Читать книгу Submission - Tori Carrington - Страница 11

I STOOD ON THE CURB outside Tujague’s and watched Molly Laraway walk toward the nearest intersection, her jacket folded over her arm as she hailed a cab. The woman was a stunner, that was for sure. She had a swing to her walk that caught not only my attention but the eye of every breathing male within a two-block radius.

I stared at the guy next to me watching Molly in the same way I was, then grimaced and patted my front shirt pocket, even though what I was looking for wasn’t there and hadn’t been there for years: cigarettes.

Truth was, I wasn’t sold on the idea of having a loose cannon like Molly running around doing Lord only knew what. But I admired her spirit. And I had the feeling that no matter what I said or did or threatened her with, she would go ahead with her own investigation into her sister’s death. Might as well try to channel some of that energy to my own advantage…and keep her safe at the same time.

I patted my coat pockets and took out my cell phone. By directing her actions, I could keep her away from anything remotely dangerous. Not that I thought she was in danger, but at this point I wasn’t taking any chances.

And if working with her also kept her in close physical proximity, where I could continue to admire those great legs and possibly charm my way between them…well, I wasn’t complaining.

I pressed the auto dial for Steven Chan.

“Tell me you’re not calling about this morning’s body,” he said by way of hello.

“It was worth a try.”

“I haven’t even unpacked the samples yet.”

“Yeah, well, do it. I need the results yesterday.”

I closed the phone and walked in the opposite direction from where Molly had gone.

MOLLY CHECKED THE address on her notepad. A modified pickup truck sat in front of the place in question, and a guy was carrying a box out and putting it in the truck bed.

“Excuse me,” she said, approaching him as she tucked the pad back into her bag. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find Joann Bennett?”

The guy stared at her. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m Molly Laraway, Claire Laraway’s sister.”

Since he didn’t seem to recognize her, she suspected that he’d never met her twin.

“Oh, yeah. Joann’s ex-roommate. You’ll find her inside.”

Molly looked over the items already crammed into the back of the truck. “Thanks.”

She stepped over the curb and nearer to the door, knocking on the jamb when she found the door was open.

“Miss Bennett?” she called out.

A woman carrying another box came out of what looked like a bedroom, the small living room before her empty of furniture. She looked at Molly, then put the box on top of another one, flushed from her activities. “Are you here to see the apartment?” she asked, pushing her hair back. Then she seemed to get a closer look at Molly and her face went white.

“I’m Claire’s twin,” Molly said quickly. “I was hoping you might have a couple of minutes.”

“Jesus, for a minute I thought you were her.”

“I’ve been getting that a lot lately.” She moved out of the way of the guy, who was coming back inside. “I won’t keep you long, I promise. I just wanted to ask a couple of questions.”

Joann looked at the man, who shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” She sighed. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I’ve already cleared out the kitchen.”

“Moving?” Molly stated the obvious.

“Yes. I was having a hard time finding another roommate and, well—” she lifted her left hand “—my boyfriend proposed.”

Molly smiled. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

She moved aside again as the guy—apparently the fiancé—hefted another box and made his way back outside. “I’m sure Claire would have been happy for you.”

“I don’t know about that. Claire never met Nick.”

“So you two didn’t spend a lot of time here?”

“More like Claire didn’t spend a lot of time here. Do you mind if I work while we talk?”

“No. Go ahead.” Molly moved nearer to the door she’d disappeared into. “So you and my sister weren’t close?”

“No, unfortunately, we weren’t.” Joann wrapped a ceramic knickknack and placed it in an open box. “Truth is, we never got much of a chance to get to know each other well. She only moved in two months before she…died.”

Molly remembered her mother giving her the change of address, although she’d never had cause to use it herself.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” she asked. “Living with someone you don’t know well?”

Joann shrugged as she wrapped another item. “I’ve had at least seven roommates throughout college up until now. I’ve never run into any problems. Well, not many, anyway, you know, beyond loud nighttime activities and a piece of jewelry or designer clothing going missing. But even that didn’t happen often.” She began closing the box. “It’s hard to make the rent as a single nowadays, as you may know.”

Actually, Molly didn’t know. Straight out of high school she’d interned at a law office that had hired her part-time. Then in college she’d become a P.A. and later assistant to a local appellate-court judge. She’d never been rolling in money, but she’d never had a problem making the rent. And she’d always been single.

Joann passed her with the box she’d been carrying when Molly had arrived. “Would you like me to bring this one?” she asked.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Molly picked up the other box and followed her out into the living room, where Nick took the carton out of her hands and disappeared outside again.

“You wouldn’t happen to have come across anything more of my sister’s while you were packing, would you?” She adjusted her purse still slung over her shoulder.

“Funny you should mention that.” Joann put down the box and walked into the kitchen. A moment later she came back with a key on a ring that held a pink-haired troll with a blue ink stripe across its face. Molly immediately recognized it as belonging to Claire. She’d bought it to top off a Christmas gift years ago, and her sister had lamented that she’d put a pen mark on it during a phone conversation shortly thereafter.

Molly hadn’t paid much attention. Until now.

She took the key.

“I don’t know what it opens. Not the apartment. I already tried. And Claire didn’t have a car.”

“Maybe it’s to the place she lived before?”

Joann shrugged. “Maybe. But Nick thought it looked more like a locker key—you know, like the type you see at the bus station? Only it doesn’t have a number on it or anything.”

Molly ran her thumb over the top of the key, noticing where a line of jagged orange plastic seemed to indicate something had been removed. Nothing but the name of a popular key company was imprinted on the key itself.

“Is there maybe something you’ve remembered since Claire died?” Molly asked. “Something you haven’t told the police?”

“No. I’ve told them everything I know.”

Nick came back inside for the last box. “You ready?” he asked Joann.

“Yeah, give me a sec to double-check.”

Molly stood exchanging glances with Nick as cupboard doors were opened and closed in the kitchen, then in the bathroom. Within moments Joann was back in the living room.

“That’s it.”

“Lock up. I’ll be in the truck.” Nick disappeared again for a final time.

The key bit into Molly’s hand where she held it so tightly.

“Hey, look,” Joann said. “I’m really sorry for your loss. I mean, what happened to Claire…” She crossed her arms and rubbed her hands over the bumps that dotted her skin. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now.”

“Thanks.”

Joann began to pass her.

“Would you mind if I asked for your forwarding address? In case I have any other questions?” Molly asked.

Joann looked hesitant.

“I promise I won’t call unless I’m absolutely convinced you can be of help. In fact, chances are you’ll never hear from me again.”

Molly pulled her pad and a pen from her purse. And, after a sigh, Joann took it and scribbled down an address and a phone number.

“Thanks,” Molly said again, unsure how any of this helped her but glad that she’d caught Joann before she’d left.

Molly led the way outside, then stood watching as Joann climbed into the truck cab, gave a final wave and drove away.

THE GOOD THING ABOUT being a homicide detective was that you didn’t spend a lot of time at the office. The bad thing about being a homicide detective was that when you did need to be at the office, you were at a desk in a room shared by a dozen others.

Phones rang, voices chattered, computer printers printed. And one of the younger narc detectives was even trying to figure out how to use the manual typewriter in the corner—and not having much luck, judging by the occasional string of profanities he muttered.

At least I was no longer the center of attention. Ten months ago I couldn’t walk into a precinct room without it going completely silent, everyone staring at me.

I guess that was what happened when you bedded the captain’s estranged wife.

While few incidents could trump the losing card I’d dealt myself with that stupid move, the more time passed, the more people moved on with their own lives, leaving me alone to see to the ugly details on my own. Although I’m sure an office pool was running to see when the captain would finally fire my sorry ass.

And that day would be soon if I didn’t catch a break in the Quarter Killer case.

I edged my chair closer to my paperwork-covered desk and leafed through the mess that threatened to topple over into my lap. Actually, it appeared to have slid onto the floor and been piled back up by someone, because it was messier than usual. I sighed and started sorting through it, knowing it was too much to hope that somewhere in there I would find the clue I needed to solve the Laraway and Arkart murders.

The phone on the corner rang. I ignored it.

“Chevalier, line two for you,” a junior detective called out.

“Take a message.”

“Take your own damn message. What, do I look like your secretary?”

I glared at him, wondering when he’d grown a pair of balls when only a short time ago he’d been all about pleasing everyone, then snatched up the receiver.

“What?”

“Alan?”

A female voice. More specifically, a female voice belonging to the oldest of my three sisters, Emilie.

I took a deep breath. “Now’s not really a good time, Em. Can I call you back?”

“Normally I would say yes, but what I have to say really shouldn’t wait.”

I rubbed my forehead, wishing for a cup of coffee. “What is it?”

“Zoe hasn’t been back to her dorm room in two days.”

My hand froze.

Zoe was the youngest of the Chevalier family, although at twenty-one she liked to pretend otherwise. Em and Laure had long ago tried to convince me that they were overcompensating for the loss of their parents by spoiling her, but neither of them had seemed capable of doing anything differently. After all, Zoe had only been eleven at the time, and while they both had their own ghosts to wrestle with, it seemed easier to focus their attention on their youngest sibling than address their own needs.

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“I talked to her roommate.”

“Does the roommate have any idea where she might have gone?”

“Not a clue. Her overnight bag is still there and nothing seems to be missing.”

Another junior detective called out. “Chevalier? Call on line four.”

I gritted my teeth.

Emilie said, “That’s not like Zoe at all. She usually lets everyone know where she is and what her plans are. Including me.”

She was right. From a young age, all of us had drilled into Zoe the importance of keeping in contact at all times. And she’d complied. Probably because the one time she hadn’t, when she was fifteen and had gone to the movies with a male friend, she’d found half the NOPD drawing guns on her in the middle of the theater.

“I’ll stop by sometime this afternoon,” I told Em, then rang off.

I grabbed my hat and started to get up, half relieved that I wouldn’t have to tackle my desk just then.

“You still have that call waiting on four,” the junior detective shouted.

I picked up the receiver again and punched the button for line four. “What?”

No one said anything.

Good. They’d hung up.

“Alan?”

Another female voice. But this time it didn’t belong to one of my sisters. It belonged to a person I’d never expected—scratch that, never wanted—to hear from again.

Captain Seymour Hodge’s wife, Astrid.