Quarter to Midnight (A New Orleans Novel Book 1)

XAVIER MORROW SHIVERED, but he wasn’t cold. It was almost ninety degrees already, for God’s sake.

He was scared. And he didn’t know why, which made him feel stupid.

Which pissed him off.

Carlos poked his arm, hard enough to make him wince. “Yo, X.” His best friend was looking around them with a puzzled expression. “Why is your head swiveling on your neck like a rotating fan?”

“I don’t know.” He looked around them again, seeing nothing but people eating breakfast. Just like they did every Monday when he met Carlos at their favorite diner near Rice University’s campus. This place had been Xavier’s home away from home while he’d been in college, and he was going to miss being part of its staff. Still, this morning felt different. “You ever feel like you’re being watched?”

Carlos grinned. “Every time I walk into a bar.”

“Not like that, unfortunately.”

Carlos’s grin became a frown. “What’s going on?”

Xavier shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Carlos’s expression became angry. “It’s that guy, isn’t it? The old dude who visits you sometimes.”

Xavier blinked, surprised. “How . . . Never mind.” How Carlos learned anything was a mystery best left unsolved. His friend was a true-crime addict and his favorite shows had caused Xavier nearly as many nightmares as the real crime he’d witnessed all those years ago. “No, not today. He, um . . . He died.”

Carlos’s eyes widened. “What? When? And who was he?” Wide eyes narrowed as he leaned forward over the table. “Was he threatening you?”

“No! He was not threatening me.” Rocky had been more like a guardian angel. “He was a friend of someone I knew a long time ago.”

Which was more or less true. Even though Rocky had never met the woman who’d brought them together. They’d both been scarred that night, just in different ways.

Carlos leaned back in his seat. “Well, I’m sorry he died. Did you go to his funeral?”

Xavier shook his head. “It was in New Orleans. I . . . Well, I don’t want to go back there.” Not ever again.

Carlos frowned again. “And? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

Xavier opened his mouth, then shut it, unsure of how to answer.

Hell, no. You’d get us both killed for sure. Because Carlos couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.

“It’s not my story to tell,” he finally said. “Please let it go.”

Carlos got uncharacteristically serious. “Why are you afraid, then? You can tell me, X. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” He crossed his heart, then raised his hand as if swearing in court. “Hand to God.”

“I’d tell you if I knew, but I don’t. It’s just—” He exhaled heavily. “I thought I was being followed this morning, but every time I stopped to look, the footsteps behind me stopped.”

But it was his imagination. It had to be. He’d been on edge for the past six weeks, ever since Rocky’s death.

Rocky had always said that there were no coincidences.

“I’ll walk with you, then,” Carlos said with a sharp nod that brooked no argument.

Xavier smiled. “I’m gonna miss you, man.”

It was true. Carlos had been his best friend since the first grade, two kids of color in a sea of white faces. Both brown, Xavier’s skin was a dark walnut like his birth mother’s had been, and Carlos’s was a warm bronze. They’d bonded over nearly everything back then—video games, love of science, hatred of broccoli.

Carlos smiled sadly. “Same goes, hermano. But New York isn’t far from Philly. I already priced the train.”

Xavier was leaving soon for Philadelphia and med school at the University of Pennsylvania. Carlos was headed to NYU’s graduate program in engineering. They’d never been apart, not since they were six years old.

This was going to suck.

“Every other week,” Xavier said, holding out his fist to bump.

Carlos complied, then cocked his head, studying him. “How did he die?

The old dude, I mean.”

Xavier had to swallow hard as bile instantly gurgled up to burn his throat.

“Killed himself.”

Carlos flinched. “Oh shit. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” Xavier murmured. “He was . . . bigger than life, you know?

And now he’s gone and I’m wondering all the what-ifs. What if I’d visited him? What if I’d called more often?”

Neither of which were true possibilities. Rocky hadn’t wanted Xavier to have any traceable connection. He’d been afraid and sad.

“You can’t think that way,” Carlos said, ever loyal. “From what I’ve read, people who are considering suicide in an actionable way don’t let their friends and family know, because the people who love them will try to stop them. You’re a good guy. If he’d wanted you to see, you would have seen.”

“I hope so.” God, he hoped so. He’d thought the worst when Rocky’s lawyer had contacted him about the inheritance. He’d thought Rocky had been murdered.

But suicide? Xavier had never seen that coming.

“How did you find out he was dead?” Carlos asked.

Xavier hesitated, contemplating telling Carlos a lie. But they didn’t lie to each other. Carlos was incapable of telling anyone a lie. Not that he might not want to. He just sucked at it.

Xavier, on the other hand, was a damn good liar, but he’d never lied to Carlos. He might have avoided the truth. Okay, fine, I’ve totally avoided the truth. But it was to keep his best friend safe.

And nightmare free.

Xavier looked around the diner again, still seeing no one paying them any attention. “His attorney contacted me,” he said softly.

Carlos’s eyes popped wide again. “Why? Did he leave you money?”

“Some, yes. A bit.” Not as much as Rocky had already given him, but still . . . It would come in handy when he left for Penn Med and was no longer living at home. Apartments in Philly were not cheap.

The money hadn’t been the important thing, though.

The important thing had been the small ceramic angel that Rocky had given him a month before he died. Couldn’t have cost more than ten bucks.

But Rocky had had it inscribed on the base. Reach for the stars, mon ange.

It was an exhortation.

It was also a memory.

Either way, Xavier was never letting it go. He’d attached it to his key ring and carried it with him everywhere.

He pushed his plate across the table, no longer hungry. “You want my bacon?”

Carlos grinned. “I’ll never say no to bacon.” Sobering a little, he lifted his glass of orange juice, waiting until Xavier did the same. “Al futuro.”

“To the future,” Xavier echoed and made himself smile. “We are going to change the world, hermano.”

“You’re damn right we are.” Carlos demolished what was left on Xavier’s plate. “So where are we going today?”

Xavier blinked at him. “I’m going to weed my mama’s garden. Where are you going?”

“I’m your shadow, dude. You’re not going anywhere without me.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Your spidey senses have kept us on the right side of safe for too many years. If you think someone is following you, I’m not letting you walk alone.”

Xavier swallowed again, incredibly touched. “And my mama’s icebox pie doesn’t have anything to do with it?” he teased.

Carlos’s grin was back. “I’m a multitasker. I can watch your back and raid your fridge at the same time. I think it’s my turn to pay.” He pulled his wallet out and left enough cash for both meals and a sizable tip for the server. “Let’s go. Icebox pie waits for no man.”

The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

MONDAY, JULY 25, 9:50 A.M.

Burke scowled. “Way to bury the lede, Gabe. Why didn’t you start with the private autopsy?”

“I wasn’t sure if I could trust Miss Sutton. I’ve decided that I can.” Gabe drew the autopsy report from his pocket and handed it to Molly. She opened the report, silently scanning its contents before handing it over the desk to Burke, her features expressionless.

Damn, he’d never play poker with her. Because the report would shock anyone, whether they’d known his father or not.

Burke read the report and Gabriel knew exactly when he’d hit the first shock because Burke gasped, his gaze flying up, eyes wide. “He had cancer?

Your dad had cancer?”

“I didn’t know, either.” And Gabe felt guilty, both for not knowing his dad had been so sick and for resenting that his father hadn’t told him.

“Knowing your dad, he wouldn’t have wanted you to worry about him.

Especially after . . .” Burke fidgeted. “Y’know. Your mom.”

Gabe knew. He and his father had watched his mother waste away before their eyes.

And now both of them were gone. He managed a nod at Burke, who, after a moment of wordless sympathy, began reading again.

Gabe knew when he’d reached the second shock because Burke muttered a violent curse. He shoved the report across the desk to Molly. “The presence of cocaine is bullshit,” he said furiously. “I might be able to believe the blood alcohol of 0.25, because Rocky did have issues with alcohol, but your father was not a drug addict. That much I know.”

“No, he wasn’t.” But the private pathologist had found enough coke in his father’s body to have killed him from that alone. “My father was a recovering alcoholic,” he said for Molly’s benefit. “He’d been sober for three years. But he never did cocaine. Never.”

But his father had never struggled with cancer before, either, a small voice whispered in his mind. Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did.

The thought bounced around his head for a few seconds before he shot it down. No. His father would not have done illegal drugs, especially the way the cops said he had. Booze, maybe. Hard, illegal drugs? No way in hell.

Molly was rereading the report with a frown. “What is this? It says: Secondary source revealed the presence of flunitrazepam.” She looked up.

“Rohypnol. And a lot of it. Whoever killed him incapacitated him first. They probably gave it to him in whatever booze he consumed—willingly or not.”

Gabe had to close his eyes against a wave of grief, rage, and loss. They’d drugged his father and then shot him.

His body jerked when a cool hand briefly touched his. “Gabe.” Molly’s voice was quiet and sad. “We can continue this later.”

“No.” He forced his eyes open and met her gaze. “I’m okay.”

She shook her head, her expression incredibly kind. Her eyes, a vivid blue-green like the ocean in the Caribbean, were filled with true understanding. “No, you’re really not okay. But we can keep going, if that’s what you want.”

His eyes and throat burned, and he had to swallow before he could speak.

“That’s what I want.”

“All right.” She returned her attention to the report. “The final coroner’s report will have the cocaine,” she said. “But I’m betting that it won’t show the Rohypnol. That way they’ll be able to say that your father was high on coke at the time of his death. The presence of alcohol will strengthen their case that he’d broken his sobriety and make the cocaine more believable. And given his cancer, they’ll argue that he couldn’t take the pain and just wanted it to end.”

“That’s—” Gabe’s voice broke and he cleared his throat. “That’s what I thought, too. That the cops would say that. Not that Dad did that.”

“What was the ‘secondary source’?” Burke asked.

“A blood sample and a urine sample. Harry Peterson, the ME’s assistant, slipped them into my pocket. I didn’t find them until I got home from the coroner’s office. That’s why I’m so worried about Harry. He went out on a limb for me. He said that he’d known my father, that Dad had been good to him. I don’t want Harry to be punished for giving me those samples or for telling me that the autopsy was fixed.”

“I’ll see if I can get one of my people into the coroner’s office,” Burke said. “DeShawn’s a great guy, but he won’t be able to watch over Peterson all the time.”

Molly set the pathologist’s report aside. “The date on the report is yesterday. Sunday.”

Gabe nodded. “The pathologist emailed it to me last night. I saw it when I finished my shift. She said that she normally would have waited until today, but she didn’t want to make me wait any longer than I already had, especially with what she’d found. It took nearly six weeks to get the report and she was worried that I might be in danger, too.”

“Which you might be,” Burke said. “We’ll discuss your personal security when we’re finished going over the details.”

Gabe exhaled carefully. He was tempted to deny that he might need personal security, but he wasn’t stupid. When the cops found out that he’d done a private autopsy . . . It wasn’t gonna be pretty.

“Was there a police report?” Molly asked.

Burke handed her a copy of the report that Gabe had memorized, down to the printer stripe that ran across the width of the page six inches from the bottom margin.

Molly’s brow furrowed as she read the very short report. “This says that your father’s body was found by his neighbor.”

Gabe swallowed. “Mrs. Dobson, yes. She and my mother were best friends for as long as I can remember. She found my dad’s dog in her flower bed and brought him back. Said she was already fussin’ at Dad when she opened the kitchen door.” Nausea rolled through his stomach, making him grateful that he hadn’t eaten that morning. “She found him slumped over the kitchen table. His gun was on the floor where it appeared that he’d dropped it. There was an empty bottle of Grey Goose and an empty glass next to his head.” He rubbed his hands over his face, wishing he could wipe the image from his mind. But he couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see his father. Lying there in his own blood and brains.

Gabe wished he’d never looked at the photo. Cursed the cop who’d shown it to him.

Cursed the fact that he’d been too busy to be there when his father had needed him most. Not to beg him not to kill himself, because Gabe knew that his father hadn’t done so.

If I’d been there, they wouldn’t have hurt him. They wouldn’t have dared.

Or maybe I’d be dead, too.

“Gabe? What kind of dog?”

Gabe’s gaze flew to meet Molly’s, her question jerking him back from the awful place his mind had gone. She waited patiently for him to answer, and he got the feeling that she’d asked the question at least once already and that he’d been zoned out for longer than he’d thought.

“Lab mix. Some golden in there. Maybe some pit bull. A mutt, really.

Goes by Shoe.”

“Like your restaurant?”

“No. S-h-o-e. Like on your feet.”

One corner of her mouth lifted. “Because he eats shoes?”

The tightness in his chest lessened a bit, enough for him to breathe. Thank you, Molly. “That, too. My dad called my mom his petit chou. When I was little, I asked why he called her a shoe.” His eyes burned at the memory.

“After she passed, Dad was so lonely. I talked him into getting a dog from the shelter. One day he came home with this half-bald mess who’d been so stressed out that he’d scratched himself raw, but that dog loved my dad already. Within five minutes of settlin’ in, he stole one of the shoes I’d left there. Dad called him Shoe and it stuck.”

She smiled, and it warmed him, deep inside where he’d been so numb.

“Where is Shoe now?”

“At my house. Dad insisted that he’d trained Shoe not to eat shoes, but I keep mine on a high shelf, just in case.” He drew a breath and let it out.

“Thank you. We can keep going.”

“If you’re sure.” At his nod, she asked, “Was Grey Goose his drink of choice before he got sober?”

“It was. Everyone knew it. Mom got him a bottle every Christmas. He wasn’t a drunk, not then. He started hitting the bottle hard after she passed.”

“But he got sober,” she murmured.

“He did. He was so proud of himself and we were proud of him. The family. My aunts and my uncle and cousin.” He closed his eyes again. “I’m going to have to tell them about this, sooner or later, and, though it makes me a coward, I’m dreading it.”

“Maybe tell them later,” Burke said softly. “No need to burden them just yet.”

No need to make them targets, too. Gabe didn’t need for Burke to say the words out loud. He’d known from the very beginning that it would come to this.

“It doesn’t make you a coward.” Molly waited until he opened his eyes.

“You love your family, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s perfectly natural not to want to cause them emotional pain.”

He shrugged. “Emotional or physical.”

“That, too,” she allowed. “The report says that your neighbor discovered your father’s body the next morning, but it doesn’t say whether or not she heard a shot.”

“She didn’t,” Gabe said. “I asked. She was beside herself after she found him, second-guessing herself, asking what if she’d checked out the scratching noise that she thought she’d heard the night before, which was probably Shoe at her door. She heard the dog scratching, but not a gun firing.”

“And the gun found with your father’s body didn’t have a suppressor.”

She exchanged a glance with Burke. “Did he own a suppressor?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Burke said, “and I’ve seen his gun, the one found with his body. It’s not equipped to take a suppressor.”

“His killer got sloppy,” Molly murmured. “A point for our team.

Although the fact that the bullet that killed him didn’t match his personal weapon isn’t in the police report, and I doubt it ever will be. Another sign of involvement. Gabe, you clearly suspected that the cops were involved after speaking with Mr. Peterson, but did you have any indication before that?”

“Yes.” Nervously, he picked at one of Shoe’s hairs that clung to his slacks. “When I went to the police station to demand an investigation the day after Dad died, my father’s old captain met with me. Said the officers on the scene found a quarter kilo of coke in Dad’s pantry.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Burke muttered.

Gabe managed a weak smile. “Yep. Said he’d hidden it with the sugar and flour. Said they’d tested it and it was a match for coke stolen from the evidence locker. That my dad had signed for it shortly before he retired. They showed me the log. The signature wasn’t my dad’s, but it was a damn good fake.”

Molly’s cheeks puffed before she blew out a breath. “Well, shit. Let me guess—they said they’d keep it off his record if you didn’t push.”

Gabe touched his nose. “Right in one. He pretended to be all serious and sad, you know?”

Her gaze became unfocused for the briefest of moments before she nodded. “Yes, I know.”

He wondered about her father, about the circumstances of his death.

About how she’d coped. Because he could sure as hell use some advice. This was tearing him apart.

Burke was frowning. “I’m surprised that whoever’s pulling the strings here allowed you to have a private autopsy done. They could have ‘lost’ your father’s body or put any number of bureaucratic obstacles in your way.”

“They didn’t know. I didn’t tell them. When I found the blood sample in my pocket, I contacted a friend at the funeral home that would have tended to . . . to my father’s body. The owner of the mortuary is an old friend. We go back to high school. When the ME’s office released Dad’s body to him, he had it transported to the private pathologist’s office and we had the memorial service like nothing had happened. We had an urn on the front table and just let people believe what they wanted to.”

“And now?” Molly asked. “Where is your father’s body now?”

“Still with the pathologist. She’ll transport him to my friend’s mortuary when I give her the go-ahead and he’ll be cremated.” It was what his father had wanted. “I, um . . . I still have my mother’s ashes. Dad wanted me to mix their ashes and . . . Well, he wanted me to bury them at sea together.”

“Hold on that go-ahead,” Burke said quietly. “For now, anyway.”

Gabe nodded stiffly. They might need a corroborating exam at some point. “I figured as much.”

Molly met his gaze. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

Once again, her smile was kind. “Well, if you think of something, you know where to find us. I think we need to start with any cases he worked where there was a probability of high-profile exposure. For this level of cover-up, the stakes need to be big. Money or important people or other cops, even. Did your dad keep records that you know of?”

“I couldn’t find anything.” Because that had been Gabe’s first thought as well. “You’re welcome to search the house.”

“I will, if you’re agreeable to me working this case. Is that what you want?” she asked. “Again, no hard feelings if the answer is no.”

He studied her for a long moment. Her eyes were sharp, and he could almost hear the gears turning in her mind. She’d be respectful of his father’s memory, and that was important to him. “Yes, but I don’t want you to take any unreasonable chances. If it looks dangerous, you’ll bail.”

“If I feel I’m unable to handle the situation, I will call for backup,” she replied.

Burke raised his hand. “That’s me. I’m the backup. Me and the rest of my staff. Don’t worry, Gabe. I wouldn’t put Molly in a situation she couldn’t handle.”

“Then yes. I’d be grateful for your help.” Gabe turned to Burke. “I have my winnings from the Food Network competition. I can sign it over to you now to pay for the investigation.”

Molly stood. “I’ll leave you all to the administrative details. I’m going to start digging into your father’s old cases. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

Gabe had the unsettling urge to grab her arm and beg her to stay. To not leave him. But he quelled it and let her go, hoping that she could find the answers he sought. And that he wasn’t putting her in the line of fire in the process.

Tulane-Gravier, New Orleans, Louisiana

MONDAY, JULY 25 , 11:00 A.M .

Checking his reflection in the mirror on his office washroom door, Lamont gave himself a nod of approval. He was clean-shaven, his face just tanned enough to be healthy-looking thanks to regular appointments at the tanning salon.

The scar that had once bisected his cheek from his eye to his chin was barely visible now, thanks to a very talented plastic surgeon—the same surgeon who’d continued to nip and tuck over the years, keeping his face youthful and smooth. The scar had served its purpose, once upon a time, winning the sympathy of the woman who’d become his first wife.

He hadn’t expected to get the scar, of course. After studying the incredibly rich—and unmarried—woman for weeks, he’d hired one of his former clients to mug her. He’d been on hand to “save” her. Unfortunately, the former client had gotten carried away, slicing his face.

It had been painful but had earned him the gratitude of both the woman and her old-moneyed father, so when he’d asked for her hand in marriage, it had been a done deal.

Their money had allowed him to become the man he was today. Powerful.

Well-connected. Poised on the brink of greatness. His first wife would have approved were she still alive. But she wasn’t, having taken her own life.

Or so the medical examiner had declared. Just like I planned.

Rocky Hebert’s hadn’t been the first suicide he’d staged.

He tilted his head, studying the face that stared back. He had a few silver hairs among the black, but not bad for a fifty-two-year-old man. He knew that people liked his face, and he made the most of it. His face, combined with the sophistication and respectability that came with his wealth, would take him wherever he wanted to go.

At this moment, he wanted to go to the mayor’s office. They had a lunch meeting scheduled, and Lamont knew there’d be cameras about. A man such as himself was nearly always in the public eye.

Except when he didn’t want to be, but that was necessary less frequently these days. He could afford to pay others to get their hands dirty.

Pity. He kind of missed the personal touch.

Deeming himself ready for his meeting, he walked to the window where his burner phone got better reception and dialed his second-in-command.

“Did you get him?”

“I have him under surveillance,” Stockman said quietly, like the narrator of a wildlife documentary. “He’s been with people all morning, but I’ll take care of it as soon as he’s alone.”

“See that you do,” he snapped. “The kid is the final loose end.” The kid who’d seen him kill the woman whose name he hadn’t said aloud since that night during Katrina. The kid who’d seen his scar. The kid who might be able to identify him.

The kid who he hadn’t even known existed until two months ago. The kid who’d been allowed to live because Rocky Hebert had protected him.

Rocky was no longer a problem, but the kid still was. Because even if the boy couldn’t identify him by name, he might come forward at any time and testify about his scar. There were enough photos of him before his plastic surgery that people would make the connection. And once the accusation had been made, it wouldn’t take much to link him to that damn house where he’d kept the woman. Back then, getting his mistress pregnant was the worst scandal he could think of. Now, no one would blink at that, but murder . . .

Just the whisper of that kind of scandal could tank his political aspirations before he’d even begun. Lamont couldn’t take the risk.

“I know,” Stockman said evenly. “I’ll do my job, but these things take time.”

“I’ve given you plenty of time, most of which you wasted. It took you long enough to find him.” Because Rocky had encrypted his hard drive and it had taken Stockman weeks to unencrypt it. Lamont had considered bringing in an expert, but hadn’t wanted anyone else to know that he’d located the kid.

Especially not his partners in crime. They’d horned in on Rocky’s murder and had made it a lot more complicated than it had needed to be, what with planting drugs in Rocky’s pantry. It hadn’t been necessary and now he didn’t trust either of them. He only trusted Stockman. “Just finish it.”

“I’ll do my job,” Stockman repeated, sounding offended.

He didn’t care how offended Stockman was. He paid the man a helluva lot of money to do his job. Let him be a little offended if it made him do his job faster.

“See that you do,” he repeated, then grimaced as a call came through on his regular cell phone. “I need to take another call.” He ended the call with Stockman and composed his features before he answered the other call. This was a FaceTime call, and he couldn’t grimace.

Damn, he wanted to grimace.

Instead he pasted a smile on his face. “Hello, darling. Is everything all right?”

His third wife’s smile was lovely. She was lovely. To look at, anyway.

Beneath the pretty face was a whiny bitch whose voice made him want to drive spikes into his ears.

He wished he’d had her taken care of years ago. Now it would raise too many questions, so he’d learned to smile and nod and then do whatever the hell he wanted to once she’d stopped blathering.

“Just reminding you that we have reservations for seven o’clock tonight,”

she said. “We’re meeting the Nelsons.”

He hated the Nelsons, too. But Lyle Nelson was useful—or, at least, his money was—so at least there was that. “I remember. Did you get reservations at the place I wanted?”

“Yes. But I still don’t see why you want to go there.” Her tone held a combination of confusion and condescension. Le Petit Choux was not their normal kind of restaurant, lacking the elegance to which his wife had so quickly become accustomed. But he had his reasons for choosing the place, reasons she didn’t need to know.

“I’m thinking of investing in a similar restaurant, and I need to check out the competition.” It was a lie, but one she wouldn’t be able to refute. She was not privy to his business dealings. He didn’t trust her that much.

He didn’t trust her at all.

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

So happy to have your approval. “I’ll meet you there. I need to go now. I have a lunch meeting.”

Her lip poked out in a pout that she thought was charming. It had been, when she was younger. But she was no longer young, and that pout was more irritatingly ridiculous than anything else. “I was hoping you could come home for lunch.”

He wondered what she wanted now, because she sure as hell wasn’t excited to see him. “What do you want?” he asked, managing to keep the snarl from his tone.

Or he thought he had, because her eyes narrowed. “Don’t take that tone with me, darling.”

He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he couldn’t kill her because the husband was always the lead suspect. He couldn’t even divorce her for at least a few more years. He had goals to attain first and a divorce wouldn’t make them impossible, but it would make them harder. So he’d swallow his contempt and smile.

“I’m sorry, Joelle,” he said, and he sounded sincere even to himself. “I’ve had a stressful morning and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Her teeth were grinding, and he hated the sound. “I’ll just ask you later, since you have a meeting.” Her lips curved, but the smile was as fake as his own. “See you later.”

She ended the call, and he gave in to the urge to roll his eyes.

But he had more important things to worry about than Joelle. He considered calling Stockman back to find out if he’d been able to get the kid alone but controlled the impulse. He’d wait for the text telling him the job was completed.

It wouldn’t say that, of course. They never spoke plainly about such things in any way that could be traced, and texts were definitely traceable.

The message would read, “It’s a beautiful day,” just like it always did.

And when he got the text, he’d be able to breathe easy for the first time since he’d learned that there was an eyewitness to his crime.

The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

MONDAY, JULY 25, 12:00 P.M.

Molly looked up from her laptop when Burke entered her office. “Well?” she asked.

Burke dropped into one of the chairs on the other side of her desk.

“Antoine has the laptop. He’s gonna try to work his magic and hopefully find whatever was wiped.”

Molly already knew that, having just come from the IT guru’s office. “I meant Gabe. You know, my client?”

“He’s gone to the Choux.”

Her brows shot up. “Alone?”

Burke scowled. “Of course not. I sent Lucien with him until I get his actual security set up. I was surprised that Gabe allowed it, honestly. He’s nearly as stubborn as his father was.”

There was sadness under the scowl. Sadness and a grim affection. “His father was your friend,” she said quietly. More than a partner, then. Kind of like us. She’d clicked with Burke within the first few weeks under his command. They’d never had a romantic kind of relationship, though. They considered themselves more like siblings than anything else. She guessed it was the same for Burke with Rocky. “Rocky was kind of like a brother?”

His scowl softened. “More like a father.”

Oh. That was important because Burke’s actual father had been truly awful. Her own father had seen the need in Burke, the need for someone to love him like his own father should have. And her dad had provided that, too, before his death. Damn, she missed him. “Did you know Gabe also?”

“Sure. Well, kind of. He was busy a lot, doin’ all those . . .” He waved his hand. “You know. Chef things, whatever that is. Until his mama got sick.

Cancer,” he added when she tilted her head in question. “She was a good woman. Rocky was lost without her.”

“Poor Gabe. To lose his mother and father to cancer.”

“At least he got to say goodbye to his mama. Rocky . . .” He swallowed hard. “That was a shock.”

“When did you know that Gabe suspected his father had been murdered?”

“This morning.” And his deepening scowl showed exactly what he thought about that.

She sighed. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, slouching down in the chair. “We were never close, Gabe and I, but I’d have thought he’d have trusted me enough to bring me in when he suspected foul play. I mean, I went to the memorial service. I hugged him. He could have told me.”

“He brought you in as soon as he knew for sure. I think he trusts you more than anyone.”

Burke huffed. “Yeah, maybe.”

“It couldn’t have been easy for him. Either way that private autopsy came out, it was going to be bad news. His dad was either murdered or he killed himself.” She closed her laptop and leaned her elbow on it, propping her chin on her fist. “Any guidance? Where would you start?”

“Where you said. His old cases.”

“I have some of them, but I haven’t read very far yet.” She patted her laptop. “Antoine downloaded Rocky’s case reports for the last five years of his career. And no, nobody will know that we downloaded them. He set it up so that it would look like someone from NOPD Internal Affairs was looking. If anyone notices at all.”

“Somebody’s gonna notice,” Burke said darkly. “When I think about Cresswell saying that Rocky stole cocaine . . .” He looked down, seeming surprised to see that he’d clenched his hands into fists. Slowly he relaxed them. “This is why I didn’t want to take the case. I’m too close.”

“I take it that Cresswell is Rocky’s former captain?”

“One and the same.”

“Tell me what you know.” She opened her laptop, prepared to take notes, then saw the quirk of his lips. “What?”

“You. Taking notes like you always do.”

That stung more than she’d expected it would. “That’s me,” she said grimly. “Predictable.”

“Steady,” he corrected. “Your habits are the foundation of your attention to detail, and that’s one of your best qualities. Don’t change.”

Her irritation melted away. “Aw, shucks, boss.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you be gettin’ a big head, now.”

She mimed popping a balloon. “Head shrunk. Now tell me about Cresswell.”

“He’s rotten to the core, but very, very smart. Nobody’s gonna easily catch him.”

“Well, that sucks.”

He snorted. “Indeed, it does. I’ve suspected for years that he skims off the top, taking drugs from arrests and selling them back to the dealers he has on his payroll. Or that he’s blackmailed into servitude. He’s thick as thieves with a number of the New Orleans elite. Old money. Dirty money. If he’s not looking the other way in exchange for payoffs, he’s on their payroll. Either way, he gets rich.”

“You tried to prove it while you were on the force?”

“I tried. I failed.”

“Is that why you left and started the agency?”

“Let’s just say that my departure was mutually agreed upon. I couldn’t take the stink anymore and he wanted me gone.”

She leaned back in her chair. So this would be personal, then. Another good reason for Burke to recuse himself. “I’m surprised he didn’t just do away with you somehow.”

Burke grimaced. “He tried. He failed.”

“You mean that he just gave up? Let you go?”

“Nope. I kept a little souvenir. Nothing big enough to take him down, but enough to make him back off. He was cheating on his wife with a male prostitute. He’s a closet case. I don’t care, but he does, and that was enough for him to give me a wide berth.”

“So you think this Cresswell person could have murdered Rocky Hebert?”

“He could have without blinking. But I don’t think he would have. He’s not one to get his hands dirty. He would have farmed it out. If he was involved.”

“So it’s possible that he really thought Rocky stole the coke?”

“Possible. I mean, that’s what he does, and he’d assume other cops would do the same. So Cresswell’s not a slam dunk.”

“That’s clear as mud,” she said grumpily, and he grinned.

“That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”

He did pay her well, so she wasn’t going to say a word of complaint. “So Cresswell’s on the list of suspects as well as anyone who had access to that cocaine. I’ll check it out. What about Gabe’s security? You said that Lucien’s only on the case until you got his ‘actual’ security set up.”

“Gabe wants you.”

Molly frowned. “I’m investigating the case. I can’t be his security, too. I’d be stuck in his restaurant.” And in his home. Where he lived and slept and took showers. That the thought wasn’t unwelcome was . . . unwelcome.

Burke’s expression became suspiciously uneasy. “Well . . .”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What did you do, Burke Broussard?”

“He’s going to investigate with you.”

Molly froze. “He’s what?”

Burke winced. “You heard what I said.”

“I did, but it’s not computing. He’s going to follow me around?”

“Basically?” It came out as a rather undignified question.

“Basically? Why? If he doesn’t trust me, he can hire someone else. I won’t be offended.” Except she would be. Gabe’s distrust was troubling. And that she was thinking I thought he liked me was making her feel thirteen years old.

“It’s not that. Well, not like you’re thinking.”

Molly reviewed the short meeting with Gabriel Hebert in her mind, then lurched to her feet when she remembered him worrying about her safety, the puzzle pieces falling into place. “He’s my protection?”

Burke winced again. “He thinks he is. He’s at the restaurant now, arranging for a leave of absence.”

“Burke.” She shook her head, slowly sinking back into her chair. “Why would you agree to such a thing?”

“I didn’t really, but I didn’t fight him because he’s his father’s son. He’s protective. And if it makes you feel better, he’d do the same if it were me.

He’s worried that someone is going to get hurt and it’s going to be his fault.”

Molly rubbed her temples. “God save me from Neanderthal men.”

“He’s not a Neanderthal. Not any more than I am.”

She glared at him. “Not helping.” When he said no more, she sighed.

“And if I refuse?”

He gave her puppy-dog eyes. “Please don’t refuse. I’m rearranging schedules so that you can call for backup if you need to go off and check out something alone.”

“Gabe’s going to allow that?” she asked sardonically.

Burke shrugged. “Just say you’re going to get your hair done. That’s what women do often, right?”

Molly laughed in spite of herself. “Yes, Burke, that’s something that women do. Some more often than others.” She sobered. “But I’m not going to lie to him. If it’s too dangerous, I’ll call for backup to stay with him, but he won’t be coming with me. That’s simply ridiculous. And dangerous.”

“I agree. I think he believes that your job is more exciting than it is. He said that he wants to see what investigating is like. When he sees that it’s boring, he’ll back off and go back to his own job.”

She rubbed her temples again. She didn’t believe that. “I suspect he’s more interested in seeing what his father did for a living.”

Burke looked stunned for a moment. “I didn’t think about that. You think he wants the connection with Rocky?”

She considered it. “Maybe that, too. What I really meant is that Rocky may have been onto something that got him killed. I think that Gabe wants to walk in his father’s footsteps to better understand what was so important that his father died for it.”

“Oh.” Burke’s lips pressed together. “I guess I’d feel the same way.”

“So would I,” she said glumly. “Difference is, we can take care of ourselves. We were cops. He’s a chef. I mean, I imagine he’s good with a butcher knife, but that might not be enough to save his life.”

Burke smiled beatifically. “Then I’m glad he has you.”

Her lip curled in a silent snarl. “You’re an asshole, Broussard.”

“Many have said far worse.”

“And they’d be right.”

He stood up. “He’s expecting you at the Choux in an hour or so. He asked if you could work there while he gets his staff ready for his absence.”

“I’m not going to read these reports in public. I’ll go get him and bring him back here.” A thought occurred that made her smile. “Maybe he can cook for us while I research.” The old building came with a small, ancient kitchen. A chef wouldn’t be excited about it.

Maybe then he’ll go back to the Choux with another bodyguard.

Burke’s grin had spread all over his face. “I knew I liked you. We can put in a grocery delivery order once he gives us a list. That’ll keep him busy while you review the police reports.”

“Fine. I’ll run home and pack a bag and let Chelsea know that I won’t be back for a while.”

“Tell her I said hey. Harper, too.”

“I will.” Her irritation softened. He’d been an incredible support when she, her sister, and her niece had needed somewhere safe to start over. She’d owe him forever. “You realize that me agreeing to having Gabe Hebert as a shadow shaves off a considerable amount of our debt.”

“Never was any debt to shave off,” he said simply. “Keep me in the loop.

And do not tangle with Cresswell or any of his people without backup. Man’s a fucking snake.”

“I promise.” She crossed her heart. “Let me know when you’ve rearranged the schedule and who my backup’s going to be.”

“Probably Val. She’s between assignments.” He sobered. “Thank you, Molly. I mean, really. Thank you.” He saluted and left her in peace.

Well, not peace. Her mind was too jumpy for there to be any peace.

Gabriel Hebert. The two of them were going to be joined at the hip until she figured out who’d killed his father. Be still, my stupid heart. Because it was beating all out of rhythm.

He is a client. So be professional. No sitting too close. No sniffing his aftershave. No shenanigans of any kind.

This was going to suck.