WELL, WILL YOU look at what the cat finally dragged in an hour late,”
Molly Sutton drawled from where she sat perched on the edge of Joy’s desk. It was an old desk, a little battered, but beautifully carved. It fit with the art deco decor in the lobby of Broussard’s Private Investigations, LLC.
Her boss, Burke Broussard, liked nice things and he loved New Orleans.
Their office space on the Quarter’s edge was a lot more expensive than an equivalent space in the burbs, but Burke swore it was worth it for the foot traffic alone. Their full roster of well-to-do clients seeking “Highly Qualified & Discreet Private Investigators”—as their business cards said in a very dignified script—seemed to prove him right.
Scowling, Joy Thomas piloted her electric wheelchair behind the desk with practiced ease. “You shut up. I am not that late.”
Molly laughed. “You’re always here at eight and you know it. Besides, is that any way to talk to the person who brought you coffee?” She held out a cup from the coffeehouse, fixed just the way Joy liked it. “I figured you’d be a little rough this morning, so I came prepared.”
Joy eyed the offered cup, then took it with a reluctant nod of thanks.
“Considering you’re the reason I feel like death warmed over this morning, you should have brought me coffee.”
Molly lifted her brows, unable to hide her smile. “I’m the reason? I don’t remember holding your nose and pouring three hurricanes down your throat,
Mrs. Thomas.” She held up three fingers. “Three hurricanes, Joy. Three.” She cocked her head. “Do you see three fingers? Or six?”
Joy flipped her the bird. “I see just one.”
Molly choked on another laugh. In her midfifties, Joy looked so prim, so . . . matronly and proper. Never a hair out of place, she always dressed like a woman going to afternoon tea, a string of pearls ever present around her throat. The only thing missing was elbow-length gloves, and Molly bet that Joy had a pair of those, too.
Joy might have appeared prim and frail at first glance, but the woman was strength personified. One of the first Black women to reach detective rank in the NOPD, Joy’s career had ended after she was injured in the line of duty.
Reinventing herself, she’d gotten her CPA license so that she could support herself and her four kids—then teenagers, now amazing adults.
She was more than their office manager, their bookkeeper. She was like a mother, too.
Having lost her own mother, Molly accepted Joy’s mothering with gratitude.
“Don’t know why you’re not miserable,” Joy groused, but her expression softened with her first sip of the coffee. “Mm. It’s still hot.” She narrowed her eyes. “You brat. You were late, too.”
Molly grinned, unconcerned. Burke ran a pretty loose ship and they all worked plenty of hours when they were on cases. “Guilty as charged.”
Joy took another sip, closing her eyes. “This is the good stuff. None of that burned crap from that other coffee shop.”
“Never,” Molly said solemnly. “And I’m not miserable because I was the designated driver who got all y’all’s asses home safely. You’re welcome, woman.”
Joy shook her head, wincing at the sudden movement. She turned on her computer and sat back in her wheelchair with a frown. “I never did figure why you were the designated driver. It was your damn birthday, after all. You should have been the one drinking three hurricanes.”
Shoving her hands in the pockets of her trousers, Molly shrugged.
“Chelsea’s been under a lot of pressure. She needed to let loose a little.
Especially since she had a babysitter. Tell Louisa thank you for staying with Harper, by the way. That was so nice of her.”
Joy’s daughter Louisa was a grad student who could have been out partying with her friends, but she’d agreed to sit with Molly’s eight-year-old niece. Harper had been through so much trauma over the last few years.
Molly and her sister Chelsea didn’t trust just anyone to stay with her.
Joy smiled proudly. “She’s a good one, my LouLou. She said thank you for the dinner you sent home for her. She wasn’t expecting the Choux’s shrimp and grits.”
“It was the least I could do, seeing as how she wouldn’t let me pay her.”
Molly had celebrated her birthday at Le Petit Choux, her favorite restaurant in the Quarter, its name a play on the French endearment. Because even though the food was amazing, the place was known for its desserts, including its choux pastry. And for its head chef, of course.
Joy aimed a sly smile across the desk. “She’d have preferred an eyeful of that chef.”
Molly chuckled, her cheeks heating. “Because LouLou’s not stupid.”
She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t kept her eyes open for the restaurant’s chef and co-owner, who was also New Orleans’ newest celebrity, having won a Food Network competition the year before. The win had driven droves of tourists and locals alike to the Choux, at least half of whom stood in line mainly for a chance to ogle Chef Hebert.
At around six feet tall, Gabriel Hebert—pronounced “Ay-bear” in the New Orleans way—was very handsome. His square jaw, sexy grin, and dark red hair that curled loosely in the ever-present humidity checked off all of her boxes. Not to mention how his shoulders filled out that chef’s jacket. And—
not that she’d ever admit to ogling—his butt looked very nice in the black trousers that completed his uniform.
While she wasn’t looking for any relationships, she’d never pass up an opportunity to admire the Choux’s head chef. He’d personally served his decadent chocolate cake last night with its single burning candle, standing at her shoulder while her sister and friends sang the birthday song before cutting the first slice for her with a flourish.
Like he’d done on every one of her birthdays for the past three years.
Like he did for everyone on their birthday.
So it wasn’t special, per se, but Molly’s cheeks had still burned hotter than the damn candle. A fact that hadn’t escaped her sister’s attention. Even rip-roaring drunk, Chelsea had an eagle eye for such things, and she’d teased her unmercifully once they were finally alone in the car after dropping everyone else off. Luckily Chelsea was a sleepy drunk and was snoring by the time Molly had parked the car in their building’s ground-floor garage.
“My daughter is certainly not stupid. Hell, I like to look at that man, too,”
Joy said, then glanced at her screen, her eyes going wide. “Well, my goodness.”
Molly leaned forward, trying to peek at Joy’s screen. “Well, my goodness what?”
Joy tapped her mouse, minimizing the window. “It’s labeled ‘Need to know,’ ” she said seriously. “Besides, don’t you have an appointment this morning?”
Molly respected “need to know.” She wouldn’t push. “I wish I had an appointment. I just have a mountain of paperwork after closing that case last week. And I don’t think anyone should have to do paperwork on the Monday after her birthday.”
“You also said that no one should have to do paperwork on the Friday before their birthday,” a male voice said dryly. “Or the Thursday before. Or the Wednesday before, for that matter.”
Molly looked up to find her boss standing in his office doorway. Burke Broussard was in his midforties and, other than a few silver hairs at his temples, hadn’t changed a bit since he’d been her CO in the Marines a decade before. “Morning, Burke. I brought you coffee, too.” She held up the cup.
“Thank the good Lord for that,” he said fervently. “I’ve been here since six.”
Molly shuddered in mostly mock horror. “Why?” She’d left rising with the sun behind when she’d finished her final tour with the Marine Corps.
Burke, however, had a love-hate relationship with mornings. He said he hated them, but he continued coming in earlier and earlier. The man was a fool.
He was also smart as hell, driven to succeed, compassionate, and generous to a fault. But a morning fool.
“Come into my office,” he said. “I have a new client you should meet.”
Joy’s eyes widened further, and she maneuvered her wheelchair so that she could unabashedly watch Molly walk into Burke’s office.
And Molly immediately understood why.
Sitting in the chair at Burke’s conference table was none other than Gabriel Hebert, Choux chef extraordinaire. He looked tired and tense and very unhappy.
She wondered if he’d been so unhappy the night before. He had looked tired, but not this unhappy. Of course, he might be one of those people who could put on the face they wished the world to see.
“Molly, this is Mr. Hebert. Gabe, this is Miss Sutton. I’m going to assign her to your case.”
Molly’s brows shot up. What?
Gabe’s brows shot up as well, then crunched together in a disgruntled frown. “What? You’re handing me off?” He came to his feet. “What the hell, Burke?”
The two men faced off, and they couldn’t have appeared more physically different. Burke’s skin was olive toned, his deep tan a testament to all the road biking he did in his spare time. Gabe was so lightly tanned that she might still call him pale. And, like a lot of redheads, he had a smattering of freckles across his nose.
She’d always wanted to trace those freckles with her fingertips. She’d wondered where else he had them.
Both men were tall, but Burke’s body was bulky where Gabe’s was lean.
Molly loved to watch Gabe move. When he was cooking in his restaurant’s kitchen, it was like watching a choreographed dance.
Only their accents were similar—both speaking with that smooth New Orleans drawl that sounded like hot summer nights with jazz music thick in the air. Except that Gabe’s voice made her shiver, when Burke’s never had.
She probably shouldn’t have shivered at all, considering how angry he seemed, but her body couldn’t help how it reacted. Sue me.
Burke waved at him to be seated. “I’m too close, Gabe. Your father . . . he was important to me, too. He was my partner. I had his back, and he had mine. Whatever else went down when I was on the force, I knew your father would stand by me, and he did. I don’t know that I’d be able to keep an open mind.”
Gabe did not sit down, his frown deepening to something almost dangerous. “Open to what?” he asked, each word dripping with anger and warning.
“The truth,” Burke said simply. “Whatever it might be. Molly’s my right hand. She will not let you down. Now, please, have a seat. If, after you’ve talked with her, you want someone else, we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. You can depend on her discretion, no matter who you choose to work your case.”
Gabe released a harsh breath. “Okay.” He sat, then shifted his gaze to Molly, who still stood in the doorway, having not moved a muscle. He did a double take. “Do I know . . .” He trailed off. “Right. Last night. Happy birthday, Miss Sutton.”
Burke looked between them, his expression suddenly unhappy. “You two know each other?”
“No,” Gabe said.
“No,” Molly said at the same time. “I’ve been to his restaurant a few times, that’s all. The girls took me there last night for my birthday. I brought you some cake,” she added lamely. “It’s in the fridge in the break room.”
“Thank you, Molly.” Clearly relieved, Burke gestured to one of the empty chairs at the table. “Join us. As I’m sure you’ve figured out, this case requires extreme discretion.”
Molly nodded. “I understand. Mr. Hebert, if you decide I’m not the best fit, there will be no hard feelings. But should you choose to work with me, I’ll do my very best.”
Gabe’s shoulders slumped, his exhaustion clear to see. “I appreciate that.”
He swallowed hard. “I need to find out who killed my father.”
Molly glanced at Burke. “Are the police involved?”
Gabe’s laugh was bitter. “Most likely, yes.”
Burke sighed. “What he means is, someone in law enforcement might be complicit. Or responsible.”
Molly sat back, wishing she was surprised. “All right, then. Let me have it.”
The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana,
MONDAY, JULY 25, 9:25 A.M.
Molly Sutton was . . . Gabe wasn’t entirely certain how he’d describe her.
Serene. Unruffled. Unwrinkled and crisp despite the already-steamy air in the room. Despite wearing a jacket in late July, for heaven’s sake. She’d been the same way the night before and every other time she’d walked into the Choux.
And yes, he’d noticed. Every single time. There was something about the woman that always drew his gaze. Okay, several things. She was exactly his type, golden blond with a face like Grace Kelly and a body like Marilyn Monroe. But it was more than her looks. There was something about her that settled him.
She was the only diner to whom he’d personally delivered a birthday cake last night. He’d foisted all of the other cakes onto Patty, his cousin and co-owner of the Choux. But Molly’s cake he’d placed on the table with as much of a flourish as he’d been able to muster.
Patty had teased him about it when he’d returned to the kitchen, but she didn’t mean any harm. She didn’t know what he’d done. Didn’t know why he was torn up inside. Because he’d kept it from her.
He hadn’t intended on keeping it from her forever. Just until he’d had his suspicions confirmed. Otherwise, she might think him batshit paranoid and call for a family intervention.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been paranoid. He’d been right.
Now he wasn’t telling Patty because he didn’t want to put her in danger, because danger was coming their way. It already had, leaving at least one body in its wake.
And now he was supposed to drag Molly Sutton into this mess with him?
Just telling her the truth would put her in a killer’s crosshairs. His parents had raised him better than that.
“Miss Sutton,” he began, trying for a kind smile. “I’m not sure you’re the right person for this job.”
She smiled back, but not kindly. Not meanly, either. Just . . . warily. “I may not be, but then again, I might.” Her accent was Southern, but not New Orleans. Georgia, maybe. Or maybe one of the Carolinas. “Maybe share the details and we can go from there.”
Gabe cast a sideways look at Burke, who was frowning. “What’s your concern, Gabe?” Burke asked. “Feel free to be candid, but first let me tell you Molly’s credentials. She served with me, one of the finest Marines under my command. I’d trust her with my life. Importantly, I trust her with yours.”
Gabe swallowed, hating that tears burned his throat. Dammit to hell.
“What about hers?” he asked, his voice gone raspy. “What if I don’t want her involved? This will be dangerous.”
Burke opened his mouth, but Molly shook her head. “No, Burke, he’s got a right to whatever it is that he’s feeling.” She lifted her chin a fraction, meeting Gabe’s gaze directly. “I’ve got black belts in three different martial arts, Mr. Hebert. I’m no sharpshooter, but I can hold my own.” A muscle twitched in her cheek, making him realize how tight her jaw had become.
“I’ve killed to protect, so if you’re concerned that I’m not physically or mentally up for the task, or that you’re in any personal danger, I can assure you that I am quite capable of protecting both of us.”
Gabe shook his head, feeling sorrow for whatever she’d seen, whatever she’d done, but it didn’t matter. Taking on a dirty cop wasn’t the same as taking a life on the battlefield. At least he didn’t think so. Fucking hell if he knew anything anymore. I’m only a goddamn chef. “Killing in war is different.”
“I didn’t kill in war,” she said simply, but there was an entire story there that he found that he really wanted to hear. “Well,” she added with a grimace,
“I did that, too. What I mean to say is that I can take care of myself and anyone else who’s placed in my care.”
“Tell her about your dad, Gabe,” Burke said quietly. There was compassion in his voice and his eyes. “Like I said, if you’re not satisfied by the time we’re done, I’ll find someone else. I’ll even handle it myself if that’s what you still want. But give Molly a chance. Please. Your father was important to me. I want him to have the very best. And that’s Molly.”
Gabe sighed, too tired to argue anymore. “Okay. The truth is, I’m not really sure what the case is. All I know is that my father died six weeks ago.
It appeared to be a suicide.”
“But it wasn’t,” Molly said.
“No. At least I don’t think so.” He considered his words carefully. “I don’t want to believe so, anyway. And if it wasn’t, I want whoever killed my father to pay.”
“Then that’s what I want, too.” She tilted her head, the light from the lead-glass window picking up the gold highlights in her blond hair. “Your father was Burke’s partner, which means he was a cop?”
“Yes. His name was Robert Hebert, but everyone called him Rocky. He retired six months ago after thirty-seven years with the NOPD.” His voice broke. His father had been so much more than a cop. He’d been the best father any man could ask for. “He was only fifty-seven.”
She didn’t say she was sorry for his loss, although he could see that she was. “Why do you think he was murdered?”
It wasn’t a condescending question. She believed him already. At least she believed that he believed it, and for now, that was enough.
“My father had been behaving strangely. Startling easily. More than once I caught him looking over his shoulder or doing that cop thing where they look through a crowd, searching for one face.”
“So, he was cautious. Maybe even afraid. Do you know why?”
“No.” Gabe bit out the word in frustration. “I surprised him one day about two weeks before he died. He was on his laptop and when he saw me, he went ghost white and slammed the lid shut.”
She nodded once, her gaze never leaving his face. Her eyes were blue-green. Which wasn’t important. That they were sharply intelligent, however, was important. “Were you able to get into his laptop after his death?” she asked.
That he’d tried seemed to be a given, and he appreciated that. “Yes. And it was wiped clean. Factory new.”
Her brows lifted. “Well, shit,” she said, her accent drawing the expletive out to three syllables.
He snorted a surprised laugh. “Yeah, that’s about right.”
“Your father could have wiped it. Or whoever killed him could have done it. Have you taken it to an IT expert for analysis?”
“He brought it with him,” Burke supplied. “I’m going to hand it over to Antoine as soon as he comes in today.”
Antoine Holmes, Burke had explained, was their IT guru.
“That’s good,” she said. “If there’s anything left on it, Antoine will find it.
What about his cell phone?”
Gabe shook his head. “They didn’t find his phone.” He had to draw a deep breath because his chest seized up just thinking about his father’s last text.
“He texted me at a quarter to midnight the night he was killed. Said he loved me.” He swallowed hard. “So I know he had his phone then.”
Molly sighed, a soul-weary sound. “So, your dad was afraid, and whatever he was checking on his electronics is now gone. At least to us mere non-hacker mortals. I wonder why his killer took his phone and left his laptop?
Honestly, I’m shocked that the cops didn’t take his laptop into evidence.”
“I’m not,” Burke said grimly.
Nor was Gabe. Rage began to bubble anew in his belly. “The cops didn’t do a lot of things.”
“Which is why you believe they’re involved,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “What did the medical examiner say?”
The bubbling rage became a geyser, because the damn electronics were the least of the reasons that he knew the cops were involved. “Not much. He didn’t do an autopsy. Or at least not a thorough one.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“Because someone told the ME not to look too closely,” Gabe said bitterly. “This was according to the ME’s assistant, who seems like a good man. I went there to check on the progress because the cops were giving me the brush-off.”
She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and opened a note-taking app. “Name of the assistant?”
“Harry Peterson.” Gabe watched her type the name into the app. “He wouldn’t tell me which cop, but he said that he couldn’t look himself in the mirror without letting me know that something was dirty. I’m worried about him, to be honest. He was young and he looked terrified.” But resolute, and Gabe both respected and appreciated that more than he could express. “The autopsy report still hasn’t been released. Every time I call the coroner’s office to ask if it’s been finished, they cite ‘overwhelming caseloads’ and say that they’re behind and will get to me as soon as they can.”
She glanced at Burke. “Can we keep eyes on Peterson, just in case?
DeShawn’s working in the coroner’s office now, isn’t he?”
Burke nodded. “That’s who I thought of, too. I’ll check into it.”
Gabe looked from Molly to Burke and back. “Who’s DeShawn?”
“DeShawn Holmes,” Burke answered. “His brother, Antoine, is our IT specialist. D’s just started his residency in the coroner’s office. He’s trustworthy and well trained, so if something goes down, he’ll be able to help.”
Gabe frowned. “Well trained how, exactly?”
“He served,” Molly said, then smiled. “Army, but we don’t hold that against him.”
“His other brother is a cop,” Burke added, “but one of the ones I trust.”
Gabe scowled. “But I don’t trust him. I don’t know him.”
Burke didn’t look annoyed. “Do you trust me?”
“Yeah. Because you got out.” Gabe remembered the day Burke had resigned from the NOPD. His father had been devastated because Burke was one of the few he’d trusted to have his back.
Burke shrugged. “I keep up. I know who’s who in the force. Antoine and DeShawn’s brother is one of my best friends. He is . . . well, let’s just say he’s been a useful resource since I’ve gone private.”
“Which shouldn’t leave this office,” Molly murmured, her smile gone.
“I’m serious, Mr. Hebert. It could cost our friend his job and maybe even his life.”
Gabe swallowed hard. Mr. Hebert was his dad. And his dad was dead. If this cop could help Burke find his father’s killer, he’d have to deal with his hatred of whoever in the NOPD had blocked the investigation into his father’s murder. His father had been a good cop. A good man. He’d have to believe that there were others out there and that Burke’s instincts were good.
His father had trusted Burke with his life. Now Gabe would have to trust him with his father’s death, too. “I understand. I won’t tell anyone about anything. And please call me Gabe. Mr. Hebert was . . . That was my dad.”
Her expressive eyes flashed sympathy. “I get it, Gabe. I lost my dad, too.”
Her empathy rankled. “Not to murder, though. With all due respect, ma’am, it’s different.”
Burke winced, and Gabe realized he’d stepped in it.
Molly’s smile was tight now, and the muscle in her cheek twitched once again. “You know what they say about assumptions, Mr. Hebert.”
Okay. They were back to surnames. He’d upset her, but she was keeping it professional. He needed to do the same. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . I have no excuse.
I’m sorry, Miss Sutton.”
She nodded once. “Thank you. Apology accepted. And you’re right that every case is different, but I do understand something of what you’re going through. That’s all I meant to say.” She squared her shoulders. “Back to business. That there was no thorough autopsy isn’t good, I’m not gonna lie.
But it doesn’t mean we don’t have other sources for our investigation.”
Gabe smiled grimly. “I didn’t say there wasn’t an autopsy, just that the ME didn’t do jack shit.”
Molly frowned, and then understanding dawned, her lips curving. “Did you get a private autopsy, Mr. Hebert?”
“I sure as hell did.”
