Lamont straightened his tie, his hand pausing on the doorknob. He stared at his office door, psyching himself up to enter. He was showered, dressed, and ready to start the day.
Usually that meant paperwork and a slew of meetings.
Today that meant first figuring out how much the cops knew. How much of his face had been captured on that video?
Damn that Gabe Hebert and damn his fucking phone.
Damn his own gun, jamming on him when he’d needed it most.
I should have run them over. Why didn’t I just run them over?
He’d panicked, pure and simple. He couldn’t fight, so flight had taken over. And if he didn’t figure out a way out of all of this, his fit of panic would be the thing that ended him.
The murder of Jackson Mule was all over the news, but the details were scant. City movers and shakers were crying crocodile tears over the “loss of a great man.”
Bullshit.Jackass had been nothing more than a bully. A stupid, ham-handed bully.
He got the drop on you, so maybe he’s not so stupid after all?
Shut up. Just… shut up.
“Lamont? Got a minute?”
He turned toward the man moving toward him. Jean-Pierre, Ashley’s new boss. He hated dealing with him, because he knew all that squeaky-cleanness had to be a front. Other than using his more suitable, French-sounding middle name to get in good with the locals, Kaj Jean-Pierre was a damn choirboy. That boy is no more squeaky-clean than I am. Trouble was, Lamont had never been able to find proof to that effect.
“Jean-Pierre. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Ashley. She’s late to work and I desperately need the brief that she was working on yesterday. She must have saved it to her hard drive, because it’s not on the server. If I can’t find her, I’ll have to get a network admin to unlock her computer. Have you seen her?”
“I sure haven’t,” Lamont lied smoothly. He entered his office, Jean-Pierre on his heels.
Carrie looked up from her computer, her mouth curving in a polite smile. “Good morning, sir.” She rose and took Lamont’s jacket, hanging it on the back of the door. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” He’d have preferred a bourbon to relax his tense muscles, but not here at work. He turned to give Jean-Pierre a pointed glare. “She’s not here. You should look elsewhere.”
The other man ignored him. “Carrie, have you seen Ashley?”
“No, sir. Not this morning. If I see her, should I tell her that you’re looking for her?”
“Yes, please,” Jean-Pierre said, sounding frazzled, then left muttering, “Dammit.”
“That man is rude,” Lamont said dismissively.
“He’s not so bad,” Carrie said with a fond smile. “Once you get to know him, anyway. He’s just intense. He’ll calm down once he’s more used to the pace down here.”
Because Kaj had come from New York City. That was enough reason to distrust the man.
Putting Jean-Pierre out of his mind, Lamont gave Carrie a list of the briefs he needed for the day and shut the door to his office. Finding it empty, he sighed quietly in relief.
He’d feared, deep down, that someone with a badge would be waiting for him, but so far, so good. If they had seen his face on that damn video, they’d have been here with handcuffs.
He remembered the way the woman’s eyes had squinted. The rising sun had blinded her. Hopefully it had cast any visible part of his face in enough shadow that the video was useless.
Should have run them over.
Shoulda, coulda. You didn’t. So move on.
He turned on his computer and checked the news feeds. The media didn’t have a copy of the video, thank the good Lord. Jackass’s little toady, Cresswell, might know something, though.
And it would look weird if he didn’t call, right? Seeing as how he and Jackass were known to be friends.
Using his desk phone, Lamont dialed Cresswell and, surprisingly, the man answered.
“Lamont, what can I do you for? If you can make it fast, I’d appreciate it. I don’t have much time. Everything is nuts here this morning, what with Mule’s murder and all.”
“I expect so,” Lamont said, laying the sadness on thick. “That’s why I’m calling. What the hell happened? Do you know who did this?”
“No. Just a guy wearing a hoodie. Looked like he was covering up another murder. But we’ll be pullin’ out all the stops, I promise you that. We’ll find who killed Mule and may God help him when we do. Everyone here is so angry that I doubt the bastard will make it to trial.”
“I hope you find him,” Lamont said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll let you get back to it. If you could update me when you hear anything? I’d be appreciative.”
“Of course. And look. I’m sorry about Mule. I know y’all go way back.”
Wentway back. Because Jackass was no longer the albatross hanging around his neck.
“Thank you. I… Well, I just haven’t processed it yet. It doesn’t feel real.”
“I know,” Cresswell murmured. “Things are gonna change around here.”
It didn’t sound like Cresswell was too excited for those changes, and why would he be? The man had been permitted to do whatever he’d wanted for too many years. Depending on who replaced Jackass, someone might be riding herd on Cresswell for once in his miserable career.
“I’ll let you go,” Lamont said. “Stay strong.”
“You, too. See ya, Lamont.”
He ended the call and breathed another sigh of relief. Cresswell might not be privy to everything, but he had worked for Jackass for a lot of years. The man would know if a killer was suspected.
Home free.
Except for Xavier Morrow and Gabe Hebert. He’d allowed Ashley and Jackass to distract him from the real goal—eliminating all witnesses. Gabe Hebert hadn’t seen him kill she-who-shall-not-be-named, but he knew altogether too much about the murder of his daddy.
He needed to find Morrow and Hebert, and he needed to do it quickly.
They’d be on double alert, especially if the lady PI had gotten a look at Ashley’s head. They already suspected that Ashley’s visit had been a ruse. Hopefully they were still chasing their tails when it came to the bogus ID of the woman Morrow had seen being killed.
Then he frowned. Wait just a damn minute.
Why had the Sutton woman been there this morning? Beyond the fact that she was supposed to have been in the hospital, how had she known to follow Jackass into the bayou? That didn’t make any sense.
Unless…
He checked the arrest reports from that morning, then closed his eyes, struggling to hold his temper. Fucking hell.
A man had been arrested in the wee hours of the morning for breaking and entering with intent to kidnap. The address was an apartment in the Central Business District.
Home to one Chelsea Sutton. Same last name as the lady PI. What had Jackass said? She has a sister and a niece. Jackass was supposed to have sent in enough men to overpower the guy Burke had installed as their bodyguard.
Lamont checked the local news website, then dropped his head back with a sigh. The break-in at Sutton’s apartment was right under the headline about Jackass’s murder. Three dead outside Sutton’s apartment, one man arrested. Nicholas Tobin.
Lamont had never met the man, but he knew the name. He’d made it a point to know everything about Jackass over the years. Tobin was Jackass’s son with his own mistress—one he hadn’t killed for getting pregnant because the woman had been paid for her silence.
Not like Nadia. Nadia hadn’t accepted his money. Nadia had insisted that she’d tell. Which was why Nadia was dead. If she’d just been reasonable, he wouldn’t be in this mess now.
Lamont returned to the search results on the local news website and, teeth grinding, clicked the next headline. Two men killed in attempted abduction. The two men had broken into the home of local restaurant owner Patience Hebert. Both men were found dead upon arrival of the police.
Jackass’s men had fucked up royally.
I would have liked to have rubbed it in his ugly face. Too late for that now.
It seemed no one—at least in the news—had made the connection between the two break-ins. Margaret Sutton—Hebert had called her Molly—was the link between the two, but it didn’t look like the media was aware of that.
Not yet, anyway.
The cops had to know. They were just keeping it close to their vests for now.
On the bright side, they’d be investigating Jackass’s connection to those break-ins and the five dead bodies. Jackass had tasked the kidnappers, so the deaths would connect back to him somehow. Even if Tobin had assigned them, it still pointed back to Jackass.
Leaving me completely out of it.
Hell, if Broussard and his group knew about Nadia Hall, they might even think that Jackass did it. There was no one to refute it.
Except for Xavier Morrow, but who’d even believe him? Kid couldn’t have been older than five that night during Katrina.
Five-year-olds were notoriously poor eyewitnesses.
Except for the fact that Xavier Morrow had seen his scar. Jackass had never had a scar.
Dammit.
Xavier Morrow still had to die. And he would.
At least no one can connect me to Jackass’s death.He’d tossed the burner that he’d used to communicate with the cop. It now lay at the bottom of the Mississippi. Luckily, he’d owned several, using separate phones for various contacts. He now had a fresh new untraceable phone in his pocket. There was no other evidence connecting them, right?
Right.
Except for… “Ashley,” he muttered. Once her body was identified—and it would be, because he hadn’t destroyed her face when he’d made her smaller—they’d wonder why Jackass had been found near Ashley’s remains. They’d wonder how she and Jackass connected.
But Jackass and Ashley didn’t connect.
Ashley could only be connected to me.
By Joelle, who had incriminating video.
Goddammit.
Joelle needed to be dealt with. Maybe he could take the surveillance video from her. But she’d said she’d sent a copy to her attorney.
Dammit.Killing her now would be too obvious. Lamont closed his eyes, trying to get a handle on exactly what he needed to do. The goal was ever-shifting. He needed to find a way to silence Joelle without triggering suspicion.
It was ironic, really. Joelle would be so happy right now. She’d hated Ashley and—
Oh. Oh.His eyes flew open as he abruptly sat up straight. “Oh,” he whispered aloud, because the perfect solution had just crossed his mind. What if he could do away with Joelle and deflect attention away from his involvement with Ashley all at once?
Joelle had hated Ashley. Hated her with a passion.
Hated her enough to kill her herself.
But was depressed enough afterward to take her own life. Poor Joelle.
Lamont wanted to make it hurt, but if he staged her suicide, it would be by pills. Joelle didn’t have the guts to shoot herself in the head like Rocky had.
Or like his first wife had. Lucille had been an avid hunter. She’d known her way around guns. Joelle wouldn’t know the first thing about firing one.
He’d have to admit to having fucked Ashley, because Joelle would mention this in her “suicide note,” but while a sexual scandal might look bad, it would soon blow over.
Joelle was the focus now. Then he’d finally be able to focus on his future. He’d gather his donors, throw his hat into the political ring, and his next wife would have to call him “Senator” in bed.
Tulane-Gravier, New Orleans, Louisiana
THURSDAY, JULY 28, 1:30 P.M.
“Mr. Hebert?”
Gabe jerked awake and lifted his head from the table in the interrogation room, blinking at the bright light. He’d fallen asleep. How the hell had he let himself fall asleep in the police station?
Maybe because he was fucking exhausted and had been questioned three times by different detectives, all playing good cop/bad cop until he wanted to scream? Yeah, that was it. He needed to cut himself a little slack because he’d had a really bad evening.
And an equally bad morning. On top of being interrogated for hours, he had no idea where they’d taken Molly. The cops had separated them as soon as they’d arrived at the scene at the bank of the bayou. Was she all right? What had they done to her? How could I have let myself fall asleep?
Then he saw the officer standing in the corner. Officer McCauley was one of André’s and had been standing guard for hours—ever since Gabe had been taken to this room. André said that he trusted him. So did Burke, which was the only reason he would have felt safe enough to sleep. The officer gave him a kind nod, which Gabe returned before twisting toward the door to study the man who’d called his name.
The new arrival was dressed in a snazzy gray suit with a black tie covered in… Gabe squinted. “Saxophones?” he asked blearily.
The man tilted his head in confusion before glancing down at his tie. “Oh, right.” He chuckled. “A gift from my son,” he said. The man placed his briefcase on the table and took the seat across from Gabe. “Your attorney will join us in a moment and then we can get started.”
My attorney? Oh, right.Willa Mae had been at his side during his interrogations. He must have fallen asleep right after she left, because that was the last thing he remembered. He rose when Willa Mae walked in. “Miss Collins.”
She smiled at him. “Mr. Hebert. How y’doing, Gabe?” she added softly.
He rubbed his neck. “I’ve slept better.”
“Then please sit down before you fall down.” She sat beside him and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Molly is fine. You will be, too. Just follow my lead, and only answer what you’re asked, just like before.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The man with the saxophone tie cleared his throat. “I’m Assistant District Attorney Cardozo. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Fine,” Gabe said wearily. “Then can I leave?”
“Let’s get through the questions first, shall we?” Cardozo said, which would have sounded ominous except that Willa Mae was patting Gabe’s arm encouragingly.
Gabe sighed. “Fine. Go ahead.”
“Can you start at the beginning?”
Gabe wanted to groan. “I’ve told my story three times already. I’m pretty sure they taped it. Can’t you just catch the highlight reel?”
Cardozo’s lips twitched. “I could, but I’d like to hear it from you. I know you’ve had a rough night, so I appreciate it.”
Gabe rubbed his palms over his face, then shoved his hands through his hair, yanking gently to wake himself up. “Well, just because you appreciate it,” he muttered and started from the beginning, leaving out only the part where Xavier shot his intruder before fleeing. “And then we came upon the guy with the hoodie, and he shot Mule right in the chest, then in the head. We approached, Miss Sutton and I, to try to keep him from disposing of any more evidence. He shoved Miss Sutton down, grabbed his gun, then ran for Mule’s Range Rover. He drove away.”
“With several bullet holes in the Range Rover, as I understand,” Cardozo said mildly. He was a nice-looking man with nearly black hair, a tanned complexion that spoke of a lot of time in the sun, and dark brown eyes. Those eyes seemed kind, but Gabe couldn’t trust him.
“Miss Sutton tried to stop him from leaving the scene. She shot his tires first, but he kept driving.”
“And what were you doing while all of this was happening?” Cardozo asked.
“Recording the entire thing, from when we approached through the trees to right after the man in the hoodie charged into Miss Sutton.” His heart stuttered a little, just remembering how terrified he’d been when Molly went down. And how proud he’d been when she got back up and started shooting.
She blamed herself for the man’s escape, but she wasn’t to blame at all. She’d been brave and he couldn’t wait to tell her so again so that maybe she’d start believing it.
“And where might we find the video?” Cardozo asked.
Gabe narrowed his eyes. “Like you haven’t seen it already?”
Willa Mae squeezed his arm. “Just answer the question, Gabe. Cardozo’s simply connecting the dots.”
Gabe exhaled impatiently. “It’s on my phone. Which is in Captain Holmes’s custody.”
Cardozo nodded. “Thank you. Now, did you hear any of what the two men were saying to each other?”
“No.”
Cardozo didn’t seem offended by the brusque answer. “Did they seem friendly with each other?”
“Before one of them shot the other?” Gabe asked sarcastically, then sighed when Willa Mae surreptitiously elbowed him. “Sorry. I’m tired. I’m not sure how to answer that. We couldn’t see the shooter’s face. Between his hoodie and the sun behind him, he was pretty well hidden. Mule seemed relaxed enough, right up until the end, that is. They were talking at a normal volume, I guess. They never yelled.” He glanced at Willa Mae to make sure he’d said the right things, and she nodded at him. Well, at least I haven’t incriminated myself.
“You were carrying a gun,” Cardozo commented.
“Yes.”
“Did you fire at the man in the hoodie?”
“No.”
Cardozo smiled, like they were playing a game. “Did you fire earlier in the evening?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Once.”
“When was that, Mr. Hebert?”
Willa Mae patted his arm again. “You can answer that. They have the security footage from Molly’s apartment. Your action of defending Molly has been noted as such.”
“It was somewhere between one fifteen and one thirty this morning.”
“Who did you shoot?”
“I don’t know his name. He had a gun pointed at my…” He frowned, unsure of how to label Molly. My girlfriend? My partner? “My private investigator’s chest. He’d forced her to drop her weapon by threatening her family, then started to call to his partners that he had her.”
“You thought he’d harm her?”
“I had absolutely no doubt that he would have.”
“At that point, why did you think the men were there?”
“To harm—or possibly abduct—Miss Sutton’s sister and niece.”
“What purpose would that have served?”
Gabe wanted to scream but reined in his temper and forced himself to remain civil. “To force Molly into the open so that they could use her to either lure Burke or to follow her to where key witnesses were hiding.”
“When you shot the man in the garage, did you intend to kill him?”
Gabe couldn’t control his flinch. “No. I was actually aiming for his shoulder. I would have accepted an arm or a leg or even a torso, but I hit his neck.”
Cardozo nodded again. “It was a kill shot.”
Gabe swallowed. He’d have to deal with the fact that he’d killed a man later. He couldn’t let himself be distracted now. “I guess so.”
“Your father was a cop. Did he teach you to shoot?”
“He was and he did. Not necks, though. That was an accident.”
Cardozo’s smile was kind. “I never met your father, but I’ve heard good things about him.”
Gabe glanced at Willa Mae, unsure of how to respond.
“Just say thank you, Gabe,” she murmured.
“Thank you?”
Cardozo chuckled wryly. “You’re welcome?” He propped his arm on the table and leaned forward, sobering. “Do you know who it was wearing the hoodie?”
“No. If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“Who do you think killed your father?”
Gabe hesitated, then figured why the hell not? “Do you accept that he didn’t commit suicide?”
“I do. Miss Sutton told me about the private autopsy you had done. We’d already found the record in Dr. McLain’s cloud account—her husband knew her passwords and has been very cooperative in our investigation into her murder.”
Gabe started to relax. Maybe this really would be okay. “Why didn’t you ask me earlier about my father’s murder? Like yesterday?” Before I was forced to kill a man.
“Because we just got the files last night. We’d intended to discuss it with you today, then events happened and here you are. Last question: do you intend to keep looking for your father’s killer?”
Gabe didn’t look at Willa Mae. He kept his gaze locked on Cardozo’s. “Yes.”
“I figured as much. If you’d said no, I would have doubted everything else you’d told me. But this is the deal, Mr. Hebert. I’d like to let you go home—or wherever you choose to go here in the city. But I can’t have vigilantes out there hunting down killers and shooting up SUVs. Or even shooting men attempting abduction.”
Gabe studied the man for a long moment, then nodded. “I understand your position.”
“I hoped you would. Thank you for your time and your candor. And thank you especially for the video. It will come in handy, I expect.”
“I hope so. Do you know who the hoodie guy is?”
“No. But I will.”
“Do you know who the victim was? The one whose…” Gabe swallowed. “The one whose head we found?”
Cardozo didn’t speak for at least five seconds. He just held Gabe’s gaze, blinking in time with the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Gabe didn’t know how to feel about that. The man did know who the young woman had been. And he wanted Gabe to know that he knew. “I’m glad,” Gabe finally whispered. “I hope her family gets closure.”
Cardozo rose, smoothing a hand down his saxophone tie. “You’re free to go, Mr. Hebert. If you wouldn’t mind, please stay in town. Your phone will be returned to you, and Miss Sutton is waiting for you in the lobby.”
Then the ADA took his briefcase and walked out, leaving Gabe staring at the door. “What the—”
“When we’re alone,” Willa Mae murmured. “Not a word until I tell you to. Now let’s get out of here.”
Gabe held his tongue but stared at the one-way glass that made up one of the walls. There were people back there, he knew. Apparently, Willa Mae didn’t trust them.
Saying nothing, he followed Officer McCauley out of the room and through the halls to the lobby, where Molly was pacing the floor. She ran to Gabe, throwing her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life.
“I’m okay,” he murmured, his arms closing around her as he breathed her in. Her hair smelled like the shampoo in Farrah’s bathroom, and he missed the scent of her own orange shampoo. She was still wearing Farrah’s sweats, complete with the mud stains from when the shooter had knocked her down. But she was alive and whole and appeared unhurt by the cops. He honestly wasn’t sure what he’d expected them to do, given that one of the NOPD brass was dead. “You?”
She tightened her hold, pressing her face against his neck before letting him go. “Me too.”
And that was all they said until they were outside, where Burke waited with his truck. “Get in,” he said. “And buckle up.”
They obeyed, Willa Mae in the front and Gabe and Molly in the back. Molly was clutching his hand so hard that it hurt, but he wasn’t about to tell her to stop.
“Miss Willa Mae, can we talk now?” Gabe asked.
Willa Mae looked at Burke. “We clean?”
Burke nodded. “Yeah. I never stopped long enough for anyone to mess with my truck.” He handed Molly’s cell phone and her burner back over the seat. “Here you go.”
“Thank you for holding on to them for me,” she said. “Where are we going? Your camp?”
“No, it’s too crowded now. No spare bedrooms and five extra people make a lot of noise, even when they’re trying to be quiet. We’re going back to Farrah and André’s place on the river so that you can rest.”
“Thank God,” Gabe muttered.
“Chelsea?” Molly asked. “And Harper? Are they still there?”
“They are,” Burke confirmed. “Last I heard, they were baking with Farrah so that you could have something sweet when you got back. So…” He let a few seconds pass. “Busy day, huh?”
Molly laughed, a brittle sound. “Yeah, it was. What more do we know?”
“The ADA knows who the victim is,” Gabe said. “The one whose body the hoodie guy was throwing in the water.”
“He does,” Willa Mae confirmed. “But he’s not telling. Not that I thought he would.”
“I wonder how they identified her so quickly?” Molly mused. “Did they send divers in after the remains? If they found a finger or two and if she was in the system, they might have ID’d her through her fingerprints.”
Gabe closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea at the thought of finding fingers in the bayou.
“I don’t know,” Burke said. “Her face was recognizable—you know, through the blood, so I’m wondering if she was someone he knew.”
“I vote for the second one,” Gabe said weakly. “How about them Saints?”
“I’m sorry,” Molly said, bringing his hand to her lips for a quick kiss. “I forget that you’re a civilian. You were pretty wonderful today.”
“Thank you.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. So tired. Almost too tired to feel pride at her words. Almost. “Do we know anything more?”
“André said that they found Mule’s Range Rover,” Burke offered. “It was parked in some woods near the home of the stolen car’s owner.”
“Stolen car?” Gabe asked, shaking his head hard, worried that he’d slept through some part of the explanation.
Burke glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Oh, sorry. The car that the shooter left at the scene had been stolen. The cops went to the address on the registration and found the stolen car’s owner on the ground a few feet away from Mule’s Range Rover.”
Molly sighed. “The car’s owner was dead?”
“Yeah,” Burke said. “The guy had a rap sheet, so he was known to NOPD. Drug dealer. Made some meth, that kind of thing. He’d been dead for at least a few hours when they found him. There was a set of fresh tire treads in the ground near the Rover. Probably from a sedan. The treads didn’t match those of the stolen car left at the scene. That’s all I know right now.”
“Okay,” Molly said slowly. “Hoodie Guy brought his own vehicle, switched it for Meth Guy’s car, drove it to the bayou to dispose of a body, killed Mule, then got away in Mule’s Range Rover, and drove back to where he stole the car, switched back to his own vehicle, then drove away?”
“Close as I can figure,” Burke said.
Molly yawned. “I’m wondering if Hoodie Guy knew Meth Guy or if it was a random theft of opportunity?”
“Good question,” Burke said. “I wondered the same. And if they did know each other, from where?”
“I’m wondering how you’re all still conscious,” Gabe muttered under his breath.
Molly leaned into him as much as her seat belt would allow. “Just used to long hours, I suppose. But my brain is winding down, for sure.”
“Close your eyes,” Burke said. “We’ll be back to Farrah’s place soon.”
Tulane-Gravier, New Orleans, Louisiana
THURSDAY, JULY 28, 6:30 P.M.
“Evening, sir,” James said.
Lamont settled into the back seat of the town car. “Evening, James.”
James pulled away from the curb. And stopped.
“Traffic, sir,” James said apologetically. “Seems like half the country’s here.”
Lamont found himself unbothered. “Not a problem, James. I’m in no hurry tonight. Just take me home.”
James glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “That’s a switch. Seems like you’ve always got some place to be. Did you have a good day?”
“I did, thank you.” So far, so good, anyway.
They hadn’t identified Ashley’s body yet and he’d checked. Multiple times. But discreetly. He didn’t want anyone to know that he was the one asking.
It was possible that they wouldn’t ID Ashley’s body for a while. Maybe ever. And if that was the case, he was home free.
But he wasn’t going to depend on it. Rocky Hebert had gotten close. He may have even ID’d Nadia as the woman whose body he’d seen during Katrina. He’d certainly known enough to go hunting for her doctor.
But he didn’t ID me. If he had, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.
Rocky Hebert hadn’t known who killed Nadia. Lamont knew he was damn lucky that they’d killed Rocky before he’d discovered the truth. There was no way that he was going to depend on luck again. While it was possible that Ashley’s body might never be identified, it was likely that it would. She had no family to miss her, but her new boss, Jean-Pierre, had come by his office yet again that afternoon asking after her.
“Have you seen Ashley?”
“No, I have not.”
“I’m worried, Lamont. She might be hurt somewhere. Is this like her? To just not show up for work?”
“Maybe. She’ll call in sick sometimes. Y’know, after a busy night.”He’d mimed guzzling liquor. “Wicked hangovers.”
The other man had frowned. “You didn’t mention that when you sent her over. I don’t want an alcoholic working for me. Or not working for me, which is more in line with what happened today.”
Jean-Pierre had finally given up, returning to his office. Or maybe to the network admin’s office to get into Ashley’s computer.
I really don’t care.
What he did care about was that eventually Ashley would be ID’d, if for no other reason than that damn Jean-Pierre wouldn’t back off. And when she was ID’d?
They’re gonna come looking at me.Joelle would make sure of it.
He’d thought a lot about how to neutralize Joelle over the course of his workday and now he had a plan. He had a script. He’d picked a fall guy who’d be ID’d as the “man in the hoodie”—a guy on his list who’d killed for hire in the past.
Lamont had even practiced his sad face for when Joelle’s body was discovered.
Poor tortured Joelle. Couldn’t live with the guilt after killing her husband’s mistress.
He’d have to navigate the fallout of sexual scandal, but that was nothin’ these days. In some circles, it’d be considered a plus.
“So, how’d the missus like those presents?” James asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Momentary panic swept through him. Ashley’s body. The presents wrapped in silver paper. The silver paper that was in police evidence right now because he’d left it in the trunk of that stolen car. Goddammit.
At least there’d be no prints on the silver wrapping paper. He’d meticulously scrubbed it clean of both his and James’s fingerprints.
But James had seen the gifts and if anyone asked, he’d have to tell.
I don’t want to kill James, too. He’s a damn good driver.But if he had to, he would.
“I haven’t given them to her yet,” he said, relieved that his voice didn’t tremble. He’d have to get new boxes, fill them with presents, wrap them in silver paper, then leave them in the garage. Just in case. “I’m saving them for the next time she gets mad at me,” he added, chuckling ruefully.
“I know how that goes,” James agreed. “Never thought about having a gift at the ready, though. That’s a really good idea. I might borrow it.”
“Be my guest.”
Thankfully, James shut up, and Lamont spent the next forty-five minutes with his eyes closed, mentally rehearsing his lines. When James stopped in the driveway, he was ready.
“Thank you, James. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, normal time. Oh, and I have a business dinner tomorrow night at the Monteleone. I need to be there by seven.”
“I know, sir. That one’s been on the schedule for weeks.”
Because it was the most important dinner of Lamont’s career—so far.
He got out, waved at James, then squared his shoulders and let himself into his house.
He really loved his house. It had belonged to wife number one, had been in her family since just after the Civil War. As she was the last of her line, the house had passed to him after her death.
Poor, poor Lucille. He’d been happy to be rid of her, too.
He might wait a while before marrying again. Play the bereaved bachelor. Focus on his election and his soon-to-be constituency.
Enjoy his house again. He hadn’t, he realized. He hadn’t enjoyed coming home in a very long time.
That was about to change.
“Joelle?” he called.
The front of the house was dark, but something smelled good, which meant that Joelle wasn’t doing the cooking. She was a terrible cook. Too bad that he hadn’t thought to ask before marrying her. She’d been good in bed, and he figured that she could learn to be a homemaker.
Ha.That had not worked according to plan.
He made his way to the kitchen, noticing the dining room table set for two. China, candles, and his best crystal. He wondered what Joelle was up to.
The kitchen was empty and sparkling clean. There were covered dishes in the warming tray with a scribbled note from their regular cook. The woman had gone home, thankfully.
He and Joelle were all alone.
“Joelle?” he called again.
“In the front parlor.”
He frowned at that. Returning to the living room—which Joelle liked to call the “parlor” because it sounded fancier—he saw her lounging on the sofa in a negligee. He’d walked right past her like she hadn’t even been there.
Wishful thinking, I suppose.
She rose fluidly, the sheer fabric clinging to her curves. She was a very beautiful woman. That hadn’t changed. But he’d rather touch a cobra.
“How was your day?” she all but cooed.
He sat on the sofa, spread his arms along the back, and propped an ankle on his knee. “Same old, same old. And yours?”
She settled on the middle cushion, tucking one foot beneath her so that their knees touched. “It was nice.” She ran a fingertip over the emerald necklace he’d given her two days before—identical to the one he’d given Ashley. “I went to the spa. Had Cook make your favorite meal. And then I got ready for you.”
Translation: she got ready for sex.
But that’s not going to happen today.“Excuse me,” he said. “I just got a text.”
She frowned when he took out his phone. “I think we need to have some phone-free time.”
Instead of checking his texts, he brought up his recording app and hit start. Then made sure his home screen was showing before placing the phone on the table. “I agree. We should talk.”
She scootched over a little closer and trailed her fingers up his thigh. “Or not.”
He placed his hand over hers, halting her explorations. “I want to talk about Ashley.”
She flinched, grabbing her hand back as though he were infectious. “What? Why?”
“Because she’s important to me.”
Joelle lifted her chin. “She’s just a two-bit whore.”
“So were you,” he said smoothly, and her hand swung as if to slap him, but he caught it before she made contact. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Joelle.”
“Why not? Are you going to have me arrested?” she mocked.
“Maybe. Don’t push me.”
“Don’t push you? Don’t push you? I will push you, husband dear. I will push you all I want to. I am your wife.”
“For now.”
She gasped, but it sounded rehearsed. “Are you threatening me with divorce?”
“No, I’m saying that I want one.”
She drew herself to her full height. “No.”
He laughed quietly. “What did you think would happen, Joelle? You put cameras in my office. You invaded my privacy. I do business in that office. You may have breached the privacy of any number of innocent people.”
“You don’t deal with innocent people.”
That was pretty much true. “It doesn’t matter. What did you think would happen?”
“I thought you’d get rid of her. I thought we’d be free of her. Now she’s gone. The whore is gone. Now we can get back to normal. We can work on our marriage. It’ll be like it was at the beginning.”
That was good. He’d be able to use a few of her words to his own advantage. He needed more, though. “Our marriage is over.”
She lurched to her feet, her hands balled into fists. “It’s not over until I say so. How dare you? You cheated on me.”
“As I’ve done before with previous wives, as you well know. Did you think you were special?”
Another gasp, this one seemingly sincere. “I did, and I was the fool. I thought you loved me.”
“I did. Once.”
“But you don’t love me anymore?” she asked, her lip trembling.
If he hadn’t seen the twitch of her left eye, he might have thought that she was genuinely brokenhearted. But the words themselves were gold. “I do not. I haven’t for a long time.”
She stomped one foot. “You will not divorce me. You will not leave me. I will fight you.”
“You will lose.”
“I have the videos,” she said smugly. “We have a prenup.”
“Which stipulates that you can’t cheat. It doesn’t say anything about me.”
Horror filled her eyes. “What?”
“You heard me.” And it was mostly true. Their prenup didn’t explicitly say that he could cheat, but he doubted a judge would make the distinction. Even wife number two got a little alimony. With video proof that he’d been fucking his assistant, Joelle wouldn’t get half of his net worth, but she would get a lot more than a little alimony. If she lived. Which she wasn’t going to. “I don’t want the scandal of a divorce, but you’ve left me no choice. I can no longer trust you in my home. I’d like you to pack your things and be out of here by tomorrow evening.”
Horror became shock. “You’re throwing me out?”
“I am.”
“You can’t do that!”
He actually couldn’t, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. “Watch me.”
“No.” She shook her head vigorously, sending her diamond earrings swinging. “You will not divorce me. I won’t let you. I’ll fight you in court and I’ll win. I will destroy you. Your reputation will be in tatters by the time I’m through with you.”
Yes.This was what he wanted.
“Don’t make empty threats, Joelle.”
“They’re not empty threats! I will crucify you in the press. You’ll wish you were dead by the time I’m through with you. You’ll be sorry you ever crossed me.”
“I’m going to marry Ashley.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t marry her.”
“Watch me.”
“Over my dead body,” she said, then flounced out of the room and up the stairs.
He winced when the bedroom door slammed hard enough to knock pictures off the walls, then he took his phone and stopped the recording. It wasn’t perfect, but she’d given him a fair bit to work with.
He wished she’d threatened to kill herself. She’d done that before. Unfortunately, she had not done so today. But there were a few gems he could use.
The whore is gone. Now we can get back to normal.Both of those were good.
All the talk of destroying his reputation and him being sorry he’d crossed her was even better.
He could cut and paste and create a conversation that had actually never happened. But to someone overhearing, it would sound like Joelle was frantic, hysterical, and—hopefully—suicidal. Pair that with a convincing note—printed on the home printer, of course—and an electronic payment from her account to her “hit man”—a.k.a. the fall guy he’d chosen from his list?
The cops would conclude that Joelle had hated Ashley enough to have her killed, her body dismembered, and her remains thrown to the gators.
Problem solved.
Now for the fun part. He got to kill her himself. But he’d do that tomorrow afternoon.
No one suspected him yet. He had time to do this right.
