thought, crying harder. Too late to thank Sister Grace for believing in her all those years, for caring about her when no one else did. Too late to tell Sister Grace how much she’d meant to her, how much she’d loved her.
Startled by the sudden squeal of a police siren, Kelly looked up. Still sniffling, she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her pajamas and then climbed out of the bed. She walked over to the window, pushed aside the drapes and looked down at the street below. Traffic had come to a halt and had shifted over to the far right lane. As she watched, two police cars with flashing lights came speeding past the hotel and continued toward the Mississippi River.
Once the police units had gone, traffic started to flow again. She noted that, despite the lateness of the hour, people were out in force. Cars hurried from one red light to the next and pedestrians, mostly in pairs or groups, waited on both sides of the street for the arrows to signal it was safe for them to cross. No doubt tourists or convention-goers, she reasoned, since few residents ever paid heed to the signal lights.
A blur of movement at the far corner of the street caught Kelly’s eye. A man, sporting a black cowl with horns and waving a devil’s red-tipped pitchfork in his hand, raced up to the crosswalk. Several similarly clad people rushed up behind him. She’d almost forgotten that it was Halloween. The devil led a group of what she suspected were college kids across the busy Canal Street intersection. Evidently they were planning a big night of partying in the French Quarter. Although at twenty-eight she wasn’t a great deal older than the college crowd, the idea of partying held little appeal for her. Turning away from the window, she stared over at the rumpled bed and debated whether or not to go back to sleep.
She was still jet-lagged, since she’d barely returned to New York before she’d hopped a plane for New Orleans. And the crying hadn’t helped. Yet, recalling the reason she’d awoken in the first place—the old nightmare about being trapped in a fire—she knew going back to sleep would be an exercise in futility. Besides, she reasoned, her body was still on European time and that little catnap had taken the edge off her exhaustion. Deciding that a shower and something to eat would be a better idea, she headed for the bathroom.
When Kelly exited the bathroom a short time later, she felt marginally better. The shower had helped. She suspected the crying had, too, since she’d allowed herself little chance to grieve after learning of Sister Grace’s death. She’d simply begun making the necessary arrangements to come to New Orleans. Despite the protests of Wyatt, her agent, at her abrupt departure, she’d been right to come back. She’d needed to come back. Not for Sister Grace, but for herself because she’d needed to say goodbye. Once she had done so, perhaps she’d be able to close that last link to her past and to the girl she had once been.
Kelly’s stomach grumbled. Pressing a hand to her middle, she acknowledged a hollow ache in her belly that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the simple fact that she was famished. When in the world had she eaten last? she wondered. And since she couldn’t remember ingesting anything besides coffee since the return flight from Paris, she decided it probably had been much too long.
After slipping into her favorite pair of DKNY black jeans, she pulled on a black-and-ivory cashmere turtleneck and the designer boots she’d picked up for a song while shooting in Italy. She ran a brush through her blond hair, scanned her appearance in the mirror and frowned at how pale she looked. Digging through the cosmetic samples one of the makeup artists had given her, she chose a soft pink blush and rubbed some on her cheeks to give her face some color. Then she swiped the rose-colored lipstick on her mouth. Satisfied with the results, she walked over to the table and picked up the hotel room key. She slipped it into her jeans pocket, grabbed her camera bag, which also functioned as her purse, and headed out the door in search of something to eat.
She found just what she wanted in one of the dozen or so hole-in-the-wall restaurants located in the French Quarter. What the place lacked in decor it more than made up for in great-tasting food—a fact that Kelly discovered after biting into the shrimp po’boy sandwich she’d ordered. In no time at all she had polished off the crisply fried shrimp served on half a loaf of French bread, topped with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and mayonnaise. She’d even washed down the monster-size sandwich with a bottle of ice-cold beer. Feeling stuffed from her meal, Kelly exited the restaurant, positive she wouldn’t be able to eat or drink a thing for at least a week.
But by the time she’d made her way down to Jackson Square and checked out the renovations under way at the historic Saint Louis Cathedral, she was already craving a cup of café au lait and beignets. Cutting across the Square, Kelly headed for the Café du Monde.
The place was packed—not an uncommon sight given that the sidewalk café, famous for its coffee and sugar-covered doughnuts, remained open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The fact that it was Halloween and people were in a party mood only added to the frenzied pace. Spying a table in the far corner that looked out over the sidewalk, Kelly quickly wound her way through the tight spaces to claim it. She flopped down in the seat. Within minutes a tired-looking young man dressed in a plain white apron and matching hat appeared before her. He stacked the used cups, saucers, spoons and paper napkins on his tray and swiped the tabletop with a damp cloth that Kelly suspected had been white at one time, but was now a dingy gray.
“What can I get for you, ma’am?” he asked in a drawl that hinted at northern Louisiana roots.
“Café au lait and an order of beignets.”
“Decaf or regular?”
“Better make it decaf,” she replied, deciding she’d have a difficult enough time sleeping without the added caffeine.
“Be back in a sec,” he told her as he took off in the direction of the kitchen.
There had been a time when she would never have even attempted to sit like this in a crowded café, Kelly admitted. Fear that she would find herself in a crush of people and that touching someone might set off a vision about a person’s past or future had made her avoid crowds when she’d been growing up. But the years of living in New York and her frequent travels had helped her. She’d learned to control her reactions far better as an adult than she had as a young girl or teenager.
While she waited for her order to arrive, Kelly did what she always did. She picked up her camera and looked out at the world through the viewfinder. Using the telephoto lens, she panned the scene across the street in front of Jackson Square. Named after Andrew Jackson, the onetime president and war hero who had been immortalized in the statue of him astride his horse, the Square had once been the heart of the city. But even as the city’s boundaries expanded and sprawled far beyond the French Quarter, the area remained the center of activity for the city, and a major destination spot for both locals and tourists alike. She scanned the area to the right where a string of fortune-tellers had set up tables along the side of the Square and were attempting to entice passing pedestrians to have their fortunes told. Kelly clicked off shots of one gypsy-clad woman as she drew her finger down the length of a man’s palm. Judging from the fellow’s expression, he seemed more concerned with the woman’s cleavage than her predictions of his future.
Shifting her focus to the left, she noted only two artists working—one doing a portrait in chalk of a woman dressed like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, and the other doing a charcoal sketch of a middle-aged couple. She clicked off several shots, then scanned the length of the block in search of more of the artists who supported themselves by using their skill with a pencil or brush. But she spied only one. Far fewer than there had been when she’d left the city after graduating high school, she thought, and lowered her camera in disappointment.
But the moment the horse-drawn carriage pulled into view, she lifted her camera once more. The driver no sooner emptied the vehicle of passengers before he began loading new patrons into the carriage. As long as she could remember, the old-style carriages had been a fixture in the Quarter, and she began clicking off shots. This one was painted in black and white and was hitched to a chocolate-colored mule that sported a hat with flowers and an orange-and-black ribbon attached to its swishing tail. She adjusted her lens and focused on the carriage’s driver. Judging from the way he doffed his hat and waved his arms, the man was giving his passengers their money’s worth. She could easily imagine him in that same spot more than a century ago with a bevy of southern belles ready to embark on a spin around the city’s streets.
Kelly clicked off several shots in succession, then zoomed in on the driver’s face. She loved studying a person’s face. It was like a road map, she thought, as she noted the man’s weathered skin. Skin that she guessed had seen more than a half century of sun, wind and cold. A river of lines bracketed soft brown eyes, and given the smile on his face, she suspected a great many of those wrinkles were the result of laughter. The bushy brows and salt-and-pepper hair gave him a dramatic flair. She’d always heard that the carriage drivers tended to embellish history a bit in order to make the rides more exciting and their tips more hefty. Since it was Halloween, she imagined tonight’s passengers were in for some ghoulish retelling of the city’s already colorful history. When the driver sat down, flicked the reins and drove away, Kelly recapped the lens of her camera and returned it to her bag.
The place was growing more crowded by the minute, she realized, and a flicker of uneasiness went through her. For a moment, she debated leaving. Just as quickly, Kelly nixed the idea. She was being ridiculous. She could handle this, she assured herself. It wasn’t as though she was trapped in a crowd with no means of escape. No one was bothering her. Everyone was wrapped up in their own little dramas. And although she didn’t want to eavesdrop, the close proximity of the tables made it impossible for her not to overhear bits and pieces of the conversations going on around her.
“Come on, Joey,” the tallest of a trio of boys at the table to her left began. “We put on these monster masks and that dude at the door ain’t gonna be asking us for no IDs.”
While at the next table, a petite brunette declared, “I swear, Sara Beth. I must have been out of my mind to let you talk me into going on that ghost tour with you. I’m not going to be able to close my eyes tonight.”
“You’re drunk, Mark,” the woman at the table directly behind her snapped. “You made an ass of yourself at the party. Now, drink the damn coffee so we can go home.”
Trying her best to ignore them, Kelly drummed her fingers on the tabletop and cast an anxious glance in the direction of the kitchen. Unable to see past the steady stream of patrons and waiters, she sighed and focused her attention on her own table once more. She was about to pick up her camera again when she noted the newspaper lying on the chair next to her. It had been days since she’d even looked at a newspaper or listened to the news. Picking it up, Kelly gasped as the vision hit her.
“It’s about damn time you showed up. I’ve been waiting in this alley for twenty minutes and nearly got mugged twice.”
“I was detained,” she told him.
“Well, you’re damn lucky I waited. Another two minutes and I’d have been gone.”
“Then I guess it’s fortunate that I showed up when I did.”
Smart-mouthed, stuck-up bitch, just like her mother, he thought as he climbed into the car. Too bad he needed the money, because he’d like nothing better than to tell her he’d changed his mind and watch the bitch stew.
“Then let’s not waste any more of each other’s time, Doctor. Did you bring the document?”
“Of course I brought it. But first I want to see the money.”
She opened the bag and his mouth watered at the sight of all that cash. To hell with the casinos on the Gulf Coast, he’d rent himself a suite at that fancy new hotel they’d just opened and try his luck at Harrah’s. Maybe he’d even find himself a lady or two. Already anticipating the night ahead, he reached for the cash.
“Not so fast, Doctor,” she said, snapping the bag shut. “First, I want the birth certificate.”
He hesitated a moment, wondered whether he should have asked for more money for the damn thing. “You know, your daddy sure loved that little girl. Used to call her his princess. I imagine he’d have paid a lot of money to find out she didn’t die in that fire after all.”
“Unfortunately for you, my father’s dead. And I can assure you I don’t place the same value on her that he did. My one concern is protecting my family’s good name. It’s the only reason I agreed to pay you for that birth certificate.”
He tapped the envelope against his palm, gave her a measuring look. “I imagine your sister would be willing to pay a great deal to learn who her daddy was. Of course, if you was to—”
“I don’t have a sister,” she snapped. “And I suggest you quit trying to shake me down for more money, Doctor. Otherwise, I might reconsider whether or not I’ve made a mistake by not going to the police and telling them about your offer.”
“Now, hang on a second. There’s no need to go dragging the police into a little business transaction between friends.”
“You and I are not friends, Doctor. And I doubt that the police would see your proposal as a simple business transaction.”
“We had a deal and it’s too late for you to try to back out now,” he said, and shoved the envelope at her.
While he dug through the bag of cash, she stared at the paper a moment before crushing it in her fist. “You’re sure this is the only copy?”
“What? Yeah, it’s the only one,” he lied. The bitch would find out soon enough that he’d kept another copy, he thought. Eager to get to the casino, he began stuffing the money back into the bag.
“Then I guess this is goodbye, Doctor.”
Something in her voice—a cold amusement—alerted him. He looked up and saw the gun. But it was too late. Before he could say a word, she pulled the trigger.
“Lady? Lady, are you all right?”
Kelly dropped the newspaper and came spinning back from the dark alley to the table in the Café du Monde. Her heart still racing, she looked up at the worried face of her waiter.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked again.
“I…yes,” she told him, although it wasn’t true.
“You sure? You look kind of…strange.”
“I’m all right,” she assured him.
Looking skeptical, he placed her beignets and coffee in front of her. “That’ll be $4.75.”
Still reeling from the vision, Kelly grabbed her camera bag and dug out her wallet. She retrieved a five-dollar bill and one-dollar bill and slapped them on the table. “There was a man who was sitting at this table earlier, the one who left that newspaper. Do you happen to know who he was?”
The waiter shrugged. “Beats me. When I came on duty at ten o’clock, the paper was already there. Figured I’d leave it in case somebody wanted to read it. But if it’s in your way, I can toss it.”
“That’s all right,” she said, while in truth she wished to God she’d never touched the thing. She didn’t want to get involved. All she wanted was to see the Mother Superior at the convent and satisfy herself that Sister Grace’s death had been a peaceful one, sign any paperwork the attorneys had for her regarding the nun’s bequest and go back to New York. But how could she ignore what she’d just seen in the vision? What if the murder hadn’t happened yet? If she did nothing, that man was going to be killed.
And what if he’s already dead? Do you really want to be the butt of all those jokes and whispers again?
Oh, God, she didn’t want to get involved. But what choice did she have? As unpleasant as it would be to open herself to the speculation and talk, she couldn’t honestly live with herself if he died because she’d done nothing. She had to do it. She had to go to the police.
“Ma’am, are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes,” she replied, already feeling the weight of her decision settle upon her. She pushed the six dollars across the table at the waiter. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks,” he said, and shoved the money into his pocket.
When he started to leave, she said, “One more thing. The police station, is it still on North Rampart Street?”
He shrugged. “No idea. I’ve only been in town a couple of months.”
“It’s still there,” a scruffy-looking fellow nursing a coffee at the next table told her.
“Thanks,” Kelly told him. Using a napkin, she picked up the newspaper and shoved it into her camera bag. She stood and slid the strap of the bag onto her shoulder.
“Ain’t you going to eat those doughnuts?” the old guy asked.
“No. My stomach’s not feeling all that well,” she said honestly. “But it would be a sin to let them go to waste. Maybe you’d do me a favor and eat them?”
“Well, seeing as how it’s a favor, I guess I could do that,” the fellow said, his eyes lighting up as she placed the plate of beignets in front of him. “And no point in letting that coffee go to waste, either.”
“You’re right.” After setting her untouched coffee on the guy’s table, she hurried out of the café and prayed she wouldn’t be too late.
Two
Police Sergeant Max Russo did his best to ignore the chaos surrounding him in the precinct. Eying the clock on his desk, he willed the next twenty minutes to pass quickly so that his shift would finally be over and he could head home.
“Yo, Guthrie, this is a police station—not a dog pound,” Detective Sal Nuccio called out when an officer came through the precinct doors with a six-footer wearing a bedraggled brown fur costume and a pair of handcuffs.
“You’re a real funny guy, Nuccio,” Guthrie fired back.
“I’s a werewolf,” the culprit replied, his speech slurred from too much hootch or drugs or both.
“And I’m Little Red Riding Hood,” Guthrie replied. “Come on.”
“It’s true,” the shaggy fellow insisted. And as though to prove his point, he began to howl like a wolf.
“Knock it off,” Guthrie commanded, and smacked the fellow on the back of the head while the rest of the station laughed.
Max shook his head. Halloween certainly brought out the weirdos, he thought as the new rookie, Palmisano, marched in with three dames wearing black leather and carrying whips. Make that two dames, he amended when he noted the tall blonde had an Adam’s apple.
“Officer, you’re making a terrible mistake. I told you that we were only trick-or-treating. There’s no law against trick-or-treating in New Orleans, is there?” the flashy brunette asked.
“No, ma’am. But there is a law against offering to do the kind of tricks you were suggesting in exchange for money.”
The wolfman howled again.
“I told you to knock that shit off,” Guthrie ordered.
“Maybe you ought to get him a leash, Guthrie,” Nuccio chided.
“Up yours, Nuccio. Come on, wolfman. Let’s go get those paws of yours printed.”
The wolfman shuffled a few steps, then stopped dead in his tracks. “Say, man, I’s not feeling so good.”
Max looked at the man’s face, recognized the shade of green. “Guthrie, if I were you, I’d get him to the can first. And I’d be quick about it.”
“The can? But what—” Guthrie swore. “Listen to me, you dirtbag. You puke on me and your ass is going to rot in this jail,” the officer promised as he hauled his collar down the hall.
Max chuckled, as did the rest of the precinct, when moments later they heard Guthrie let loose with a string of four-letter words. He sure was glad he was behind a desk now and no longer walking a beat. Max stole another glance at the clock. Another fifteen minutes and he’d be heading home to his Rosie. He could already see himself kicking back in his favorite chair to watch that Indianapolis Colts game he’d set to tape before leaving home this afternoon. While he remained a die-hard Saints football fan he had a soft spot for that Peyton Manning, since the kid was from New Orleans. ’Course, he’d also watched the boy’s daddy quarterback the Saints a couple decades ago. Yep, he thought. Having Rosie serve him an ice-cold one with some of that gumbo that she’d had simmering on the stove while he watched the game was the perfect way to end this crazy day.
Whatever you do, Lord. Don’t let me get stuck with some pain-in-the-ass case that’s going to make me work late.
But Max no sooner sent up the silent prayer when he saw her walk in. A fresh-faced blonde dressed all in black and white, lugging a bag on one shoulder that was almost as big as she was. Nuccio, who thought himself a ladies’ man, wasted no time in making a beeline over to her. Not that he blamed the guy, Max admitted. The lady was a looker, even if she was a bit young for the likes of an old geezer like him. For a minute Max wrote her off as one of them college kids, then he got a better look at her face as she brushed off Nuccio and headed toward him.
Nope. The lady might be young, but those eyes were way too serious to belong to some wet-behind-the-ears kid, he decided. And he didn’t imagine any college girl would ignore the scuffle going on only a few feet from her the way she did. Nor did he suspect any college kid would appear so unconcerned by the four-letter words coming from the foul-mouthed drunk, or the way the half-naked perp was leering at her. A cool one, Max thought as she approached the desk.
“Are you the person in charge?” she asked.
“I’m the desk sergeant on duty. Max Russo. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m here to report a murder.”
It was the last thing he’d expected her to say, Max admitted silently. “Why don’t you have a seat, Miss…?”
“Santos,” she replied as she sat down. “Kelly Santos.”
“All right, Miss Santos. Now, why don’t we start by you telling me who it is that was murdered and your relationship to the victim.”
“I don’t know who he is. I mean, I never met him. And I don’t know his name. But I saw…I saw him sitting inside of a car and he…he was shot.”
Max looked up from the pad he was writing on and asked, “Do you know who shot him?”
Kelly shook her head. “No. But it was a woman.”
“All right.” He jotted down the shooter was a female. “And where did you see this shooting take place?”
“I don’t know. Not exactly. It was dark and I didn’t recognize the area. The car was parked at the end of an alley. Somewhere in the French Quarter, I think, because I could hear musicians playing nearby.”
Max paused. He looked up from the paper on which he had been scribbling notes. “I’m afraid that somewhere in the French Quarter with musicians covers a lot of territory. I take it you’re not from around here?”
“Yes. No.” She let out a breath. “I was born in New Orleans, but I’ve lived away for a long time. I came back…I came back to take care of some personal business. I only arrived from New York late this afternoon.”
“Well, the city hasn’t changed all that much. Maybe if you tell me what street you were walking on when you saw the shooting, we’ll be able to narrow it down a bit.”
The lady hesitated. A strange look crossed her face.
“Miss Santos?”
“I wasn’t out walking when I saw the shooting. I was sitting in the Café du Monde waiting for coffee when I picked up a newspaper.” She unzipped her camera bag, and using a paper napkin, she retrieved the newspaper and placed it on the desk in front of him. “This newspaper. It belonged to the man I saw get shot.”
Max glanced down at the folded newspaper and then lifted his gaze back up to meet hers. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Miss Santos. What does this newspaper have to do with the shooting?”
“Everything.”
Max arched his brows. “Come again?”
She took a deep breath, released it. “Sometimes when I touch a person or a thing, I…I can see what’s happened or what’s going to happen to that person. Tonight when I touched that newspaper,” she said, pointing to the item, “I saw the man who’d left it behind. He was sitting in a car in a dark alley with a woman. She was paying him for some document, a birth certificate. Only, once he gave it to her, she pulled out a gun and shot him. What I don’t know is if he’s already dead. That’s why I came here. On the chance that you can stop her if she hasn’t already killed him.”
Max put down his pen and sat back in his chair. He’d heard some winners, but never one quite like this, he thought. “I see.” And what he saw was that the lady was either on something or a nutcase.
“Trust me, I know this all sounds crazy, Sergeant. It sounds crazy to me, too. But I’m telling you the truth. I have this…this ability to see things. Visions from the past or the future.”
“Uh-huh. And tonight when you touched this here newspaper,” he said, tapping it with his index finger, “you had one of them visions of a man being murdered?”
“Yes.”
Max rubbed a hand along his jaw. The lady was loony tunes if she thought he was going to buy this story. “Miss Santos, when was it you said you arrived in town?”
“This afternoon. I flew in from New York.”
“New York? That’s a mighty big place. That where you live?”
“Yes. I’m a photographer.”
Did those photographer types fiddle around with drugs? he wondered. “That bag there must be for your camera, then,” he said, indicating the bag she’d set on the floor beside her and wondering if a search of the thing would reveal whatever she’d been using.
“Yes, it is.”
“You mind if I take a look?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” she said, and handed him the camera bag. “But I can save you the trouble of looking for drugs. There aren’t any.”
He hesitated a moment at her response, then told himself the conclusion was a reasonable one and had nothing to do with her being able to know what he’d been thinking. But to satisfy himself, he checked out the bag, anyway. Other than the camera and film, it contained only her wallet and a lipstick. “That’s a mighty fancy piece of equipment. You here on business?”
“No. As I told you, I’m here on a personal matter.”
“So you did.” He slid the camera bag across the desk to her. “Never been to New York myself. My wife, Rosie, has though. She went with her sister a few years ago. I seem to recall her saying it was about a five-hour flight.”
“More like three and a half,” she informed him.
He ran a hand through his hair, aware that the now-salt-and-pepper strands seemed to be growing thinner on the top with each passing day. “Funny thing about flying. My Rosie, she doesn’t bat an eye when a hurricane’s coming or the streets are flooding, but put the woman on a plane and she’s a nervous wreck. But usually a glass of wine or a cocktail on the plane helps to calm her down. You one of them nervous flyers, Miss Santos?”
“No, Sergeant. I’m not a nervous flyer. And I didn’t have anything other than water to drink on the flight.”
“And what about at dinner? We’ve got a lot of good restaurants in New Orleans, probably lots of new ones since you was last here. Nothing more relaxing than to sit down to a fine meal with a glass of wine,” he said in what he hoped was a friendly, good-old-boy tone that would put her at ease. The way he figured, if the lady just fessed up to having a few cocktails and making up the story, he’d send her on her way and he could head home to Rosie, a beer and a cup of gumbo, and enjoy the game he’d taped. “You had yourself a glass of wine or two with your dinner tonight, Miss Santos?”
Kelly leaned forward, met his gaze evenly. “I’m not drunk, Sergeant Russo. And I’m not on drugs, either. What I am is wondering why you’re sitting here asking about my eating and drinking habits when I’ve told you that there’s a man out there somewhere,” she said, pointing to the street, “and if he isn’t already dead, he soon will be unless you do something.”
“And what is it you want me to do, Miss Santos?”
“I want you to try to find him.”
“And just how am I supposed to do that? You said yourself that you don’t know the man or even where he is.”
She remained silent, but an expression crossed her face. Sadness? Frustration? Max couldn’t quite read it or her.
“Miss Santos?”
Her brown eyes returned to his face. “What if I describe him and the location to you?”
Max sighed. This simply wasn’t his day, he decided as he watched the clock click within minutes of the end of his shift. May as well let her get it off her chest. “Go ahead.”
“He’s in his late sixties, a heavyset man with thinning gray hair and brown eyes.” She closed her eyes a moment and he wondered if she was going to go into one of her supposed trances. But then she continued. “He’s wearing a dark suit coat that’s too small for him, and he has a gold ring with a ruby stone on his pinkie finger. And he’s in a dark car—black or maybe dark gray. It’s a big car, four doors with a tan leather interior. Not new, an older model. It’s parked at the end of an alley next to a building with ferns hanging on the balcony.” She opened her eyes, looked at him. “He’s not from here, so the car might have out-of-state plates. Maybe from someplace along the Gulf Coast.”
“That’s quite a description.”
“I told you. I saw him when I picked up the newspaper. In fact, his prints are probably on it. Maybe if you run it through your system, you can find out who he is and get a better description of the car.”
He gave her his most indulgent smile. “I’m afraid it only works that fast on TV and in the movies. It takes a bit longer to check for prints, and if he’s not in the system, we have little hope of getting a match.”
“Then take what I’ve given you and use it. If you radio the police officers out on the street, they might be able to find him in case…in case he isn’t dead yet.”
“You honestly expect me to issue an APB on some unknown man based on what you think you saw in some sort of a vision?”
Some of his co-workers shot looks in her direction. If she noticed, she gave no indication. “I know it sounds crazy,” she told him, frustration lacing her voice. “But I’m telling you the truth, Sergeant. If that man isn’t already dead, he will be unless you do something. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”
“I do believe you,” he assured her in an attempt to settle her down. “You see, I’ve got myself this aunt, a real sweet little lady in her eighties, who likes to read those books by Anne Rice. And every time she finishes one of them books, it’s like clockwork. She’s on the phone to me in the middle of the night swearing she’s seen one of them vampires lurking around her place. But the truth is my aunt’s an impressionable woman and sometimes those vampire stories she reads…well they sort of get all mixed up in her dreams. It’s late and it’s Halloween. You’ve been traveling and I’m betting you’re tired. Maybe you had yourself one of those waking dreams a body has when they’ve had an extra-rough day.”
“I didn’t dream that a man got shot, Sergeant Russo. I saw him.”
“I’m sure it seemed real enough, Miss Santos. Just like my aunt’s dreams about those vampires seem real to her. But that doesn’t mean it was real.” Deciding to put an end to the nonsense, he stood. He was more than ready to get home to his Rosie, kick back in his chair with a brewsky and a bowl of gumbo to watch the game. “Maybe what you need is a good night’s sleep. If you’d like, I can have an officer escort you back to your hotel.”
She stood. “I don’t need an escort to my hotel, Sergeant,” she snapped, and there was nothing remotely girlish about the look she slanted at him. But the last thing he expected was for the lady to reach over and grab his arm.
“What the hell—”
“What I need is for you to stop wasting time thinking about kicking back in your easy chair, eating gumbo and drinking beer while you watch some dumb football game and try to find that man before it’s too late.”
Max jerked his arm free. He could feel the color drain from his face. He dropped back down to his chair. “How in the hell did you know that stuff?” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper.
“I told you. I can see things, sense things.”
Sweet mother of God, he thought, shaken by her response. No, it couldn’t be, he reasoned. There had to be an explanation.
“Hey, Max. Everything okay over there?” Nuccio asked.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he muttered before turning his attention back to the woman. He narrowed his eyes. “You had me going there for a minute. That stuff you just said about the gumbo and beer and the game, you were guessing, right?”
“No.”
“Then you must have heard me say something to one of the guys earlier,” he offered, wanting, needing to believe that’s what had just happened, even though for the life of him he couldn’t recall saying a thing about the gumbo to a soul.
“We both know I didn’t overhear you saying anything to anyone.”
“Then how…”
Kelly resumed her seat across from his desk. She clasped her hands together in that ladylike way women did and met his gaze evenly. “I tried to explain, Sergeant Russo,” she began, a weariness in her voice that matched her expression. “Sometimes when I touch a person or an object, I can see things.”
He looked down at his shirtsleeve where she had grabbed him only a few moments ago, then back up at her. “And when you touched me, you read my mind?”
“Not quite. It was more a case of reading what you were imagining. In this case, you were seeing yourself sitting in a big brown leather easy chair with your feet kicked up. The room had gold shag carpet and there was a small round table next to the chair with a bottle of beer on it. You were watching a football game on TV and you hit the pause button when a woman came into the room,” she told him. “She had red hair and she brought you a tray with a steaming bowl on it. She said the gumbo was hot, but that she didn’t want you using that as an excuse to have another beer.”
Max swallowed hard and tried to digest the fact that the woman had just described his living room and his wife. “That’s my wife, Rosie.” And Rosie was never going to believe him when he told her this story. After a moment, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and started over. “Why don’t you describe that car for me again.”
Jack Callaghan ambled over to his police locker the next morning and the first person he saw was Sal Nuccio. Just what he didn’t need, Jack thought. After tossing and turning most of the night and feeling like shit over how he’d handled things with Alicia the previous evening, the last person he wanted to deal with this morning was Nuccio. The guy had been a pain in the ass since they were kids. And ever since he’d beaten Nuccio for the starting quarterback position in high school, the man never missed a chance to try to one-up him at everything from the type of car he drove to the women he dated, and now to see which one of them made detective second grade first. At thirty-three, the adolescent games had long lost any appeal for him. Unfortunately, Nuccio couldn’t say the same.
“Hey, Callaghan. You hear about all the excitement here last night?” Nuccio asked him.
“No,” Jack replied. Not bothering to even look at the guy and hoping he would just go away, Jack worked the combination on his police locker.
“Well, you missed it. Yes sirree, we had ourselves quite a show here at the station last night.”
Jack yanked open his locker. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You don’t need to take my word for it. Ask some of the guys who were here busting their asses last night and pulling extra shifts while you and your partner got the night off.”
Irritated, Jack slid his gaze over to where Nuccio was leaning against the wall, nursing a cup of coffee. The guy fit the caricature of a lazy cop, Jack thought, from the beefy jowls and beer belly to the straining buttons on his jacket and the sloppy look of his clothes. “If you’ve got something to say, Nuccio, why don’t you just spit it out.”
“Just making an observation. That’s all.” He tossed his foam cup into the overflowing trash can and shoved away from the wall.
Determined not to let the guy get to him, Jack stowed his running shoes in his locker and made no comment. He’d learned from experience that there was no reasoning with Nuccio. What would be the point in telling the prick that the reason he and his partner had scored two days off was because they’d worked fourteen days straight and had cracked a three-year-old homicide case? Nuccio would only argue that it had been the Callaghan family name currying favor for him. Which was what he’d claimed to be the reason they were both competing for promotion to detective second grade, even though Nuccio had put in two years more on the force than Jack had. The truth was, his name being Callaghan hadn’t helped him one iota—a fact that the captain had made sure he understood the day he’d joined the force as a rookie.
“Besides, the way I see it, you and Vicious might have wrangled the night off, but you also missed out on all of the fun around here.”
Jack clipped his shield on his belt, then slammed the locker door shut. “If you say so.”
“It’s true,” Nuccio insisted, obviously irritated by his response. “Things were really hopping here last night and you missed it.”
“Hear that, Leon?” Jack called over to his partner, homicide detective Napoleon Jerevicious, affectionately known among his fellow officers as Vicious, the nickname he’d earned on the college and pro football fields. “Nuccio says we missed all the fun last night.”
Leon slammed his own locker shut. The former pro football running back, who had been both his partner and friend for the past two years, walked over to join him. “I don’t know about that. I had me a pretty good time last night. Tessa and I took the kids trick-or-treating. And after we put them to bed, we did some trick-or-treating of our own, if you get my drift.”
“Talk about lame,” Nuccio declared with a snort. “I’d have thought a hotshot former jock like you could find something better to do than chase after a couple of snot-nosed kids and bang your old lady.”
“Hey man, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Leon advised him, unfazed by the other man’s derisive tone.
“No way,” Nuccio replied. “I’ve got better things to do with my time. But anytime you get tired of palling around with Callaghan and want to have some real fun, you just let old Sal here know. And I’ll introduce you to a few of my ladies, make sure they show you a good time.”
“That’s real nice of you, Sal,” Leon said in that low, easygoing voice of his that still held a trace of his Arkansas roots despite the years he’d spent in New York playing football for the Jets.
“Anytime.” Nuccio puffed up his chest. “Just say the word and I’ll make a few calls, set something up for you.”
“I appreciate that,” Leon told him. “I really do. But the thing is, I’m afraid having you set me up with your ladies would be a problem.”
“Say, if you’re worried your old lady’s going to find out, don’t sweat it. These gals are discreet.”
“I’m sure they are, but that’s not the problem,” Leon explained.
Nuccio frowned a moment, then his eyes widened. “Holy shit! Don’t tell me you’ve never screwed around on your wife?”
“Come to think of it, no. I haven’t.”
“Hot damn, if that don’t beat all.” Nuccio let out a hoot. He slapped his leg. “Instead of calling you Vicious, they should call you Choirboy. What in the hell’s wrong with you, man? Here I am offering to cut you in on my female turf and you’re turning me down because you’re married?”
“Actually, that’s only one of the reasons I’m turning you down. The other reason is I don’t pay women for sex.”
Jack muffled a laugh. But the other guys hanging around the lockers didn’t. And as the whoops of laughter rumbled around the locker room, Nuccio’s face grew beet red. Jack almost felt sorry for him. Almost but not quite, since the jerk had been riding him for months now—ever since Jack had gotten a citation for his efforts in solving an eight-year-old murder that had languished in the cold-case files. A case to which Nuccio had once been assigned.
Nuccio glared up at the much taller Leon. “Up yours, pal.”
“No thanks,” Leon said, and flashed his pearly white teeth.
“Some sports hero you are. The only woman you’re making it with is your own wife.”
Leon’s smile widened. It was the smile of a man who was content with his life and with himself. A man who wasn’t going to be rattled by the barbs of some sorry ass jerk like Sal Nuccio. “Like I said, don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Or maybe you don’t have any choice, because the chicks aren’t impressed with washed-up football stars. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that you never were a babe magnet—not even during your playing days,” Nuccio continued with a laugh. “No wonder the chicks ignore you now.”
“Nuccio, my man, you’ve been reading way too many groupie magazines,” Leon said patiently. “The truth is, the ladies don’t ignore Napoleon the Vicious. But when I tell them I’m married, they naturally put the moves on my pal Jackson here.” Leon slung his arm around Jack’s shoulder, dwarfing his six-foot-two, one-hundred-ninety-pound frame. “Ain’t that right, Jackson?”
“Sure,” Jack responded.
“Yeah, right,” Nuccio told him.
Leon released him and drew himself up to his six-foot-six height. “It’s the truth. Jackson here is a real player. Why, just last night he was at some fancy party at the Royal Sonesta, and the man had to practically fight the ladies off with a stick. Ain’t that so, Jackson?”
“Sure is,” Jack said, going along with his partner’s story but wondering how Leon knew about the fund-raiser he’d attended since he hadn’t mentioned it to him.
“In your dreams,” Nuccio countered. “Maybe the chicks give Mr. Ex-Football Star here a second look because he used to be somebody, but no way do they notice your sorry ass.”
“According to Tessa’s friend Milly, they were noticing a lot more than his ass last night,” Leon informed him.
“No shit! That true, Callaghan?” a first-year rookie named Doug called out. “You really have women crawling all over you last night?”
“I don’t know if ‘crawling’ is the right word. But there were about a hundred women at the party,” Jack said, doing his best to keep a straight face as he referred to the fund-raiser his mother had guilted him in to attending. “And by the time the night was over, I’d say that at least half of them had hit on me.”
“Aw, man,” came a comment from behind.
“Some guys have all the luck,” someone else grumbled.
Nuccio narrowed his eyes. “You expect us to believe you had fifty women trying to jump your bones last night?”
“Actually it wasn’t my bones they were after,” Jack confessed. Although, in truth, Alicia Van Owen had made it clear to him that she was more than willing to resume the steamy affair that he’d put the brakes on two months ago. “It was my checkbook. Most of the ladies were members of the Junior League or friends of my mother’s or both. And they were hitting me up all evening for donations.”
Leon roared with laughter. So did the other guys gathered around who’d been listening to the exchange. The only one who didn’t seem to find the story amusing was Sal Nuccio.
“You’re a real comedian,” Nuccio told him.
“Thank you,” Jack said, and took a bow.
“Maybe you ought to turn in your badge and try using that smart mouth of yours to earn a living. Oh, wait a minute,” Nuccio continued, a hard look in his eyes. “That’s right. You don’t actually have to worry about earning a living like the rest of us ’cause your daddy left you a shit load of money. All you gotta do is have your mama make a phone call and wave her checkbook. And the next thing you know you got yourself a citation and the press makes you out to be some kind of hero.”
Jack sobered instantly. “I earned that citation, Nuccio. And as far as the press is concerned, I don’t have any control over what they write and neither does my mother.”
“Uh-huh. And we’re all supposed to believe that the Callaghan bucks didn’t influence any of it.”
The free sample has ended.
