Читать книгу Submission - Tori Carrington - Страница 10

I PULLED THE OLD CHEVY to the curb outside Hotel Josephine in the old section of the French Quarter. The place had become familiar to me lately. Not because I’d ever stayed there but because just over two weeks ago another body had shown up in one of the rooms. A body that had looked remarkably like the woman I’d just left standing in the street outside my apartment.

I got out of the car, grabbed my hat from the front seat, then stood staring at the four-story structure not unlike countless others in the Quarter. It was probably at least two centuries old—and looked it.

A uniformed NOPD officer who’d arrived on the scene before me hiked up his pants as I approached the door.

“What do we got?” I asked.

“Thirty-C. Room 2B.”

Damn. The thirty indicated homicide. The C indicated homicide by cutting, which meant this victim might very well be connected to the one before.

The pretty hotel owner, Josie Villefranche, was standing near the front desk, her honey-colored skin looking pale. Not that I could blame her. I’d heard business had taken a nosedive after the first unsolved murder. Now that there was a second, Lord only knew how she’d manage to keep afloat.

“Miss Villefranche,” I said.

“Detective Chevalier.”

I knew she kept an illegal sawed-off shotgun behind the front desk, which probably explained why she was partial to standing near it at all times.

Since I couldn’t ask questions until I actually had them to ask, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. Another uniformed officer stood outside the door to 2B, guarding it.

“John,” I said, recognizing him.

“Alan.”

I stepped into the doorway and stared inside the room. And for the second time that day I saw a ghost. Because the victim stretched across the bed, her head hanging over the foot, was in the same position and had the same throat wound as Claire Laraway.

I’d never been one to buy into coincidence. If it looked like a crawfish, smelled like a crawfish and tasted like a crawfish…well, it was a goddamn crawfish.

I rubbed my closed eyelids and took a deep breath, then stepped farther into the room, pushing aside the similarities between the last victim and this one and instead focusing on the differences. Number one, I knew this victim. Her name was Frederique Arkart and she was a streetwalker, not a new resident to the city. Number two, she was African-American. I slowly crouched down, taking in the way her eyes seemed to stare at a point I couldn’t see. For all intents and purposes, she couldn’t see it, either, but it was apparent that she’d been looking at something—or rather someone—while her life was being taken away from her. I blindly reached for a rubber glove in the pocket of my trench coat and put it on my right hand. Number three, the wounds were different, I found as I lightly probed the victim’s neck. Laraway’s had been made with a sharp instrument, while the blade used here had been duller, making a sloppy job of it.

I took off the glove and sat crouched for long minutes, staring at the floor in front of me.

New Orleans ranked pretty high in the nation when it came to murder statistics. I knew this not because I read the papers but because I was kept busier than most other detectives in bigger cities. I’d seen more than my share of murders and had no fewer than a dozen actively open cases sitting on my desk at any one time, with a countless number of others that had been marked cold cases and filed away.

“Looks familiar.”

I craned my neck to look at the chief of forensics, Steven Chan, then stood up. “Yeah.”

“You think we’re dealing with the same killer?” He put his box down in a corner where it was least likely there would be any trace evidence.

“That’s your job, not mine.”

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say that.”

He was right. Usually I would be telling him that it looked as though the wounds were different somehow. But I thought it was a good idea if I was a little more careful nowadays. I’d arrested the wrong man in the Laraway murder and didn’t want to be placed in that position again anytime soon. Especially considering that my career already hung by a very thin thread.

“Let me know what you come up with,” I said. “I’m going down to talk to the owner.”

MOLLY SAT AT A BACK table at Tujague’s and stared at her watch. It was a quarter after eleven and Detective Chevalier was late.

Either that or he’d never planned to come.

“Decide yet?” the young waiter asked.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she said again.

He smiled at her in a way that said he knew she was waiting but he’d approached her to see if she’d given up and decided to eat anyway.

She pulled a menu in front of her.

A cordially shouted greeting drew her attention toward the door. She was mildly surprised to find Alan Chevalier stepping inside, his overcoat as wrinkled as it had been earlier, holding his hat as he shook hands with the portly man behind the bar—apparently the issuer of the hearty welcome.

Molly was both glad and nervous that he’d decided to come. The mix of reactions intrigued her. His being there meant he might include her in the investigation, or at the very least keep her informed on his progress.

Her gaze mingled with his across the already crowded dining room and she swallowed hard, aware now, as she had been earlier, of the strange chemistry that seemed to exist between them.

His being there also meant that he might feel the same pull.

It took him a few moments to make it to the table. She expected him to take off his overcoat—her own wool jacket was on the back of her chair—but he didn’t. He merely sat back in his chair, staring at her silently, his arm stretched out so that the hand that held his hat lay on the table between them.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she said quietly.

He didn’t say anything, almost as if he was as surprised to be there as she was to see him there.

Finally he leaned forward and placed his hat on the empty chair to his right. “Yes, well, this happens to be one of my favorite places. I might have been planning on coming here anyway.”

Molly had given up all pretense of reading the menu and looked him over instead. She’d noticed this morning that he’d looked a little ragged around the edges. It had been at least a day since he’d shaved, and he was in need of a haircut. His clothes…well, it looked as if he might have slept in them, the wrinkles and creases speaking of a man who was either too busy to make or uninterested in making an effort with his appearance.

Strangely this lack of concern for the way he looked appealed to her on a level she hadn’t been aware of until now. She usually went for the well-groomed types. Career-driven, gym-obsessed overachievers in pressed suits who carried expensive briefcases and drove cars that cost more than some houses.

But Alan Chevalier…

She realized she was staring and dropped her gaze to the white tablecloth.

“Has anything—” she began, then stopped, realizing the futile nature of her question.

“Happened in your sister’s case since I saw you a couple of hours ago?” He shook his head. “No.”

“Hello, Detective Chevalier. The usual?” the young waiter asked the man across from her.

“Yes,” he said. “And bring the same for the lady.” He considered her. “Unless you’re a vegetarian?”

Molly said that whatever he’d ordered was fine.

The waiter disappeared, leaving them alone again.

Well, alone really wasn’t the applicable word. The small restaurant was packed with other diners, despite the early hour. But as far as Molly was concerned, they could have been alone in the popular eatery.

“So, Miss Laraway, what is it that you do for a living?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

His eyebrows rose.

“You seem surprised.”

“Your career doesn’t impact me one way or another, Miss Laraway.” He shrugged. “Which branch of law?”

“Right now I’m assigned to business law at the firm where I work.”

“But you hope to…”

“Eventually move on to criminal law.”

He nodded, as if expecting the answer. “A defense attorney.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

He looked over her suit as if trying to put the pieces of her together. “Getting off the same people I bust my ass trying to put behind bars?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t have a problem with that.”

Molly tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Anyway, my career isn’t the reason we’re here, is it?”

“Ah, yes.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on top of the table. “Your sister.”

Had he forgotten?

She realized with some interest that it appeared he had. And that he didn’t seem concerned about the fact, either.

An unwelcome thrill raced through her bloodstream as her gaze took in his hands. Strong hands, clean, nails clipped and neat, dark hair peppering the backs of his thick, square fingers. They were capable hands, manly.

And she was paying them far too much attention.

Molly cleared her throat and took a notepad from her bag.

“Were you and your sister close, Miss Laraway?”

“Molly, please.” She pulled out a pen and laid it against the pad. “And, no, unfortunately my sister and I were never very close. Despite the belief about twins, she and I were nothing alike. And when she moved down here last year, we pretty much fell out of touch.”

She didn’t like admitting that. Seeing as they’d been the only two siblings in their single-parent household, she thought she should have made more of an effort. Called her sister. E-mailed her. At least kept track of how she was doing.

“Do you know if she was dating anyone at the time of her death?”

Molly shook her head, unable to bring herself to meet his gaze.

“Isn’t that the type of thing a sister—forget a twin—would usually know?”

“Do you have any siblings, Detective Chevalier?”

He seemed taken aback by her response. “That’s not at issue here.”

“And my closeness to my sister is?”

He squinted at her, bringing out the crinkles at the sides of his eyes. Were they brown? No, they were green, she realized. A deep leaf green.

“I thought you wanted to help find the person responsible for your sister’s death.”

Molly drew in a deep breath. She did. That was the whole reason she was there.

Appetizers were served and Alan chatted with the waiter for a couple of moments, talking about what had been brought in this morning. After the young man left, Chevalier motioned for her to help herself.

“It’s meant to be shared,” he said.

She accepted a small plate on which he’d placed two of the thick shrimp scampi—or did they call them something else down here?

“I have three sisters,” he said, looking at his food rather than her as he spoke. “All younger. And I couldn’t tell you much about what’s going on in their lives, either.”

Molly felt as though he’d just pressed a thumb against a low pressure point, releasing the tension there.

She smiled easily. “Thanks.”

He shrugged, considering her warily. “Don’t mention it.” He ate for a couple moments, then asked, “So when do you go home?”

Suddenly Molly stiffened again, because it was obvious he’d meant as in today or tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest.

He leaned closer to her, his expression intense. “Look, Miss Laraway, I know your intentions are good, but the fact is, there’s nothing you can do down here. You might as well go back home and resume your life. Nothing you can do can bring your sister back.”

Molly leaned forward, as well. “Tell me, Detective Chevalier, how many unsolved homicide cases do you have open at any one time?”

His eyes narrowed.

She picked up her purse and took out a photograph. “This is a picture of me and my sister taken at our college graduation.” She put it on the table in front of him. “Look at it.”

“Miss Laraway—”

“Look at it,” she repeated.

He sighed and picked up the shot.

“My twin, my sister, was a living, breathing human being, not just a crime victim.”

He tried to hand the picture back.

“No, you keep it. Put it on top of the countless ones you probably have of her postmortem.” She crossed her arms. “The sooner you accept that I’m not going anywhere, Detective, the sooner we can push aside all the BS and get down to the business of catching this killer before he takes the life of someone else’s sister.” She swallowed hard. “And before you have someone else like me to deal with.”

He seemed unfazed by her words, looking at her much the way he had when he’d first sat down at the table.

Molly searched for more arguments with which she might convince him. “I’m a lawyer, Detective. Familiar with the law. Use me. I can do legwork you might not have time for. Investigate far-fetched angles you’ve already ruled out that might still be viable. Make sure you’re not without a cup of coffee at all times.”

“You’re personally attached to the case,” he said.

“Which means I’m doubly committed to seeing the job gets done.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Coffee, huh?”

His lopsided smile made her retract a few claws. But just a few. Because she had the feeling that if he did take her on, he’d send her out for coffee…permanently.

Still, her options were few. “If that’s what it takes to be included in the investigation…yes.”

“Well, then,” he said quietly, “while department policy prevents anything official, it looks like you’ve got yourself a job.”

Her pulse leaped.

“But let’s get a few things straight. I define the job as we go along. I’m the boss and you’re the subordinate. And you cannot tell anyone else about this, ever. Do anything I tell you not to and our little arrangement ends. Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded, incapable of words.

“Good, then.” He grinned, although his eyes remained watchful. “My first order is that we enjoy this meal before we get down to the gritty details….”