In this book from USA TODAY bestselling author Marilyn Pappano, one family’s scandal is responsible for a rising body count…

Even for an experienced NCIS agent like Alia Kingsley, the murder scene is particularly gruesome. Someone killed in a fit of rage. Being the long-estranged son of the deceased, Landry Jackson quickly becomes a person of interest. But does Landry loathe his father as much as the feds suspect?

It’s clear to Alia that Landry Jackson has secrets, but his hatred for his father isn’t one of them. Alia feels sure Landry isn’t the killer, but once more family members start dying, she’s forced to question herself. What if the fierce attraction between her and Landry has compromised Alia’s instincts?

“You’re not really planning to walk home with me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Alia continued shrugging into her shoulder holster.

Landry swallowed hard. He’d never been drawn to needy women, and Alia was a prime example why. She damn well protected herself, and he found that way sexier than a damsel in distress.

Beads of sweat were gathering across his skin, and they made his voice thick, even though he tried to hide it with teasing. “What’s the plan? If we get mugged, you’ll hold them off while I run for help?”

Her gaze was warm and heated him from the inside out. “I don’t know how fast you can run.”

“Doesn’t matter. I only have to be able to outrun you.”

She smirked. “Not likely. I’ll tell you what, if we get mugged, I’ll handle the bad guys. Then you can thank me later.”

He knew exactly what form he would want that thank-you to take. Blocking the image from his mind, he snorted. “I think getting to kick bad-guy butt in front of me would be reward enough for you.”

***

Dear Reader,

Bayou Hero is a story close to my heart. That kind of sounds as though the others aren’t, but that’s not the case. It’s just a matter of connecting with this story in different ways than I do with the others. I’ve always heard the advice “Write what you know,” to which my usual response is, “Write what you want to write about—that’s what research is for.” But when I do write what I know—whether it’s a place where I’ve lived, a pastime I’ve indulged in or my experience as a military spouse—that special bond is there.

Being a navy spouse, and with my husband being a former cop, I couldn’t avoid getting exposed to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service during our military years, especially since my husband worked with them the last several years. I always wanted to do an NCIS book, and finally here it is. And it’s set in New Orleans, my favorite city in the world (outside of Oklahoma, of course), and has a hero and a heroine whom I’ve adored spending time with. I hope you enjoy NCIS, New Orleans, Landry and Alia as much as I have.

Marilyn

Bayou Hero

Marilyn Pappano

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARILYN PAPPANO has spent most of her life growing into the person she was meant to be, but isn’t there yet. She’s been blessed by family—her husband, their son, his lovely wife and a grandson who is almost certainly the most beautiful and talented baby in the world—and friends, along with a writing career that’s made her one of the luckiest people around. Her passions, besides those already listed, include the pack of wild dogs who make their home in her house, fighting the good fight against the weeds that make up her yard, killing the creepy-crawlies that slither out of those weeds and, of course, anything having to do with books.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Even if every single book doesn’t say so, they’re all for you, sweetie. I couldn’t do this without you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

The Greek Revival mansion sat a hundred feet back from Saint Charles Avenue, separated from the street by a six-foot-tall wrought iron fence. The house was stately, the lawn perfectly manicured and the very air around it smelled sweeter, or so it seemed to Alia Kingsley as she snagged a few feet of curb space and climbed out of her car.

The only things more out of place than her in New Orleans’s Garden District this summer morning were the vehicles that overflowed the mansion’s brick-paved drive and clogged the side street. New Orleans Police Department cars, marked and unmarked; an ambulance, its paramedics standing idle; a van from the coroner’s office; sedans bearing US Government tags; and trucks carrying the logos of the local media outlets.

Yellow crime-scene tape kept the reporters and curious neighbors at bay. Alia flashed her credentials to the young cop standing guard at the end of the drive, and he lifted the tape so she could pass. “Who’s in charge?”

“Not me. I’m crowd control,” he said with a shrug. “Ask one of the detectives.”

With a nod, she followed the drive up a slight incline. Another uniformed officer stood guard at the back door of the house. A short distance away, a sailor, his face as colorless as his summer whites, sat at a patio table, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth. He was talking to Jimmy DiBiase, college football star turned cop and, more importantly in her opinion, if not his, her ex-husband.

This wasn’t a good start to her week.

When Jimmy saw her, he left the table and met her halfway. “I was hopin’ you’d catch this.”

“Yeah, we work so well together,” she said drily.

“We did a lot of things good together.”

“Are you sure that was you and me, or maybe one of your girlfriends?”

He had the grace to flush at that, though if he truly felt any regret it didn’t show in his voice. “Aw, sweet pea, we ain’t ever gonna work things out if you don’t give ole Jimmy a break.” With that Southern drawl and broad grin of his, he managed to make the two of them working things out sound almost reasonable. Lucky for her, at 8:10 a.m. without nearly enough caffeine in her system, reasonable didn’t put in an appearance on her list of things to be.

She gestured to the mansion behind him. “Whose house?”

“You don’t know?”

Obviously someone with money and, considering the official navy vehicle in the driveway and the kid in uniform, someone with enough rank to rate a driver. But she didn’t start her days, or her cases, making guesses, so she waited for Jimmy to tell her. He did so with great pleasure.

“Honey, you are a special guest at the family home of Rear Admiral Jeremiah Jackson Junior.”

She knew the name, of course. A special agent with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service couldn’t spend more than a day at the New Orleans office without hearing Admiral Jackson mentioned. He was nothing less than a legend—tough as nails, hard-line, a leftover from the days when being an officer and a gentleman meant something. His career had been long and illustrious, his navy commands as shipshape as any and more than most.

“Is he the victim?” she asked, gazing at the back of the house. Windows marched across each of three stories in perfect symmetry. The admiral liked order in his job as well as his home. She knew his type well. Her own father, Rear Admiral Charles Kingsley, Retired, was just like him.

“Him. His housekeeper. Her daughter. The gardener.”

Alia’s breath caught in her chest. “How old was the daughter?”

“Mid-twenties. Had Down syndrome.”

Four homicides. The spotlight would be shining brightly on this case. “Did the housekeeper live in?”

“Had quarters right there.” He nodded toward the nearest corner of the house.

“And the gardener? Did he live here, too?”

“She. No. She just liked to get an early start before the day got too hot.”

Alia shifted her gaze to the lawn. The grass was clipped, the sidewalks, driveway and beds neatly edged. Flowers bloomed profusely, and the pots spaced evenly across the patio contained plantings so healthy they looked fake. The gardener’s dedication to her job had been admirable...though it had cost her her life.

Finally she looked at Jimmy again and asked the important question. “How did they die?”

“Stabbed. Once each on the employees, in the chest. The gardener also suffered a blow to the head. We figure she walked in and surprised the killer, so he knocked her out, then killed her. The old woman was found in bed, the daughter on the floor beside her bed.”

“And the admiral?”

Jimmy hesitated. “In his bed. When I came out to talk to the driver, the ME’s investigator was still counting the wounds. He was up to twenty-seven.”

Three people efficiently killed and one overkilled. It was safe to assume he’d been the real target, and the others had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jeez, how could being asleep in your own bed be the wrong place at the wrong time?

“You wanna go in?”

She could think of a hundred things she’d rather do, but she nodded and followed him to the back door, where the officer standing guard offered them both gloves and protective booties. The door was an old-fashioned one made of wood with a nine-paned window looking out. The pane closest to the knob was broken out.

The door opened into a space that did double duty as mudroom and laundry room, and then into a kitchen. The house might be two hundred years old, but the kitchen was definitely of the twenty-first century. Appliances, surfaces, cabinets—all were top-of-the-line and pricey. The commercial-grade stove and the refrigerator alone cost more than everything in her little house combined.

The smell of coffee coming from the maker on the countertop made her mouth water. “Is that on a timer?”

“Yeah.” It was a crime scene tech who answered. “No help there.”

Jimmy came to a stop beside the body facedown on the kitchen floor. “Constance Marks, age twenty-four. That’s her blue pickup out there. Self-employed, worked for the admiral, his daughter and some of their friends.”

Constance was slim and tanned, wore shorts with a lot of pockets and sneakers with good support, and her blond hair was matted with blood on the crown. More blood stained her shirt and seeped onto the cream-and-white tile of the floor. All that outdoor work had given her solid muscles, which hadn’t mattered a damn in the end.

“The servants’ quarters are down here.” Jimmy led the way through a door between the refrigerator and the wine cooler. Several doors opened off the hallway—a pantry, a closet—and at the end was a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath. The rooms were small, the furnishings good but worn. Judging by the kitchen, no expense had been spared in the main house, while none had been wasted here.

Crime Scene Unit techs were at work in both bedrooms. The smells of blood and bodily waste were strong in the air, competing with the scents of furniture polish and antiseptic cleaner. Jimmy stopped in the doorway on the right. “Laura Owen. She put up a struggle—broke the lamp on the nightstand and knocked a pillow off the bed. She has defensive wounds on her hands.”

Laura lay on her side, a pair of thick-lensed glasses broken next to her. She was short, chubby and her face bore the distinctive features of Down syndrome. Her nightgown was white cotton, sleeveless, covered with pastel bunnies, and a ragged stuffed rabbit lay on the floor near her, its floppy ear just touching the blood.

“What kind of guy kills a mentally disabled kid just for being here?” Jimmy asked with a shake of his head.

“You think a low IQ should be a disqualifying condition for murder?” The CSU techs snickered. “Then you’d be safe, wouldn’t you?”

Alia turned across the hall to the other bedroom, and Jimmy followed her. “Wilma Owen. Killed in her sleep. No defensive wounds.”

Wilma Owen was in her late sixties, maybe early seventies, her hair white, her face bearing the lines of long life and troubles. If not for the blood that turned much of her bedding red, she would appear peacefully asleep.

Alia stepped back as two ME’s investigators came in with body bags, then she and Jimmy returned the way they’d come. “Any sign of forced entry besides the broken glass in the rear door?”

“No. And that lock’s not double-keyed, so someone could get in there easily.”

They walked through a swinging door into the formal dining room, filled with antiques. Jeremiah Jackson might have spent his life serving his country, but there’d been no need. His ancestors had amassed a fortune before the Civil War and had been among the few to hold onto it postwar. Jeremiah could have lived in luxury without ever working a day.

First question of a homicide investigation: who stood to benefit from the victim’s death?

They left the dining room for a broad hallway, easily bigger than some of the rooms. The rugs underfoot were old and valuable, the furniture costly, the art objects rare. And the man who’d owned it all had worked seventy and eighty-hour weeks, deploying for months at a time, missing important family events, being an absentee husband and father for thirty years.

As they approached the elaborate front door, she gestured toward the alarm keypad nearby. The light glowed green. “Was the alarm set?”

“We’re guessing not. You know how many people invest in fancy alarm systems, then not use them. Somebody like Jackson probably thought he was above common crime.”

There was a certain level of arrogance to anyone who attained the rank of admiral. The admiralty was small and select, theoretically only the best of the best. She could well imagine Jackson believing he was invulnerable, especially in his own home. Alia’s father had a bit of that smugness, but her mother kept it under control.

Jimmy turned up the stairs, and she followed. On the landing halfway up, she stopped to study a portrait. It was an oil and showed the admiral, a mere commander at the time, in his choker whites with his family—wife, son, daughter. Jackson appeared stern but proud, the wife fragile. The daughter, nine, maybe ten years old, stood next to her father and smiled brightly, while the son, almost a teen, looked remote. Withdrawn.

It could be difficult, growing up the only son of an ambitious, hard-ass career officer. It had been tough for Alia at times, being an only child. Such fathers tended to have expectations of their children, and they didn’t take disappointment lightly.

“What about the family? You mentioned the daughter.”

“Mary Ellen. Married to Scott Davison, lives a couple streets over, has two daughters.”

“The son?”

“Jeremiah the third. Goes by Landry, his mama’s maiden name. Works at a bar down in the Quarter and lives above it. Doesn’t visit the old homestead often.”

The esteemed Rear Admiral Jackson’s only son tended bar. Yeah, growing up had definitely been tough for Jeremiah III. “And the mother?”

“Camilla. A bit of a mystery there.”

She waited for him to go on, but he was gazing at the portrait. He’d always had an eye for the ladies, even those old enough to be his own mother, one of the reasons he and Alia were no longer married.

“What’s the mystery?”

“Huh?” He jerked his attention from the painting. “Oh. She hasn’t been seen for three, four weeks—no one’s really sure how long. The admiral told his neighbor she was visiting relatives. His daughter said the same. Gossip says she ran off, alone or with a boyfriend, or that she’s in a private hospital somewhere. They say she never was very strong, and that she drank to get through the times her husband was gone.” After a reflective moment, Jimmy finished. “Maybe it was the times he was home she needed help.”

That was one thing Alia had no experience with. Her father may have worn the silver stars in the family, but her mother was the boss. She had a strength that no three admirals could match and was proud of it. She’d taught Alia to be strong, too—one of Jimmy’s complaints about her. She’d never needed him, he’d said, and he was probably right.

“Where do you learn all these things?” she asked as they started up the last section of stairs.

“Hey, I’m a detective. Finding out stuff is what they pay me for.” Then he relented. “As important as Jackson is in navy circles, he’s that and more in New Orleans society, which means the gossip is plentiful. You just have to know who to ask.”

It was easy to find the admiral’s bedroom: it was the one where personnel swarmed, collecting evidence. Alia paused before reaching the doorway, taking quick short breaths through her mouth. Seeing the awful things that one human being could do to another never got any easier.

Two steps took her to the doorway, one more inside. The room was huge: sitting area in front of a fireplace; a delicate writing desk overlooking a front window; a massive bed; a door opening into a bathroom and closet. It was one of Louisiana’s quirks that old houses traditionally lacked closets, but this one was an exception.

The furniture, the art on the walls, the knickknacks on tables, the Middle Eastern rugs—all costly. It was overdone for Alia’s tastes, too cluttered, too much pattern and color and far too rich, but the room looked exactly what it was: a personal space for a wealthy couple in a lavish mansion.

If one could dismiss the blood.

It was a lot of blood, an entire life’s worth. It covered the admiral’s chest, saturated the sheets, soaked the mattress. There were small splatters on the wall, the shade of the lamp on the night table, the pristine white pillowcase on the opposite side of the bed, a few drops on the floor. Blood was slick. It made knives slip in wet grips, often causing killers to cut themselves. Would some of this blood belong to the killer?

Finally she forced herself to focus on the victim. He was a few inches shorter than six feet, broad shouldered, barrel-chested. At one time he’d been solid muscle, but living the good life of the admiralty had put some extra weight on him. His hair was white, thick, and his blue eyes were open, staring sightlessly toward the ceiling. Had his attacker been the last thing he’d seen in life? Had he known him? Had he known the reason for his death?

“The splatter is cast-off from the knife.” Jimmy gestured to the deadly blade still sticking out of Jackson’s chest. “It’s a butcher knife from downstairs.”

“Time of death?”

“About 5:00 a.m., best guess. We’ll know more when we get him on the table,” answered the coroner’s investigator. “He was likely asleep. Didn’t even get his hands up to defend himself.”

“So someone comes here, breaks in without a weapon and kills four people?” What’s wrong with this picture? It wasn’t a burglary gone wrong—too many small items of great value left in place. It wasn’t a planned murder. No one on a mission to kill would come without a weapon. That left a crime of passion or a killer too disorganized to plan. A killer with serious psychological problems. “Is anything obvious missing?”

“Don’t know,” Jimmy said. “The daughter’s going to come over tomorrow, after the bodies have been removed, and take a look around. She’s here four, five times a week according to the neighbor.”

He gestured to the door, and she went back into the broad hallway.

“Remember when you served me with divorce papers, you said that was the end of us?” He grinned that big ole grin. “Guess you were wrong about that. Sweet pea, we’re gonna be working this case together. You’re gonna be my partner.”

* * *

Landry Jackson had driven to the Garden District intending to go straight to his sister’s house, but he hadn’t been able to resist stopping at the family home. He’d parked a few blocks over, added a baseball cap to help the dark shades for a bit of camouflage and had been standing in the shade of a crape myrtle for the past half hour, just one more among the neighbors, reporters and the morbidly curious milling around. A few of the older neighbors seemed vaguely familiar, but he doubted any of them remembered him or would recognize him if they did.

There were whispers that confirmed what Mary Ellen had told him in her hysterical phone call earlier, that the admiral was dead. They didn’t stir any emotion in him, not even the relief he’d always expected to feel once the old man passed. Certainly no sadness. No regret.

His shrink’s voice echoed from years past. You don’t owe him anything. Being a parent doesn’t automatically entitle a person to respect or love or anything else.

In the Jackson household, being a child didn’t entitle a person to those things, either.

He stared at the house where he’d grown up, too much, too fast, and tried to summon a few happy memories. They were there. They just didn’t want to sneak out into the light at the moment. Mostly, he remembered relief every time the admiral went away, dread every time he came back. Mostly he didn’t want to remember anything, good or bad.

A murmur went up around him as two people started down the driveway toward the gate. The reporter next to him was muttering into his cell phone, and Landry listened without much interest. “Primaries appear to be Jimmy DiBiase with NOPD, and the woman is NCIS. Uh, Leah, Lina. No, Alia. Alia Kingsley. Huh.”

Landry was familiar with DiBiase from the news, the paper and his regular partying on Bourbon Street. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Alia Kingsley, though he could have and just skimmed right over her. Her hair was stark black, tightly braided, her features average with a hint of the East—Filipina, maybe, or Japanese—and her navy skirt and jacket with light blue shirt and ugly heels were just slightly this side of flattering. Did she not know how to dress to suit her less than curvy body or did she downplay her looks deliberately?

They stopped in the middle of the drive to talk to a group of men in suits—NOPD detectives, NCIS agents—who all listened while Kingsley spoke. Her gaze roamed dismissively over the media—they showed up for every major crime—and settled briefly on the others. Landry was turning away when it reached him, like a laser between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t resist glancing back at her, their gazes connecting for an instant, then he slipped through the crowd and headed to his car.

His skin was damp with sweat by the time he’d jogged the few blocks to Miss Viola’s house, whose driveway he’d borrowed. The old lady was waiting on her porch, a mug of hot tea on a table next to a half-eaten slice of buttered toast and a bottle of cold water. “Well?” For an eighty-one-year-old woman, she put a wealth of meaning into that single word.

Bypassing his car, he climbed the steps and leaned against the railing near her. She offered the bottle, and he drank half of it before answering. “They’re not releasing any information yet, but the rumors appear to be true.”

“Jeremiah Jackson Junior is dead.” Miss Viola wasn’t any sorrier than he was, though she’d known the admiral his entire life. “This much fuss for just him?”

“No. Apparently the Owens, too, and the gardener’s truck was there.”

“Poor Laura. And Constance...oh, she loved her work and was finally making good money at it. She takes care of my lawn, too, and she’s meticulous.” Miss Viola’s gaze wandered across the yard as if realizing she would never see Constance in it again.

After a solemn moment, she said, “I understand why someone would kill Jeremiah, but why the others? Why Laura? The girl wouldn’t have hurt a fly and couldn’t have been much of a witness.”

“You know the kind of people the admiral associated with.”

“May they all rot in hell.” After sipping her tea, Miss Viola waved toward his car. “Go on now and get over to Mary Ellen’s. You don’t know how this is going to hit her. Tell her to call me if she needs a thing.”

“I will.” Landry finished the water in another swallow, then set the bottle back on the table. He was halfway down the steps when she called out.

“Obviously you remember where I live. Come by once in a while. I miss your face.”

He smiled fondly and repeated his answer. “I will.”

It wasn’t far from Miss Viola’s house to Mary Ellen’s. Like the Jackson house, it dated to the early 1800s and was large, gracious, the very image of a Southern mansion with its broad porches and tall columns. It sat in the middle of the block, large expanses of lawn on either side, an American flag flying from a bracket on one column, a small pink bicycle overturned on the sidewalk.

Landry parked behind his brother-in-law’s Mercedes and took the side steps onto the porch. His knock at the door was answered so quickly that the housekeeper must have been hovering nearby. “Mr. Landry,” she greeted him grimly.

“Miss Geneva.”

“Your sister is in the sunroom.” As an afterthought, she added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Don’t be. I’m not. But he politely thanked her. “Are the girls here?”

“No, Mr. Scott dropped them at a friend’s house.”

He nodded and headed down the wide corridor to the sunroom at the back of the house. He was sorry to have missed Faith and Mariela—they were the very best of the Jackson family—but glad they weren’t here to deal with emotions they didn’t understand.

The sun porch spanned the width of the house, enclosed on three sides with glass, with double doors that opened onto the porch and the yard beyond. Despite the heat of the day, the windows and doors were open, the ceiling fans overhead moving the heavy air in a futile attempt to provide cooling. Mary Ellen liked the heat. Sometimes she joked that she was just a tropical girl, but once, in a particularly melancholy moment, she’d told him that she could never get warm, no matter how she tried.

He understood the feeling.

She sat in a wicker rocker, arms folded across her middle, staring into the distance at something no one else could see. She did that a lot, and if questioned about it, she laughed and said her mind liked to wander. If she could see the stark, gut-wrenching look on her face at those times, she would probably never laugh again.

Her husband, sitting on a footstool in front of her, was first to notice Landry. “Mary Ellen, look, your brother’s here.”

She didn’t look. Didn’t give any sign that she’d heard Scott.

Scott met Landry halfway and shook hands. “I’m glad you came. Have you heard anything else?”

Breathing deeply of the flowering plants that filled the room, Landry shook his head. He would let the authorities tell them that the old man wasn’t the only victim. She knew Constance and the Owens way better than he did, and he’d always been the one experiencing bad news. He didn’t deliver it. “How is she holding up?”

“She’s been like that since she called you. Hasn’t cried a tear.”

Scott sounded worried, but Landry wasn’t. Tears were overrated. Their mother had cried thousands of them when they were still a family. So had Mary Ellen, and Landry had shed a few of his own. It hadn’t changed anything. It hadn’t made them feel better. There’d been no catharsis.

Navigating around furniture and plants, he crouched in front of his sister and took her hand in his. It was ice-cold. “Hey, Mary Ellen.”

Her gaze shifted slowly, a millimeter at a time, until it connected with his. A wobbly smile touched her mouth, then slipped away. “It’s true, isn’t it, Landry? It really is true. Daddy’s dead.”

“Yeah, he is.”

The tears that had concerned Scott welled in her brown eyes, so much like Landry’s, but didn’t spill over. “I knew,” she whispered. “I felt it all the way deep inside, but I kept thinking...”

That it might be a mistake. That it was never good to celebrate prematurely.

Though she seemed to be leaning toward mourning. Why? What had she seen in the admiral that made him worth mourning? Things had been no better for her than for Landry, worse even. She’d been fragile, like their mother, and in her eyes, her escape had been as bad as the situation she’d left.

But the concept of family had always been important to Mary Ellen. She heaped her family with love and respect and expectations; she forgave them anything. She stood by them no matter what. She’d even been trying from the day he left the family to bring him back into it. She’d succeeded only as far as the next generation. No way was he going to let the admiral drive him away from his nieces.

Mary Ellen’s eyes widened as if she’d just thought of something, and her fingers tightened around his in a grip that was painful. So much for fragile. “Oh, Landry, how will we tell Mama? She’ll be so heartbroken. He was her life.”

Landry blinked. He’d never been sure their mother loved their father. Camilla was wellborn, but the family had fallen on hard times. Her daddy would have sold her to the highest bidder to hold on to the family property. Jeremiah, a mere ensign at the time, had been looking for a wife suitable to the illustrious Jackson family as well as his journey into the upper echelons of navy command. Landry had never figured their marriage for anything more than a business arrangement.

“Mary Ellen, we don’t even know where she is.” After too many years with the old man, Camilla had finally taken off. Miss Viola had been the one to tell Landry, calling him at the bar, asking if Camilla had discussed her plans with him. You know I only see her twice a year. From the time he’d left home, she’d always tracked him down on his birthday and at Christmas. He’d visited with her awhile at Mary Ellen’s wedding—with the admiral glowering from a distance—and again when the girls were born. That was it.

Mary Ellen’s expression turned wistful. “Every time the phone rings, I hope... The girls and I pray for her every night before bed.” Her gaze slanted his way. “We pray for you, too.”

Landry wasn’t sure what to say to that. They’d gone to mass every week as kids, and he’d said a lot of prayers, but the only answer he’d ever got was silence. God’s ears were obviously closed to some people’s pleas, and he was one of them.

Ignoring her last comment, he watched her closely as he asked, “Did you know she was leaving? Did she say goodbye to you? Did she say anything at all to suggest...?”

He could see Camilla neglecting to mention it to him. Their mother-son relationship had run its course. But after Mary Ellen’s years away at boarding school, the two had been close, especially once the babies had come along.

There were no shadows in Mary Ellen’s eyes, no guilt or deceit crossing her face, just a wounded-deer look. “No. I never understood. But Daddy said...”

Like the bastard wouldn’t lie? Rear Admiral Jeremiah Jackson Junior would be the last man to admit that his wife of more than thirty years had taken off for a better life. The disrespect would be more than his ego could afford.

Wherever Camilla was, Landry hoped she was happy. God knew, she deserved it.

Soft footsteps sounded in the hall a moment before Geneva appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Scott, the police are here. They want to talk to Miss Mary Ellen.”

As Scott nodded, Landry pried his hand free of his sister’s and stood, the muscles in his calves stinging in relief. He moved behind her, finding a spot to lean against the wall, grateful for the tall plants and busy wallpaper that would buy him a few minutes of time, and watched silently as Jimmy DiBiase came through the doorway. Following a few steps behind him was Alia Kingsley.

They introduced themselves to Mary Ellen and Scott, expressed their condolences, took a seat and began asking questions. When was the last time you saw your father? Talked to him? Were at his house? Landry listened to his sister’s answer, one to cover them all: I was at the house last night. Scott was working late, and the girls and I walked over to have dinner with him. We stayed until eight. I had to get them home for bedtime.

If she’d forgiven their father, she was a bigger person than Landry. Granted, he wasn’t big on forgiveness in general. He would have sooner killed the man than forgiven him—a sentiment better kept to himself under the circumstances.

The interview had gone on about five minutes when Landry made the mistake of exhaling and setting the delicate leaves of the plant beside him fluttering. Alia Kingsley’s gaze cut his way, laserlike in its intensity, and recognition flashed in her eyes. She interrupted DiBiase in the middle of a question and bluntly spoke.

“You were outside the house earlier.” The smooth skin wrinkled between her eyes as her gaze zeroed in on his face, cataloging it, he had no doubt, for future-suspect reference. “Why? Who are you?”

Mary Ellen glanced over her shoulder, her eyes widening, pink spots forming high on her cheeks. “Oh, where are my manners? I’m sorry. Sometimes he’s so quiet, I forget he’s around.” Her smile fluttered, and so did her hands. “Special Agent Kingsley, Detective DiBiase, this is my brother, Jeremiah Jackson the third.”

Chapter 2

As a sardonic smile slowly tilted the corner of Jeremiah III’s mouth, it popped into Alia’s mind that, unlike his sister, he had no manners. The air of quiet about him was almost predatory. He didn’t look the son of Louisiana privilege. His shorts were khaki, faded and worn, and his Hawaiian shirt, though subdued, was still a Hawaiian shirt. It was difficult to tell if his unruly dark brown hair needed a trim or was expensively cut to look that way, but there was no missing the quality of his running shoes, the aged patina of his wristwatch or the distrust and keep your distance shimmering the air around him.

It was hard to believe the uncomfortable boy in the Jackson family portrait had grown into this confident man. But weren’t her own middle school pictures proof that a person didn’t stay gawky, clumsy and a misfit forever?

“Mr. Jackson—”

“Landry.”

Her jaw tightened before she could stop it. “You were at your father’s house. Why didn’t you identify yourself?”

“To who?”

“The officer at the gate?”

“Why?”

“Surely you knew we would want to talk to you.”

With easy, lithe movements the failed ballerina in her envied, he pushed away from the wall and moved to stand directly behind Mary Ellen. He rested one hand on the back of her chair, the other on her shoulder, and she reached up to cling to it. “I have nothing to tell you.”

Alia ignored his flat statement. “When was the last time you saw your father?”

“A long time ago.”

“How long? A year? Two? Ten?”

Landry and Mary Ellen exchanged looks. “Twelve years.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“It was my wedding,” Mary Ellen supplied in a helpful tone. She struck Alia as the peacemaker, the giver, the one who wanted things to go smoothly for everyone else. Such a task could be exhausting work, especially with a father accustomed to command and a brother on the outs with him.

“No family Christmases since then?” Jimmy asked. “Funerals, christenings, anniversaries, birthdays?”

Landry didn’t respond. He’d given his answer and was apparently satisfied that it required no explanation.

Mary Ellen’s free hand fluttered. “Our family doesn’t... Landry isn’t big on formal events. He doesn’t care about things like holidays and birthdays, except for my girls’. He never misses my girls’ birthdays.”

But he never saw his father then. Separate occasions, Alia guessed. The grandparents one day, the uncle next. What had happened between the admiral and his son that they couldn’t set their problems aside for two hours for a child’s birthday party?

“Did your father have any enemies?” Jimmy asked.

For the first time, Scott Davison spoke. “He was an admiral in the United States Navy. You don’t reach that rank without making a few enemies along the way.”

The higher in pay grade an officer advanced, the fewer the billets, the fiercer the competition. But Jackson’s death hadn’t been caused by professional envy. It had been much too personal for that.

Beside Alia, Jimmy shifted. “You know, Mr. and Mrs. Davison, Mr. Jackson, things’ll go quicker if we talk to you separately. Why don’t we—” he gestured to the Davisons “—stay here, and maybe Special Agent Kingsley could take Mr. Jackson into another room...”

Mary Ellen was quick to agree, to start a suggestion on which room, but her brother overrode her. “You like flowers, Special Agent Kingsley? Because my sister grows some of the prettiest ones around.”

Alia glanced out the windows at the lush garden, catching a glimpse of Jimmy’s mouth twitching in the process. The sunroom was only marginally cooler than the outside temperature, though at least the ceiling fans created a breeze. Outside she would swelter—no doubt the reason Jackson had suggested it.

As she stood, he made a gesture, long lean fingers indicating a set of open doors. Fingers and hands that bore a few scars and calluses but no cuts. No injuries where a blood-slick knife had sliced through skin.

Though a killer with any sense would have worn gloves. Even a crime of passion would have allowed a few moments for finding a pair in the house.

She took the steps down onto the patio, and sweat broke out along her hairline. She loved New Orleans—even kind of loved the humidity—but this was turning out to be one of the heavy, muggy days best spent over an air-conditioning vent. Already her shirt was clinging to her body, and tiny rivulets were rolling down her spine. She swore she could feel blisters forming inside her shoes, and she was already regretting her choice of a suit this morning.

Landry crossed the patio to the yard. With the first step, Alia’s heel sank into recently watered grass. She put on her best blank expression, gritted her teeth and walked with him toward the nearest flower bed. “Do you know any of your father’s enemies?” she asked evenly.

“Twelve years since I saw him,” he reminded her. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze on flowers that were, indeed, pretty: tall, strong and healthy, vibrant colors against lush grass and graceful trees.

“What about your mother?”

He tilted his head to one side. “They were married longer than I’ve been alive. If she were going to kill him, don’t you think she would have done it sooner?”

Alia waited a beat before clarifying her question. “Where is your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Christmas.”

Six months ago. The only reason more than a week passed without Alia seeing her own mother was the thousand miles between them. She could hardly imagine living in the same town, only a few miles apart, and having virtually no contact.

“Is she on vacation? Visiting family or friends? Doing a grand tour of Europe? Volunteering in the rain forests of South America?”

That earned her a sidelong glance but nothing more.

“She must be somewhere, Mr. Jackson.”

“I don’t know where.” Before she could open her mouth again, he went on. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my parents and I aren’t close. Here’s what I know about my mother’s current whereabouts—one day about three weeks ago, Miss Viola called and asked if I knew she was gone. I didn’t. We weren’t due to see each other again until September. Mary Ellen confirmed that she was, indeed, gone, off to visit relatives. I asked her which relatives. She said the admiral hadn’t told her.” He raised both hands in a final that’s all you’re gonna get ’cause that’s all I know gesture.

Alia gazed at a giant orange zinnia so brilliant that it made her eyes hurt. So Admiral Jackson had given his daughter minimal information, and she’d accepted it. Because that was how their relationship had always been? He’d dominated and she’d accepted?

Could Camilla be dead? Were the rumors true that she’d been institutionalized or had taken off with a lover?

Feeling Landry’s gaze on her, she gently flicked a beetle from the zinnia, then resumed their slow pace. “Who is Miss Viola?”

“Viola Fulsom. She’s my mother’s father’s second cousin three times removed or something.”

In simpler words, family. In Louisiana, it didn’t matter how many times removed; a cousin was a cousin. And yet in this particular family, father and son were estranged, mother and son virtually so. Father was dead, mother was missing, and son...

Was Jeremiah Jackson III a killer? Had he gone into his childhood home, taken a knife from the kitchen drawer and plunged it into his father’s sleeping body more than thirty times?

Alia shuddered deep inside. It didn’t matter how many cases she worked, how many crime scenes she saw or what gruesome details she noted in reports and photographs. She couldn’t quite grasp the character flaw that made it so easy for a person to take another’s life. She could read and talk and investigate, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—crawl inside a killer’s mind any more than she had to.

“Where does Miss Viola live?”

“Where everyone in our family except me has lived for the past five generations.”

The Garden District, with its beautiful houses and wealthy families who sometimes hid more secrets than the darkest bayou.

Alia committed the name to memory. Members of the Jackson and Landry families couldn’t hide in Louisiana even if they wanted to. Too much money to spend, too many parties to attend, too many decades of history to uphold. Miss Viola would be easy to locate.

They were approaching a set of fat-cushioned wicker chairs underneath the spreading branches of a live oak near the back corner of the lawn. A bit of breeze blew through there, redolent with the heavy scents of flowers and, fainter, from someone else’s yard, food cooking over charcoal. The aroma was enough to remind her that she’d skimped on breakfast and it was nowhere near time for lunch.

After Landry sat in one chair, she took the other. The wicker was the expensive kind that didn’t creak with every tiny movement. Crossing her legs, she allowed herself to wonder for a moment what it was like to own a place like this: luxurious, no expenses spared, decorated with antiques and high-end furnishings, wrapped in the long, sultry history of the old, sultry city.

Money doesn’t buy happiness, her mother always said, and Alia had always thought it could certainly help. But the Jacksons proved Mom right: they had money, and they weren’t happy.

“How long have you lived in New Orleans?”

Landry’s head was tilted back, hands folded over his belly, eyes little more than slits. “All my life.”

“Your family didn’t accompany the admiral to his assignments?”

“Camilla Jackson move away from here, even temporarily? Saint Louis Cathedral would crumble to dust first.” Then he did a lazy sort of shrug, so very careless and so very charming to a woman who was the charmable sort.

Thank God, Alia’s weakness for charming scoundrels had died somewhere about the middle of her marriage to Jimmy.

“When the old man got orders,” he went on, “he went, we stayed here, and he came home on weekends and on leave.”

Staying home took all the fun out of the life. She’d been born in the Philippines, started school in Hawaii and finished it in DC, with stops in California, South Carolina, Florida and Virginia. Dropping in at the Pentagon after school had been a regular practice. She’d gotten a gift from the Secretary of the Navy upon high school graduation and even attended a dinner at the White House. “So you missed out on the whole navy brat experience.”

“Jeremiah Jackson had no tolerance for bratty behavior.”

She would bet he hadn’t—not from his children, the sailors under his command or civilians like her who worked for his navy. “What happened between you two?”

She felt the instant he glanced at her. His eyes were still slitted, making it impossible to read their expression, and a small muscle twitched in his jaw. It didn’t bother her; people in general didn’t like being questioned, especially with suspicion. They tended to get annoyed or smug or tearful or angry, and she tended to stay on track. Stubbornness was one of her better traits, according to Jimmy.

But Landry could probably out-stubborn her. She knew he’d only answered her questions because she’d asked them here at his sister’s house. If she had shown up at the bar or his apartment, he would have shown her right back out. She couldn’t compel him to tell her anything important—couldn’t compel him to talk to her at all—and he knew it.

“I think your partner’s ready to go,” he said in a slow drawl accompanied by a gesture toward the house.

A quick look showed Jimmy standing in the doorway to the sunroom, watching them with his hands on his hips. “If you think of something you’re willing to share...” She rose, pulled a business card from her pocket and offered it to him. When he made no move to take it, she laid it on the arm of his chair, sliding one corner between the woven wicker. It fell through, landing crookedly on the lush grass. Neither of them picked it up. Instead, she cut across the lawn to the house and followed Jimmy inside, then out again through the front door.

* * *

Landry watched her until she was out of sight, then slumped lower in his seat and closed his eyes. After the time with her, he’d concluded she was deliberately downplaying her looks with the ugly clothes. In a predominantly male environment, maybe it worked for her, though he couldn’t help thinking she’d have better luck if she did the opposite. What man wouldn’t prefer to talk to her with a little style to the hair, an airy dress almost thin enough to see through, a little cleavage and sexy, strappy sandals to show off those long, lean legs? They’d tell her what she wanted to know—tell her everything they knew—just to keep her around a little longer.

He heard an engine starting out front, then pushed to his feet. Without picking up the business card, he headed for the house, glancing back only for an instant while climbing the steps. It tilted at an angle, caught between blades of lush green grass. He wouldn’t forget her name, and if he ever wanted to talk to her, he could look up the NCIS office number on the computer.

Once she discovered that of all the people who’d hated Jeremiah, no one hated him as much as Landry, she would probably be looking him up.

The sunroom was empty. He ran into Scott, heading for the stairway carrying a heavy crystal tumbler filled with milk, warm, no doubt—Mary Ellen’s go-to when she needed comfort. Their mother preferred gin, and their father had preferred—

Landry’s stomach took a sour tumble that he did his damnedest to ignore. “Is she lying down?”

“Said she would.” With his free hand, Scott combed through his hair. “The detective asked us to ask the relatives about Camilla—see if we can find out who she’s visiting. I never wanted to say anything to Mary Ellen, but I never thought she was visiting family. If she is, why hasn’t she called the girls at least once? And why wouldn’t the admiral say who? Why the secrecy if it was just a regular trip to visit family?”

Because the admiral was a deceitful man. Landry knew some of his uglier secrets. God, he hoped they were the uglier ones, because he damn well didn’t want to think about what could be worse.

“Where do you think she is, then?” His voice was level, but something new stirred deep inside for his mother: worry. Could something have happened to her? Was it coincidence that her husband was murdered just a few weeks after she disappeared?

Scott shifted uncomfortably, glanced up the stairs, then lowered his voice. “I think she left. Left him. Left the marriage. I think she hasn’t called Mary Ellen because she knew she would beg her to come back. I think she didn’t tell anyone where she was going so he couldn’t find her.”

Left. Landry had asked her to leave his father but only once. He was fifteen, desperately trying to figure out his own and Mary Ellen’s futures, and Camilla had given him a sad, sorry look, murmured, You don’t understand, baby, then taken a healthy sip of gin.

Left, when there was no one left to save except maybe herself.

“There’s other theories.” Scott glanced upstairs again. “Seline Moncrief thinks she ran off with a man. Honoria Thomas thinks the admiral checked her into rehab for her drinking problem. Judge Macklin’s wife is convinced that the admiral sent her away because he has no need for her now that he’s retiring.” He stopped, swallowed hard. “Had no need. Was retiring.”

“I hadn’t heard that. When?”

“A couple months. Said he’d done his service to his country and now he wanted to devote his time to his family, golfing and fishing.”

Inside, Landry shuddered, grateful the old man’s definition of family no longer included him. He’d had enough quality time with his father to last through eternity.

He said his goodbyes and covered half the distance to the door before Scott spoke again. When he turned, his brother-in-law was paused on the stairs.

“Mary Ellen said she would appreciate it tremendously if you would help her with the funeral arrangements tomorrow, but she’d understand if you said no.”

Of course she’d take responsibility for the funeral. Who else would? Leave it to Landry, and he’d have the bastard cremated, then flushed down the toilet. But it wasn’t left to him, and though he’d rather do anything else in the world—almost—he would help plan a respectful send-off for the admiral. Not because Jeremiah deserved it, but because Mary Ellen wanted it.

“Let me know when and where.”

Scott nodded, and Landry was finally free to walk out of the house...where he found Alia Kingsley waiting on the porch. A glance at the street showed that DiBiase was gone, and there were no cars around that might be hers.

She’d put on a pair of sunglasses, the really dark kind that made it impossible to see her eyes. He didn’t trust people when he couldn’t see their eyes.

Hell, he didn’t trust most people even when he could see their eyes.

“Forget something?”

“I thought I’d go see Miss Viola now. I need an address.”

He headed down the steps. “You’re the police. Find her yourself.”

“I can do that. But it’s quicker if you tell me. Or—” she matched him stride for stride “—I can ask your sister.”

“Mary Ellen’s resting.”

“Then it would be a shame to disturb her, especially after such a difficult morning.”

Stopping beside his car, he stared at her, implacably calm and unflustered on the other side of the vehicle. “Three blocks that way.” He pointed back the way he’d come. “At Saint Charles. On the left.” Then he stated the obvious. “You don’t have a car.”

The faintest of smiles tilted the corners of her mouth. “It’s still at the admiral’s house. But I run five miles every day. I can walk three blocks.” She turned and started to do just that.

He could let her go—should let her go—but the idea of her questioning Miss Viola alone made a muscle twitch at the back of his neck. The old lady knew all the family secrets. She also knew to keep them to herself. He trusted her on that. At least, he always had.

It was Kingsley he didn’t trust.

“I’m headed that way. I’ll give you a ride.”

She stopped, maybe twenty feet away, and gave him a steady look. He would bet she didn’t believe his plan to go by the Fulsom house was more than a minute old, but she returned to the driveway, opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. She rested her hands in her lap. Long fingers, no jewelry, unpolished nails. Was there no Mr. Special Agent Kingsley, or was she one of those people who preferred to not wear a wedding ring?

As he backed the car into the street, he waited for her to start with a new line of questions. She didn’t. She didn’t complain about the heat in the car, didn’t ask him to turn on the air-conditioning for the short drive. For all she made her presence known, he could have been alone.

When he pulled into Miss Viola’s drive for the second time that morning, she undid her seat belt and opened the door. “You don’t have to get out. I can introduce myself.”

“Right.” He shut off the engine. Obviously she didn’t want him interfering in her interview, but not quite as much as he didn’t want Miss Viola letting anything slip.

They climbed the steps, and he rang the bell. A pretty redhead answered, let them into the foyer and left to get Miss Viola. He stood, hands in his pockets, and hoped his cousin was taking a nap, heading out the door to an appointment that couldn’t wait or entertaining someone she wouldn’t put off just to talk to a cop. The mayor would be nice, the governor even better. Both were frequent guests.

No such luck. A moment later she came into sight, a smile creasing her face. “This is my lucky day, seeing you again so soon after the last time.” Her gaze shifted from him to the investigator, but he had no intentions of providing introductions. He wasn’t here to make things easier for Alia.

“Ms. Fulsom, I’m Special Agent Alia Kingsley with NCIS. That’s the Naval—”

“I know what it is. I watch TV. That Special Agent Gibbs is a fine-looking man, isn’t he?” She sighed, then turned serious. “I assume you’re here about Jeremiah.”

“Yes, ma’am. Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

Miss Viola’s frail hand fluttered in his direction. “Oh, honey, Landry knows everything I do. Jeremiah was his father, after all. We’ll go into the library.” She gestured to the door behind Alia. “The furniture is much more comfortable than the antiques in the rest of the house. Landry, will you bring us iced tea, please?”

Why couldn’t she just ask the housekeeper to bring it? he groused. But for the most part, when Miss Viola asked, he obeyed. After giving Alia a sharp look, he went down the hall to the kitchen.

* * *

Landry didn’t want to leave her alone with Miss Viola. Alia considered that as she followed the woman into the library. Was it just distrust? Or because, turning Ms. Fulsom’s words around, she knew everything about Jeremiah that Landry did? Including what had come between father and son.

“You have a lovely home,” she said as she took a seat in a black leather chair. The sides curved around, almost like a cocoon, and the cushions had just the right amount of give. It was quite possibly the most comfortable chair she’d ever sat in, and as a bonus, it swiveled and rocked, too.

“It is. I’d give you a tour, but the interesting parts are upstairs, and I don’t go up there anymore. Broken hip. Last year. My children turned the ladies’ parlor and a few other rooms into a bedroom suite for me, and I haven’t been upstairs since.”

Her stab at being social taken care of, Alia went right into her questions. Maybe she would learn something before Landry returned. “Ms. Fulsom—”

“Oh, call me Viola like everyone else.”

Alia smiled politely. “Miss Viola, how long have you known the admiral?”

“All of his wo—” Viola stopped, grimaced, then finished. “Life.”

What had she been about to say? His worthless life?

“You don’t regret his passing.”

“That would be unchristian of me, wouldn’t it?” Then the woman shrugged. “I’ve been a good Christian my entire life. God will forgive me this lapse, don’t you think?”

“Why did you dislike him?”

“Did you know him?” she asked in a manner that suggested that would be explanation enough. “The way he treated Camilla, the children, everyone he thought was somehow inferior to him—which included pretty much everyone he ever met.”

Alia glanced toward the open doorway. “You know he and his son were estranged at the time of his death.”

“A lot longer than that,” Miss Viola corrected her. “The boy’s been on his own since he was fifteen and would have been better off if he’d left ten years earlier.”

“What happened between them?”

Miss Viola’s gaze went distant while she fingered a massive ruby ring on her left hand. There was regret in her dim eyes, along with a touch of anger, a bigger touch of shame and definitely some sorrow. After a moment, she sighed. “Landry learned early on that he wasn’t cut out for life in Jeremiah’s home.”

That could mean a dozen things. Had Jeremiah wanted Landry to follow in his footsteps? Had they disagreed on career, education, religion, the life expected of a Jackson in this city? Had Landry refused to kowtow to his father, or had he demanded the old man treat Camilla and Mary Ellen better?

“In what ways?” Alia asked as voices—Landry’s and the housekeeper’s—sounded faintly down the hall. “What expectations did Jeremiah have that Landry wouldn’t meet?” Answer quickly, please, she silently urged as the voices faded and a lone set of steps headed their way.

Again Miss Viola’s gaze drifted before she gave herself a shake and said, “You know how it is with children and their parents.”

As the last word came out, Landry came in, carrying three tall glasses of iced tea. He handed one to his cousin, then offered Alia one. The glass was delicate, the kind of stemware her mother saved for special occasions, the tea freshly brewed, sugary and flavored with mint. As she savored a sip, he moved behind her, feigning interest in the books open on the ancient oak table there.

She asked Miss Viola a dozen more questions and couldn’t help but notice that before she answered even the simplest one, her gaze went to Landry. Delaying to be sure she worded her answer just so or seeking his approval before offering any answer at all? Alia looked at him, too, several times, but his expression never told her a thing. He could be part of the decor for all the overt interest he showed, but Alia was certain he was guiding Miss Viola.

Which made the interview pointless.

After a few more questions, Alia set her glass on a nearby table and stood. “I appreciate your time, Miss Viola. If I think of anything else, I’ll stop by again.” Preferably without any warning so Landry couldn’t control the next interview.

“That would be fine.” Miss Viola also stood. “If you give me a half hour’s notice, I’ll have Molly fix one of the desserts she’s famous for. The doctor tells me to limit my sweets and fried foods and salt and fat, but heavens, I’m eighty-one years old and in perfect health. If I can’t eat what I want, what’s the point of making it to eighty-two?”

The three of them moved to the front door, where she and the old lady exchanged goodbyes. Alia walked outside, unsurprised that Landry followed her. He took the steps beside her before asking, “You want a ride to your car?”

What ulterior motive did he have for offering? Was he just making sure that she did, in fact, leave Miss Viola’s house? Did he want to see the home where he’d grown up, where his father had died a violent death? Did he think she might offer him an under-the-police-tape visit?

Regardless of his motive, she accepted. With the temperature and humidity both hovering close to one hundred, the couple blocks’ walk would sap a good chunk of her energy.

Again, the trip was made in silence. This time he didn’t pull into the driveway, even though the young officer waiting there would have let them pass. He parked across the street and didn’t even glance to his left.

“It’s a beautiful house,” Alia said, watching him closely.

His only response was the twitch of a taut muscle in his jaw.

“You haven’t been here in twelve years?”

Another faint twitch. “Closer to seventeen.”

“Miss Viola said you left home when you were fifteen. Was that the last time you saw the place?”

“Yeah.”

“Going out on your own at fifteen...” Alia gave a shake of her head. At fifteen she’d thought she was grown-up and competent, but her parents had known better. She wouldn’t have made it two days on the street all by her lonesome. “Why did your mother let you do that?”

“She had no choice.” He glanced at her, then at the street ahead, and murmured, “He never gave any of us a choice.”

The words were soft, not meant for her to hear, and the expression on his face was bitter, resigned. She knew from cases she’d worked that some parents lived to make their children’s lives miserable, but she didn’t understand it. Why bring a child into the world if all you intended to do was torment it?

Obviously Jeremiah Jackson had tormented his son.

And that made Landry a viable suspect in Jeremiah’s death.

She asked the question she should have asked first thing back at Mary Ellen Davison’s house. “Where were you between three and six this morning?”

He looked at her then, dark eyes locking on her face. There was no guilt in them, no emotion whatsoever, but that didn’t mean anything. She’d met some skilled liars in her life—had even married one. Popular myths aside, there was no way to look at a person and know beyond a doubt that he was lying.

“I was at the bar. Got roped into filling in for one of my boss’s poker buddies. I didn’t get home until a quarter to six.”

“So you didn’t kill your father.”

Again, he took a long time to answer, and again, his features were unreadable. “No,” he said at last, breaking gazes with her, gesturing toward the passenger door, a clear sign he wanted her to get out.

She did so and was about to close the door when he looked at her again. “But I wish I had.”

“Watch who you say that to.” Closing the door, she circled behind the car to cross the street. The cop on guard was young, probably very new, hot and in need of a break. She smiled at him as she passed, climbed to the top of the incline, then grabbed a lawn chair and toted it back down. “No protocol says you have to pass out from the heat while you’re on watch.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Anybody been here who doesn’t belong?”

“Reporters. Some of ’em are still taking pictures across the street.”

She leaned past him to see the small pods of camera-wielding people on the far side of the street.

“Some people claiming to be relatives stopped by, too. Wanted to go in and get some precious little something-or-other the admiral or his wife promised ’em the last time they were here.”

“Ah, families. Gotta love them.”

She climbed the driveway again, studying the windows, the outdoor spaces, the lawn, the flowers, the detached garage. How well had the killer known this place? Had he been a regular guest? Had he lived for a time in one of those curtained rooms upstairs? Had he been a she, come back from her own disappearance to take revenge on the husband who’d cost her a son?

Once she was inside the house, she wandered through the common areas downstairs before going upstairs. This time she ignored the admiral and Camilla’s suite, turning the opposite direction. The first room she came to was a guest room—lovely, richly decorated. Across the hall was another, and next to it, a girl’s room. This room was impressive and, judging from the pristine state and the faint scent of paint, recently decorated.

The admiral had two young granddaughters, just the right age to appreciate the whimsical colors and design of the room. Every girlie princess fantasy had been incorporated into the space, with enough toys and dress-up clothes to make any girl happy to move in.

The whole prissy/happiness/light room made Alia shudder.

Back into the hall and down to the last remaining door. The knob creaked when she turned it. It was one of those curtained rooms she’d noticed outside. It smelled stuffy, and a flick of the light switch illuminated a layer of dust everywhere. Pale blue walls, a single bed, a desk and wooden chair, a bookcase. No pictures on the walls, no linens on the bed, no television or computer or books on the shelves. No keepsakes. No clothes in the closet. No sign that anyone had lived in the room in the past twenty years.

Or, at least, seventeen.

They hadn’t kept anything that showed a fifteen-year-old boy had lived here, hated here, plotted to escape from here.

Landry would probably be happy that they’d sanitized his memory from the room. After all, he sure appeared to work hard at sanitizing their memories from his life.

Chapter 3

As Landry lost sight of the Jackson home in the rearview mirror, he took a few deep breaths of relief. Now he could go home. Push his family back into the dark little corner they belonged, at least until morning. Go back to being just Landry instead of Jeremiah Jackson III.

Blue Orleans, the bar where he worked, was located in the French Quarter, an old brick building that stood, faintly crooked, between a restaurant and a vacant storefront. The job came with an apartment upstairs and his own off-street parking. He pulled into the space that ended at an elaborate iron gate set into a matching fence and kept anyone without a key away from the courtyard and the apartments beyond. Beyond the fence, there was a fountain, flower beds and brick walkways that led to two doors downstairs and two sets of stairs, one for each place upstairs.

He took the stairs on his left, coming out on a long landing that had been a balcony in the original house. The brass numeral three that had fallen off the door long ago had left an impression of the number in faded red paint. In fact, faded was the best description for the entire building. What had been a pricey, showy home fifteen decades ago reminded him of an aging, wrinkled beauty queen: a ghost of its former loveliness but with its grace and gentility intact.

He’d just finished opening a few windows when his cell rang. After a glance at the screen, he debated answering long enough for the caller to hang up. A moment later, the phone beeped, signaling a voice mail. In the cool, dim light of his bedroom, he sprawled across the bed before playing the message, closing his eyes at the soft greeting.

“Landry, it’s Dr. Granville. I heard the news about Captain Jackson... I guess I should make that Admiral. I understand he’s been promoted since the last time I saw you. Anyway, hearing the news made me think of you, and I wanted to tell you if you need to talk—and you know, of course, that I think you should—I’m still here or I can refer you to someone else.” The faintly accented voice paused before going on. “Take care of yourself through this, Landry.”

He noticed as the message clicked off that she hadn’t offered condolences.

Victoria Granville, blonde, British and beautiful, was a few years younger than his mother and knew him better than anyone, including his mother. Without her, he wasn’t sure he would have survived being Jeremiah’s son.

But he didn’t need to talk to her now. He was okay with his father’s death. His only care was a vague sort of relief. The admiral was dead. Now he could burn in the fires of hell, where he belonged, and Landry...

Landry was free. At last. Thank God.

He just didn’t feel that way yet.

He dozed awhile, but his sleep was restless. Funny how things never changed. He was thirty-two years old, but in his dreams he was just a kid again, gangly, scrawny, and couldn’t defend himself or anyone else. In that same realm, Jeremiah was always three times larger than life, menacing, cruel, willing to squash Landry like a bug. No one will notice if you’re gone. No one will miss you.

Right back at you, old bastard, Landry thought as he changed into clean shorts and a T-shirt advertising the club. He’d begun working at Blue Orleans before he was old enough to legally set foot in the door, running errands, tending bar on occasion, helping to throw out the belligerent drunks. His boss, Maxine, had always counted policemen among her clientele; a few free drinks or a food run down the street for the best po’boys in the city made them overlook the underage help.

Tonight Landry hadn’t been on the clock long before the first cop he could identify strolled through the doors: Jimmy DiBiase, still wearing the white shirt and dark pants, looking pretty wrung out. Landry’s gaze automatically looked past to see if Kingsley was following him, but there was no sign of her.

“Give me something cold on ice.” DiBiase slid onto the bar stool in front of Landry, lifted a handful of peanuts from the dish and cracked one.

“You wanna be more specific?”

The cop glanced over both shoulders, then said, “Water’ll do.”

Landry filled a tall glass with ice, then topped it off with his bottled water supply beneath the bar. He added a straw, a few wedges of lemon and lime, then set it down. “Where’s your partner? I thought you guys were attached at the hip.”

DiBiase smiled. “Nah, the divorce decree pretty much took care of that.”

Landry couldn’t have gone any stiffer without facing physical threat. Divorce decree? Special Agent Kingsley had been married to good ole boy DiBiase? It was a hard pairing to wrap his mind around. The beauty and the beast. The good, the bad and the ugly. She was cool, elegant, prettier than she wanted people to know, and DiBiase was a New Orleans homicide detective. You didn’t have to say much more than that for people to get the picture.

DiBiase grinned. “Surprised you, huh? Hell, it surprised me back when she said yes. Not so much when she cut the ties and wished me to the depths of hell.”

Now that part was easier to imagine. Alia in a fussy, lacy, girlie gown? Alia promising forever to DiBiase? Settling into life all lovey-dovey as Mr. and Mrs. and planning a future? None of those images would form. But kicking DiBiase to the curb, maybe with a particular level of viciousness? Yeah, he could see that.

DiBiase grinned again. “It was my fault. I can’t even point any fingers her way, which is just as well since she’d probably break them.” He took a drink, then said reflectively, “Hell, she’d have been justified shooting me a time or two, but she never threatened me with anything more than a stun gun. Believe me, nothing wakes a man up quicker than finding one of those pressed to his throat.”

Landry filled an order for one of the waitresses, who smiled coyly at DiBiase while she waited. “You two work together often?” he asked when she left to deliver the drinks. Just making conversation. He didn’t give a damn about either DiBiase or Alia Kingsley. He just wanted them out of his—and more importantly, Mary Ellen’s—life.

“Nah. We’re only doing it now because we’ve got civilians among the victims, although they tend to get lost in the admiral’s shadow.”

A lot of people had got lost in the admiral’s shadow, pretty much everyone who spent any time with him. Camilla had once said he was the sun around which the world rotated. Her smile at the time, Landry remembered, had been sickly. Sad.

“Your sister’s pretty shaken up.”

The muscles in Landry’s neck tensed. “She’s got a soft heart. She cries over roadkill.”

DiBiase chuckled, then turned serious in the space of a heartbeat. “I asked her for a list of your parents’ friends. We’d like the same from you.”

Landry filled an order for another waitress, who also smiled coyly at the cop while she waited, then traded full bottles of Corona for empties for the two guys sitting at the opposite end of the bar. When he returned to DiBiase, he said levelly, “I haven’t been part of the family for a long time. I don’t really remember any names.”

Except for Jeremiah’s special friends. He could recite those names in his sleep: a lawyer, the head of New Orleans’s largest advertising firm, a university dean, an adviser to a governor. People hidden deep in memory, frequently appearing in bad dreams.

Maybe the dreams would stop when they were all dead, too.

“See what you can come up with,” DiBiase said. Rising from the stool, he drained the last of the water, then headed out the door.

Or maybe the dreams wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

* * *

With notes scattered around her, her laptop and tablet both on the coffee table and a bowl of buttered popcorn next to her, Alia looked up to give her eyes a break. The ceiling fan swirled slowly, enough to cool, not enough to mess up her piles, and an impossibly thin woman on the television talked in an impossibly cheery voice about the miracle bra she held in her hands.

A glance at the clock showed it was nine, which made it seven in Coronado, California, where her parents lived. She called them most Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, except when social plans interfered—her parents’, not hers. She went on dates occasionally and had a girls’ night out once a month. Otherwise, it was pretty much work all the time.

How am I going to get grandchildren at this rate? her mother good-naturedly complained.

Better adopt them, was Alia’s usual response. It was her job to protect kids when she could, to get justice for them when she couldn’t. Let someone else have them. Hell, she didn’t even want a pet.

Wriggling out from under everything without upsetting it, she got to her feet and padded into the kitchen for a refill on her drink. Mornings, she mainlined coffee; during the day, she stuck with water; alone in the evenings, she drank Kool-Aid. Jimmy had given her a hard time about it until she’d put him in a wrist lock and brought him to his knees.

He’d learned not to get between a girl and her Kool-Aid.

With her glass in one hand, she grabbed a half dozen bite-size candy bars from the dish on the counter and headed back to the living room, where she traded the candy for her cell phone. Her mother answered after only two rings.

“Hey, mamacita.”

Her mother sniffed. “That’s mẹ to you, chica. Hold on. Your father’s trying to take the phone away from me.” There was an admonishment, then the sound of a door closing before her mom said, “I’m back.”

“I take it Dad’s seen the news.”

“The news, the internet, his old navy shipmates’ gossip loop. We saw you just for a few seconds on the national news. You looked thin.”

“I am thin, Mom.”

“Are you sleeping well?”

“Yes.”

“Eating well?”

Alia looked at the empty wrappers on the coffee table: one hamburger, superlarge fries and two tacos, along with butter-stained napkins from the popcorn. “Yep.” Was it her fault if her mother defined eating well as a balanced meal while Alia took it to refer to quantity?

Mom sniffed again. “We also saw Jimmy on that news clip. You keep your distance from him.”

“Kind of hard, Mom. We’re working the case together.”

There was a moment of silence before Lisa sighed. “I don’t know whether to be more worried about the ugly things you see or that you’re looking for a crazed killer or that you’re spending time with Jimmy DiBiase.”

Knowing she couldn’t reassure her mom about the first two—Lien Hieu Kingsley would never believe her daughter was grown enough to see ugly things or deal with ugly people—Alia said lightly, “I’m immune to Jimmy now.”

“You loved him so much.”

“I did. Until I didn’t.” It hadn’t been easy, especially when she’d thought he meant the vows he’d taken, but trust and love could survive only so many betrayals. One too many, and her love had stopped. One moment it was there. The next it was gone, never to return.

“Uh-oh. Your father found me. You be careful, sweetie.”

“I will, Mom.”

Again, there was the soft sound of conversation before her father came on the line. “How are you, scooter?”

“Never gonna live down that name, am I?”

“Aw, but you were so cute with that toy scooter. You rode it everywhere you went, to meet me at the door, to the dining room, to the potty.”

“I tell people you call me that because I ate scooter pies after every meal for years.”

“Well, there is that.” His chuckle was followed by a hesitation, then... “Are you assigned to the case?”

“Yes, sir.” He’d never made her call him sir. There had been Daddy, then Dad and the occasional rank. But when it came to work, well, she was an NCIS agent, and he was an admiral. Retired or not, it was hard to shake the sir.

She would bet sir or rank had been the only titles Jeremiah Junior had accepted from Landry and Mary Ellen.

Finally she got to the point of tonight’s call. “Did you know him?”

“There aren’t that many admirals. You can’t help but meet them all sooner or later.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Jerry was a good officer. Hard-nosed. Strict. By the book, but fair. He never asked more of the people under his command than he gave himself.”

“Did you ever meet his wife?”

“Hmm. Not that I can recall.”

“She and the son and daughter didn’t accompany him to any of his duty stations, but I thought maybe she’d shown up for some official functions.”

“I remember him talking about his daughter like she was the prettiest, smartest, best daughter in the world, which was ridiculous since everyone already knew that was you. But I never knew he had a son. Huh. I would have figured any son of Jeremiah Jackson would have wound up in the navy himself.”

Just like any son of Charles Kingsley’s. Alia hadn’t been willing to go quite that far, but she couldn’t deny his approval had played a role in her application to NCIS.

Though he would have loved her no matter what career path she’d chosen. Could Landry Jackson say that about his own father?

She doubted it.

“It’s gonna be one hell of a funeral,” Dad said.

“I bet it will be.” It would have been a spectacle even if he’d died peacefully in his sleep, between all the senior-ranking officers and Pentagon officials, the upper crust of New Orleans society and the city’s love of a good funeral. But with the admiral brutally murdered, his daughter in shock, his son’s presence unwilling, his wife’s whereabouts unknown and law enforcement scrutinizing everyone in attendance, it just might be a circus.

“If you weren’t working, I’d be tempted to come. Show my respects to Jerry. See New Orleans. See you. It’s been a long time.”

Alia smiled. She’d flown to California for Christmas and stayed nearly two weeks. Still, it was nice to know he missed her. “I’ll let you know all the gaudy details. Maybe someone will collapse beside the casket and confess all.”

“It would be convenient, wouldn’t it? You watch out for yourself, okay?”

“I always do, Dad.” She hung up, then unwrapped a candy bar. She bit it in half and let the chocolate slowly dissolve in her mouth while thinking about what her father had said. Jerry was a good officer. How much had Jeremiah hated being called Jerry? Likely someone who outranked him had first called him that, and others had picked up on it.

But the admiral hadn’t been murdered because he was a good officer. His death had had nothing to do with the navy and everything to do with being a privileged man who felt entitled to whatever he wanted.

So what had he wanted that led to his death?

* * *

Alia was pulling out of her driveway Tuesday morning at a quarter to eight, with an oversize travel mug of coffee in the cup holder, a .40 caliber pistol and a Taser in their holsters, and a cream cheese–slathered bagel in her left hand. It was going to be another hot and muggy day, and she expected to spend little, if any, time in the office, so she’d dressed accordingly in a sleeveless blouse and skirt with a belt to hold her badge and weapons. A jacket, to cover the weapons, sat on the passenger seat.

The neighborhood where she lived consisted of three main streets: Serenity, Divinity and Trinity. It had gone through several phases in its history, from upper middle class to mostly slum, then back to respectability. Though some houses remained shuttered and decaying, in the past ten years new owners had given most of them new life. The gangbangers had been forced out, the local church was flourishing, and the neighborhood had its own market, preschool and two restaurants. They hadn’t had a violent crime in their few blocks in three years.

Alia had talked to Jimmy while dressing, arranging to meet midmorning to trade notes from yesterday. First, though, she was going to surprise Miss Viola and find out if the old lady was any more forthcoming about the Jackson family without a Jackson in the room.

With the radio providing background noise, Alia took a bite of bagel, savored the oniony dough and the creamy cheese and wished she’d tossed a handful of candy bars into her bag. Breakfast, no matter what it was, was always more satisfying with chocolate.

Her mind wandered as she drove, mostly to the whereabouts of Camilla Kingsley. Landry had said she’d had no choice when he’d left home. He never gave any of us a choice, he’d muttered. What about now? At her age, had she earned the right to make a few decisions for herself, such as this trip out of town? When she heard the news of her husband’s death, would she return home? Was she even alive to hear the news?

Maybe Miss Viola would tell her more than she’d volunteered yesterday.

The Fulsom home looked even statelier today. The white columns and siding gleamed in the morning sun. The dew-dampened grass seemed greener, the pastels of the flowers overflowing the beds softer. Alia parked in the driveway, in the dappled shade of an oak, got out and glanced around. A tall wrought iron fence circled the backyard, and the flowering vines that grew over it blocked even a glimpse inside while perfuming the air with their sweet jasmine.

A dog barked across the street, and a lawn mower sounded nearby. A woman sat on a porch swing—mother or nanny—while a small girl played with dolls. Life as usual.

Alia climbed the steps, weaving past a pair of antique rockers, bypassing a breakfast table and two chairs, reaching the door. She would bet every area of the house, inside and out, offered little seating areas for private conversations, both good and bad.

At the door, she pressed the bell, listening to its deep tones echoing inside. She pressed her ear close to the wood of the door, straining for any answering response. No footsteps. No call for housekeeper Molly to answer the door with a plate of her famous desserts in hand.

Alia moved to the right, sliding behind a settee to look inside the nearest window of the library. Fingers cupped to the glass to deflect reflections, she noted the old oak library table, the chair where she’d sat, the shelves she’d faced. Her gaze swept to the left, through the open doors into the entryway: elegant stairs sweeping to the second floor, a painting of a Fulsom ancestor on the wall above a demilune table, a priceless chandelier casting more shadows than it banished...and a small pink-clad shape on the floor.

Her breath caught in her chest. The form was thin, tiny, the pink a robe, one slipper to match, mussed white hair. The body lay mostly on a rug at the foot of the stairs, but the pale, frail hands were on the polished floor, fingers spread wide, the ruby ring catching a ray of light.

“Aw, Miss Viola,” she whispered. “Damn...”

Turning her back on the window and retreating a few steps, she called Jimmy, then her supervisor. Maybe they would be lucky, and Miss Viola’s death would be accidental. The old lady was eighty-one. Maybe she’d fallen, her heart had stopped or she’d suffered a stroke. Maybe it had just been her time. Maybe it wasn’t related, just purely coincidental to the other murders.

But if they weren’t lucky, the body count had just reached five. Were there more deaths to come?

Letting the scene process in the back of her mind, Alia began a walk around the house, looking for any signs of forced entry. Locating an unsecured gate into the backyard, she went through it, cell phone in one hand, pistol in the other.

She’d expected small elaborate gardens, an enormous swimming pool, a cabana or two, sprawling seating for fifty, a tiled or wood platform to support Miss Viola’s favorite string quartet or for speech-giving at political fund-raisers.

The space was lovely, but beyond a modest red-brick patio down a few steps from the veranda, it was all garden: vegetable, shade, orchard and flowers. Standing on the patio, she identified tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, cantaloupes, herbs, lettuce, cabbage, an entire rainbow of bell peppers—enough produce to stock the market at the entrance to the Serenity neighborhood. What did an elderly woman want with such a large garden?

One of the doors leading into the house abruptly opened, and she spun around, bringing up her pistol.

“Don’t shoot.” Jimmy raised both hands in surrender. “I’ve got too much on my schedule to die today.”

Grimacing, she holstered the pistol. She’d made it through their marriage without killing him, though he’d dearly deserved it on multiple occasions. Why do it now?

He waited, holding the door open. As usual, he wore a white shirt, black trousers and black tie, and she knew from experience that the black suit coat was in the car.

“Do you still own five white shirts, five black suits and five black ties?” she asked as she passed him, entering the coolness of the mudroom.

“Do you remember the stuff you get into on this job? Besides, sometimes I’m tired—”

“Or hung over.”

“—and not really focused on choosing clothes. This way I always match.” His tone turned more serious as he closed and relocked the door. “You saw the old lady?”

“Only from outside.”

“Doesn’t look any better inside, but at least it’s not our concern.”

Alia followed him through a kitchen she would sell Jimmy’s soul for, then into the broad hallway. Yesterday she had stood right where Miss Viola’s head rested,

She look so small and helpless. It was hard to imagine that less than twenty-four hours ago, they’d sat in the library and talked, that Miss Viola had extended her hospitality for another visit. And now...

Giving herself a shake, Alia took in the scene, so very similar to the day before. No sign of a break-in or a struggle, no sign of a burglary that had gone wrong. Like the admiral, there were too many valuable items just the right size for slipping into a pocket or a bag, including the huge ruby ring on Miss Viola’s left hand.

Natural causes, she reminded herself. Not every death was a homicide, not all circumstances suspicious.

The coroner’s assistant glanced up from his position next to the body. “Time of death was between midnight and 3:00 a.m. Head trauma. Apparently, she tripped coming down the steps. Lost her shoe there—” he pointed to the missing slipper lying crookedly halfway up the stairs “—got tangled in her robe and took a tumble.”

...the interesting parts are upstairs, and I don’t go up there anymore. Broken hip. Last year. I haven’t been upstairs since.

“No,” Alia murmured, then repeated in a stronger voice, “No. She didn’t fall down the stairs.”

“Why do you say that?” Jimmy asked.

“She broke her hip last year. Her kids fixed her a suite on this floor, at the back of the house. She didn’t go upstairs.”

“Maybe she was home alone, needed something, thought one time wouldn’t hurt,” the coroner’s investigator suggested.

“No,” Alia repeated. “She would have waited. If it was important, she would have called someone. She’s got family and friends everywhere. And she never would have tried it in those slippy little shoes and a robe that’s just waiting to trip her.”

The men exchanged looks, then Jimmy asked the question that apparently they were all thinking. “Why would someone want to kill an eighty-year-old lady who lives in her house, grows her garden, goes to church and wouldn’t hurt a fly?”

“This particular eighty-one-year-old lady is related by marriage to the Jackson family. She knew all of Camilla’s and Jeremiah’s history. Miss Viola probably knew everyone in the neighborhood, city, parish and state who had a feud with the admiral, when and what about. I’m guessing she knew the secrets people wanted to stay buried.”

“Well, hell. So odds of this being coincidence...”

“I thought you don’t believe in coincidence.”

Scowling, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t. I believe God’s got a wicked sense of humor and Karma’s a fire-breathing bitch.”

The men laughed. Alia patiently pointed out, “You’ve got to admit—you tested their patience.”

“Maybe. A little.” Turning back to the other investigators, he shrugged. “Let’s treat this like a crime scene until we find out cause of death for sure.”

Alia’s gaze went past him to the tall windows across the room that overlooked the driveway. The car parking next to hers was middle-of-the-road average, old enough to lay some claim on vintage and showing the scars and dings of a lot of miles. She’d ridden in it for a few minutes yesterday and had figured she would see it again. Just not here. Not now.

“Family,” she muttered to Jimmy as she headed out the door. She met Landry and Mary Ellen at the far end of the porch, only a few steps from his vehicle. “You can’t be here,” she said firmly, blocking their way, realizing she would have to break the news, wishing she’d sent Jimmy instead. She hadn’t had to make many death notifications, and she never knew what to say. Sweet-talker Jimmy always managed to find just the right words.

“B-but Miss Viola... All th-these police c-c-cars... What’s happened?” Mary Ellen didn’t look as if she’d rested last night. Her eyes were bloodshot, dark circles underneath them, and her chin was wobbling now. “Where is Miss Viola? Is she all right? We’ve got to see her. We’ve got to—Landry!”

There were no circles around his eyes, no sign that a single tear had fallen. He was dressed more formally today, in gray trousers and a blue button-down, with that same antique watch on his left wrist. A family heirloom, likely from the Landry side of the family. Had it come from the Jacksons, it would likely be buried in silt at the bottom of the Mississippi.

His mouth was hard, the look in his eyes even more so. “What happened?” His voice was low, soft as granite, devoid of emotion but, conversely, all the more touching for the lack of it.

“We don’t know yet. Miss Viola...” Alia looked away, noticing in some distant portion of her brain that the mother and child across the street had gone inside, then met Landry’s gaze. “She’s gone.”

She didn’t have to say more because a wail escaped Mary Ellen an instant before she swooned into her brother’s arms.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.