A SOUND AS GRATING AS A woman's fingernails
scratching against a chalkboard wrenched me from sleep. I
pulled my pillow over my head and tried to ignore it. But
like my ex-wife, it refused to go away.
I snaked a hand out from under the pillow, then dragged
the telephone receiver to my ear. "What?"
"Detective Alan Chevalier, please."
"That would be me."
"Sir, we have a possible three-zero." The dispatcher
stated the address of the homicide.
I mumbled something that she must have taken as an okay
because she hung up. On my end, it took three tries before
I finally got the receiver back into the cradle. In one
move I hauled the pillow from my face and sat up, then
stared blearily at the closed shades drawn tight against
the windows, the edges ablaze with the morning sunlight
slamming against them. I squinted at the digital clock
half turned away from me on the nightstand. Just after
eight in the morning.
Damn.
I was late starting my normal weekday. Although the
definition of normal was up for grabs.
Sometimes being a homicide detective in New Orleans's
Eighth Precinct, French Quarter, wasn't all it was cracked
up to be.
Sometimes? Lately I'd come to view my job as a necessary
evil. Necessary because, since I presently lacked the
pleasure of a big-busted blonde to wake me up in the
middle of the night, what else would I do with my time?
Evil because lately I didn't look much better than the
victims of a killer who didn't want to be found.
I stared at my morning erection, feeling part of yet
separate from the organ that had gotten me into more
trouble than it was worth. I covered it by putting on the
slacks lying on the floor and then I moved into the
bathroom on autopilot. Standing in front of the bathroom
mirror, I wasn't entirely certain what was to blame for
the blurriness — the grimy mirror or the half bottle of
bourbon I'd downed last night. I flicked on the light,
winced at the ice pick it stuck into my skull, then
switched it back off, relying on the bedside lamp in the
other room to cast enough light for me to do what I had
to. Which, admittedly, wasn't much. A quick splash of
water over a face that women called full of character but
never handsome (although recently they hadn't called it
much of anything at all because women didn't much factor
into my life as of late): green eyes that were often
mistaken for brown, sandy brown hair a month overdue for a
cut and lines that may have once been laugh lines but were
now just wear and tear.
I scraped my palm against the stubble on my jaw. I could
get away with another day of not shaving. Anyway, a dead
body waited. And while it wouldn't be going anywhere
anytime soon, there would be others waiting for me to do
my job so they could do theirs. And while my appearance
wasn't much of a priority for me, my job was. Simply
because I wanted to keep it.
Shortly thereafter I walked down the two flights of stairs
to the street and stood fighting against the bright
morning sunlight to keep my eyes open. An interesting
percentage of the Quarter's denizens — and an even bigger
chunk of visitors — liked to think of themselves as
vampires. With my present aversion to sunlight, I could
have been bitten by one last night.
But I knew the only thing I was cursed with was a wicked
hangover.
I stepped toward my twelve-year-old navy blue Chevy
Caprice, a solid car, if unsightly. A bit like me, I
supposed.
Only this morning it bore a hood ornament I wasn't used to
seeing. Well, at least not without a price tag attached.
And I was pretty sure that the attractive woman leaning
against the front of my car wasn't a streetwalker, if only
because her clothes revealed she was from a place where
autumn required a change in wardrobe. A wool suit in New
Orleans in October would immediately peg anyone as an
outsider. And this girl, no matter how hot, was definitely
an outsider.
She spotted me when I took my keys out of my pocket and
unlocked the driver's-side door.
"Detective Chevalier?"
She knew me. Which usually meant bad news. A looker like
this one, and I didn't recognize her? Could mean one of
two things: I'd met her when I'd had too much to drink or
she was associated with someone else I'd met when I'd had
too much to drink.
I squinted up into her face and my stomach pitched.
Because I wasn't only looking at an outsider; I was
looking at a dead woman. Claire Laraway. My unsolved-
murder victim from two weeks ago.
"Are you all right, Detective?" She blinked as if a
thought had just occurred to her. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I
forget how much my sister and I looked alike. I'm Molly
Laraway, Claire's twin sister. We're fraternal, not
identical, but we still always looked enough alike to... I
didn't mean to startle you."
Startle me? Christ, she had me wondering if there was
something to the upcoming Halloween celebration, one of
the longest nights of the year in the city of the dead
when it was believed that ghosts walked the earth.
"I was hoping I could talk to you," she said. The only
thing that could be worse than confronting the ghost of a
victim whose murder you hadn't solved was dealing with the
sibling of one.
I inserted the key into the car door and opened it. "Call
the office."
I climbed inside, but a cleverly positioned bag with
sequins on it prevented me from closing the door. "I have
called the office. Countless times. And I always get the
same response — I'll hear something when there's something
to hear."
I grimaced, recognizing the words as my own. It wasn't
that I was a cold person. It was just that in my job
nearly every victim came with well-meaning relatives
attached. Wives, husbands, children, friends. And they all
thought the killing of their loved ones elevated them to
detective status; at best, making themselves pests; at
worst, hindering my investigation.
I stared at her bag and where it was still stuck in my
door. I hadn't meant to go farther than that, but I found
my gaze taking in the fullness of her breasts beneath the
brown wool of her jacket, the flare of her hips, the
length of her legs — which looked great in heels not too
high to be impractical but not too short to be sexy.
"Detective Chevalier, I need to know what's going on in
the investigation of my sister's death. I want to help
find her killer."
I moved her bag out of the way. "Go home, Miss Laraway,
and let me do my job."
She replaced the bag with fingers I couldn't exactly slam
in the door. "From what I can see, you're not doing that
job very well."
Now that would get her far. Pretty much as far as she'd
gotten.
"Remove your hands from my vehicle, Miss Laraway, before I
remove them for you."
She stared at me as if gauging my willingness to do just
that. She removed her fingers.
I closed the door and started the engine.
A knock at the window.
I pushed the button to open it a crack. "Here," she said,
holding a card through the slit. "This is my contact
information. I'm staying at the Ritz."
I didn't take the card.
She didn't retract it. "Detective Chevalier, I think it
only fair to warn you that I'm not going anywhere. I'm
here for the duration. However long it takes to find my
sister's killer."
"Alan," I said automatically.
I took the card.
She smiled at me.
I wished I hadn't taken the card.
"I'd like to treat you to lunch today if you can spare the
time," she said.
"I'm busy."
"Dinner, then."
I thought of the two nickels I had in my pocket and
grimaced.
"Coffee?"
"Look, Miss Laraway, I don't know what you hope to
accomplish by coming down here from..."
"Toledo."
Was that even a real place? I thought it was something
made up on TV. "The best way you can help is by letting me
do my job."
"How does coffee prevent you from doing your job?"
My hangover-dulled mind couldn't produce a response to
that.
She said, "Eleven o'clock, then. At Tujague's in the
French Quarter."
Tujague's happened to serve the best beef rémoulade in New
Orleans, if not the whole of Louisiana. And it had been a
while since I'd had it.
I knew I should refuse the invite. But damn if I could
come up with a real good reason why.
"I'll be there if I have the time."
I put the car into gear and pulled away, looking into the
rearview mirror at the woman with legs that went all the
way up to her beautiful neck. I told myself she was
nothing but trouble with a capital T.
But it had been a long time since I'd gotten myself into
that kind of trouble. And so long as she wasn't married to
my superior, well, maybe this kind of trouble was just
what I needed....
MOLLY LARAWAY STOOD staring after the departing Chevy,
feeling frustrated and defeated and intrigued all at once.
Detective Alan Chevalier was everything and nothing she'd
imagined him to be. Oh, the cavalier attitude she'd
expected, since she'd received as much from him on the
phone. But there was something more about the rumpled man,
something that niggled under her too-warm jacket and her
damp skin. Something that made her itch more than the
worsted wool did.