Don't Say a Word

Anger churned in his belly as he and Damon walked up the clamshell-lined entry to his parents’ house. How the fuck could he ever live up to his older brothers?

“Bon à rien, toi, ’tit souris,” Jean-Paul had said to him when he was younger, meaning “good for nothing, you, little mouse.”

It had been true. But he’d tried to change that reputation since he’d been on the force.

Jean-Paul and Damon had always been good. As a detective, Jean-Paul had been decorated for bravery and saving lives during Katrina. Damon, the special agent in the mix, had received commendations from the military and goddamn president for bravery and heroism.

Antwaun…he was the screwup.

A rookie on the police force, and now that position might be in jeopardy.

The door swung open, and his mother squealed as if she hadn’t seen them in years. God, he loved his boisterous family. Just wished he fit in better and didn’t disappoint them so much.

Damon, quiet, methodical and intense as always, bent to hug their mother, Daniella, a short, roundish woman who ran the show at home and at the new restaurant they’d opened in New Orleans. She and their father made the best Cajun cuisine in the state.

All the boys were over six feet, and towered over Daniella, but she boasted that she would turn them over her knee if she needed to, and Antwaun believed her.

Damon finally released her from the bear hug, and his mother yanked Antwaun close, enveloping him in the heavenly scents of her spicy jambalaya, fresh bread and sinful chocolate cake. He leaned into her, allowing her to rub his back and pat his cheek, but his stomach clenched when she looked into his eyes with a fine sheen of tears.

“It’s so nice to have all my wonderful boys here together.”

Wonderful? If she only knew…

But neither he nor Damon would discuss the mutilated corpse of the woman they’d discovered earlier, or the implications of his involvement. The unspoken rule—they left their weapons and gritty police talk at the door and didn’t bring either to the dinner table.

Yep, act like a chameleon. Put on a pretty coat. Smile as if the world wasn’t all gray. Pretend not to have seen the monsters encountered in the bayou and on the streets.

Damon cleared his throat, looking almost as uncomfortable as Antwaun felt. For the past year, he’d been even more solemn. Brooding at times. Almost distant.

Daniella beamed with pride and ushered them into the homey kitchen. Already Jean-Paul and his new wife, Britta, his baby sister, Catherine, her daughter, Chrissy, and his other sister, Stephanie, had gathered. His father wore a chef’s hat and stirred the bubbling stew while Jean-Paul popped the cork on a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured them all a glass.

Antwaun would have preferred a beer, but Jean-Paul wanted to make a toast.

“Let’s all sit down.” Daniella Dubois waved her hands, shooing them to their places as she hoisted bowls full of the Cajun foods and carried them to the table. Catherine deposited baskets of steaming bread; Stephanie grabbed his and Damon’s arms, and dragged them to sit on either side of her; and Chrissy plopped down, her ponytail bobbing as she sipped freshly squeezed lemonade.

“So, what is all this urgency, Jean-Paul?” dark-haired Stephanie asked, eyes twinkling.

Jean-Paul clutched his bride’s hand and grinned like a cat that had just swallowed a canary. “Britta and I have an announcement.” He turned to his wife. “Britta?”

Britta laughed. “Go ahead, you tell them, sweetheart.”

Antwaun shifted uncomfortably. Not that he wasn’t happy for Jean-Paul, but seeing his tough brother act so mushy was just plain weird.

His father, Pierre, tapped his wineglass. “Don’t keep us in suspense, son. Spill it.”

Jean-Paul grinned, then pressed his wife’s hand to his chest. “Britta and I are expecting a baby.”

Shouts erupted around the table. His mother dabbed tears from her eyes and jumped up to hug Britta and Jean-Paul. Catherine, little Chrissy and Stephanie joined the milieu of chattering excited voices.

Antwaun stood and pounded Jean-Paul on the back in congratulations. Damon’s hand tightened around the wineglass in a white-knuckled grip. Then the glass shattered and red wine splattered all over the tablecloth, mingling with drops of blood spewing from Damon’s palm.

DAMON BIT BACK A CURSE, and tried to mop up the spilled wine with his napkin.

“Damon, oh, my good gracious!” Chaos erupted, and Damon noticed the blood. His mother rushed to retrieve a towel, and Stephanie grabbed his hand and wrapped her napkin around the jagged cut.

“Are you all right, Damon?” she asked in a low voice.

Stephanie had always been the perceptive one. Sometimes he thought she sensed things, maybe possessed a touch of ESP. Feeling panic tease at his nerves, he masked his thoughts. He couldn’t let anyone see inside his bleak, ugly mind.

Besides, this was his brother’s moment. “I’m sorry, Jean-Paul. How clumsy of me. I didn’t mean to spoil your announcement.”

His oldest brother’s eyes registered concern, but he shook off the apology and curved his arm around Britta’s shoulders. “No problem, bro. Are you all right?”

Damon and Antwaun exchanged a glance, silently agreeing not to broach the latest challenge facing Antwaun. Hopefully the DNA would prove that the severed hand hadn’t belonged to Kendra Yates and clear Antwaun of any suspicion.

But if the hand wasn’t hers, then whose was it? Had another serial killer surfaced—one who enjoyed hacking off women’s body parts and leaving them scattered all over the bayou?

“Do you need stitches?” his father asked.

Damon shook his head. “No, I’ll just clean it up. Please continue the celebration.”

His mother trailed him to the kitchen, removed the first-aid kit and played nursemaid as if he were five years old again and had just had a bicycle accident.

“What’s troubling you, son?” Daniella asked.

He rinsed the droplets of blood down the drain, wishing he could rid his mind of the tormenting memories that dogged him daily. “Nothing, Maman, it was just a stupid accident.”

She pierced him with a disbelieving frown. “There’s more, Damon. I’m your maman, you cannot lie to me.”

A family portrait in oils that hung on the opposite kitchen wall mocked him. God, he had to lie to her. If she knew the truth about the things he’d done, who he had been in the service, she wouldn’t look at him with love in her eyes. No, she’d be sickened and appalled.

Guilt clouded his vision, making the veins in his head pulse with tension. “This is Jean-Paul and Britta’s night, Maman. I want them to enjoy it.” He brushed a kiss on her chubby cheek. “And you, too. You’re about to be a grand-mère again.”

His mother’s face beamed with excitement. “I know, is it not wonderful? I can not wait to have another bébé in the house.” She tweaked his cheek. “Maybe we’ll have a little boy this time, another man to carry on the Dubois name.”

Damon’s throat thickened as he imagined the scene. His formidable older brother with an infant in his arms. Jean-Paul was a hero. He deserved a family. A son.

But marriage and kids were not in the picture for him.

A man who had destroyed a family, the way he had, had no right to one of his own.

DESPAIR AND FEAR TINGED the frail sound of an infant’s cry as it reverberated through the air like the strings of a harp that needed careful tuning.

Crystal jerked awake, her head swimming with confusion. A child…where? Had she dreamed the baby’s cry or had it been real? Or had it been a memory?

Disoriented momentarily, she searched the dim light of her room for the doctor or the nurse. No. Maybe Lex had come to visit again.

But all was silent. She was alone.

The low sob echoed through the thin walls again as if the wind had captured the ghostly cry, beckoning her to listen. Reminding her that she wasn’t alone in her pain and suffering.

Stiff from sleep, she stretched her limbs to force the circulation back around, an exercise she did routinely after her long hours in bed, then pushed her feet to the floor and into her slippers. She grabbed her thin cotton robe with one hand and shrugged it on, the other hand self-consciously touching the bandages on her face. At first she hadn’t ventured outside the room, but lately, as she’d begun to heal and regain her strength, she’d taken daily walks.

The rehab facility was situated on acres of private property by the river, surrounded by the backwoods, offering privacy and seclusion for its inhabitants. During the day, other patients strolled the gardens or rested in their wheelchairs in the shade of gigantic live oaks. Some gathered to play cards in the solarium or watch television together in the common game room, but she had yet to join the social scene. Although others suffered injuries, scars, some disfigurements, hers had been one of the most severe cases the hospital had seen, or so she’d heard, and she hated the gossip and stares that accompanied her outings.

Padding slowly, she opened the door and peered into the hallway. Shadows flickered across the corridor. The dim light from the nurses’ desk down the hall was just enough to allow her to see without being so stark it hurt her eyes or highlighted her own morbid appearance should another patient pass by. Blessedly, though, she was alone.

The cry jarred the air again, a low sob, then another. Realizing the sound originated from the room next to hers, she tiptoed toward the closed doorway.

Inhaling a deep breath and hoping her mummified face wouldn’t frighten the neighboring patient, she gently pushed on the door. She would just check and see if the person was all right.

Inside, a small night-light in the shape of a duck sent sparkles of faint yellow light across the white sheets and shadow-filled room. The bed seemed to swallow the tiny figure who lay curled into a ball, facing the window. Dark brown curls cascaded down the child’s back, her little body jerking up and down with her cries.

Tears sprang to Crystal’s eyes, but she blinked them away and slowly tiptoed into the room. The little girl turned toward her and lifted her face slightly, her arms in a death grip around a big brown teddy bear. She looked so lost and alone that Crystal’s heart clenched.

“Hi, honey,” she said softly. “My name is…Crystal.”

The child’s eyes widened momentarily, and Crystal wondered if she’d made a mistake in visiting, if her bandaged face terrified the toddler even more. Then she realized the little girl was Hispanic, and wondered if she spoke English, so she introduced herself in Spanish.

A second later, she realized she’d just learned something about herself. She was fluent in the language.

“Are you a ghost?” the little girl asked.

Crystal laughed softly, then they chatted for several minutes. The child’s name was Maria, and she’d lost her mother in a car accident the day before. Maria’s nana was supposed to come and get her the next day.

The self-pity Crystal had wallowed in for the last few months dissipated as compassion for the toddler mushroomed inside her. She sat down beside the girl, then read and sang to her until Maria finally fell asleep.

As Crystal made her way back to her own room, questions taunted her. Where had she learned to speak Spanish? Maybe she’d worked with children. Could she possibly have a child of her own?

IN THE DEN, Mr. Dubois sipped his coffee. “Damon, you will be at the upcoming Memorial Day celebration, won’t you?”

Damon poured himself a cup of his parents’ choice rich chicory blend. “I don’t know.”

The last thing he wanted was a commendation for honor and bravery now.

Laughter erupted in the background, drawing him back to the moment just as the doorbell rang. His sisters and mother were discussing baby names, debating over French versus American. Jean-Paul argued that they had to focus on boys’ names since the firstborn would certainly be a son.

The doorbell dinged again, and Damon frowned into his coffee, then gestured to his father that he would answer it.

Who the hell was stopping by on a Friday night unannounced? Not that he should be surprised that his parents would have company. They’d made a wealth of contacts and friends through their restaurant. And they had donated both time and money to so many charities following the hurricane that they were practically local celebrities.

Leaving his coffee cup on the table, he rammed a hand through his hair, then answered the door, hoping it was some salesman he could vent his anger on.

Instead, Lieutenant Phelps of the NOPD stood on the stoop.

A pair of silver-gray eyes wrought with turmoil met Damon’s.

Not a good sign.

Lieutenant Phelps nodded. “Special Agent Dubois.”

A formal greeting. Also not good.

“Lieutenant? What’s going on?”

The man’s eyes shifted over Damon’s shoulder where Antwaun stood in the shadows of the entryway’s arched doorway that led to the hall.

“We’re here on official business,” Lieutenant Phelps stated. “I need to speak to Antwaun.”

Antwaun made a grunting sound in the background and Damon silently cursed.

“Guys, why don’t we discuss this tomorrow?” Damon suggested. “It’s Friday night, and we’re having a family gathering.” As if a Friday night had ever dissuaded him from following a lead or pursuing a case.

Behind Phelps, Antwaun’s partner, George Smith, shifted nervously, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

“Sorry, guys. But you were both at the crime scene. We’ve ID’d the woman and have evidence that has to be answered for.” The lieutenant’s ruddy complexion colored with distress. “Antwaun, we need you to come with us for questioning.”

CHAPTER THREE

ANTWAUN SCOWLED. “Are you arresting me?”

Phelps frowned. “Do we need to?”

Damon stepped up to run interference. “Lieutenant…we’ll meet you at the station.” He turned to his parents and tried to quiet his mother’s shocked cry that seemed to still reverberate in the room. Injecting a calmness to his voice that he’d learned from his military training, he said, “Maman, Papa, don’t worry. We’ll clear this up and be back later tonight.”

“Antwaun…what’s going on?” Daniella screeched.

“Son.” Pierre pressed a hand to Antwaun’s shoulder. “Whatever you need…you can count on us.”

Antwaun’s eyes turned a tortured black. “I’ll straighten it out,” he muttered. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

Jean-Paul appeared, a frown marring his forehead. “What in the hell is this?” He glared at the lieutenant. “This is inexcusable. If there was a problem, why didn’t you phone me first instead of barging in on our family? We would have met you at the station.”

The lieutenant’s steady gaze flashed across the family, then settled on Jean-Paul. “The press knows about the partial body. We had to do this by the book or they’d slaughter us for protecting one of our own.”

“You should protect your own,” Damon muttered. So why weren’t they? Damon wondered. Had Antwaun made an enemy on the force, someone who wanted to see him in trouble?

Lieutenant Phelps narrowed his eyes at Antwaun.

“I’m sorry, Jean-Paul,” Antwaun said in a gravelly voice. “Please go back and finish your celebration. I’ll have this issue resolved in no time.”

“What does he need protecting from?” Jean-Paul snapped. The lieutenant opened his mouth to speak, but Jean-Paul cut him off. “Never mind. We’ll settle this at the precinct.”

The family had gathered in the hall to see what was happening, a mass of anger and bewilderment charging the air.

“We’ll need your gun,” Lieutenant Phelps ordered.

Antwaun glared at him, but Jean-Paul calmly retrieved the weapon from the locked cabinet. Damon’s heart bled for his brother. He had never quite understood Antwaun and his temper, but he was blood kin, and he loved him just the same. Nothing would be more humiliating than being treated like a criminal in front of your family.

He should know—he feared it on a daily basis.

Still, as quiet murmurs of disbelief and support rumbled through the room from various family members, his gut tightened with worry.

“Damon, Jean-Paul,” Stephanie said in a muffled voice. “What’s happening?”

“We found a woman’s body, that is, part of one, today in the bayou.” Damon turned to his family while the officers escorted Antwaun to the squad car. “It may be someone Antwaun knows. I’m sure we can clear this up. But I need to go.”

His mother pressed a hand to his back. “Yes, Damon, please go. Help your brother.”

Jean-Paul touched Britta’s cheek. “Sweetheart—”

“Shh. Go, Jean-Paul. Your maman is right. Take care of Antwaun.”

His father pasted on a confident face as he curved an arm around Daniella, though anxiety lined his mouth. Catherine and Stephanie, encircled their parents like protective watchdogs. Their father had been injured during the last big hurricane, and they all worried about his health now, especially his heart.

His sisters agreed to stay with their parents while Damon and Jean-Paul rushed out. As soon as they climbed in the sedan, Jean-Paul barked, “How bad is it, Damon?”

Damon clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. Like I said earlier, we found part of a body. A woman’s hand.” He explained about the ring and Antwaun’s connection to Kendra Yates, and they both speculated over how the police had identified her so quickly.

Jean-Paul muttered something about Antwaun always finding trouble, then turned to stare out the window, and Damon stepped on the gas, his anxiety rising with every passing second. He wanted to hear exactly what Antwaun had to say.

His brother had lied to him before. Antwaun knew more than he’d admitted about this woman, Kendra. And Damon intended to find out what Antwaun was keeping from him and why the police, his own fellow officers, suspected he might be a murderer.

A PRESS MOB AWAITED ANTWAUN at the police station, turning his steel nerves to mush. How the hell had they identified this victim and discovered his involvement with her so quickly? Cameras flashed, reporters shoved microphones toward his face, firing questions at him that blurred in a giant fog.

“Officer Dubois, were you the last person to see Kendra Yates alive?”

“Is it true that she was mauled by the gators, that only her hand was found?”

“Do you know who left her to the gators?”

“Is there another serial killer in New Orleans?”

“Did you kill her, Officer Dubois?”

Antwaun barely resisted shooting daggers at the reporters with his eyes and clamped his mouth shut, knowing anything he said might be misconstrued. Why the fuck was the press so interested in this story? Who had leaked the details of the crime scene to them?

His throat clogged with emotions at the realization that Kendra was dead. Mon coeur he had called her. She’d asked about the French Cajun term and he’d taken her hand and placed it over his chest. “My heart,” he’d said, letting her know it belonged to her.

She had been so young, so pretty, her body lithe and elegant like a dancer’s. Her hands had been like magic, those slender fingers always gliding over him, so titillating and ready to please. And that tongue—she was sharp witted and quick with words, yet in bed she’d used that mile-long tongue to bathe him in ecstasy. Hell, she’d been a pussycat, who’d lapped him up like a bowl of cream. No wonder he’d fallen for her.

His partner ushered him to the side door while the lieutenant fended off questions with a statement about releasing information as soon as it became available.

Jean-Paul and Damon arrived and wove through the crowd. One of the reporters snagged Jean-Paul by the shirtsleeve, forcing him to stop. Jean-Paul curled his hand into a fist, and Antwaun waited with bated breath, half hoping his older brother would lose his cool just once and pound the guy’s mouth shut.

“Detective Dubois?” the catty reporter snarled at Jean-Paul. “We know how the cops think. They protect their own. How can the public get justice in this case?”

Jean-Paul stabbed him with a knifelike glare, but kept his fist clenched by his side. “We are here to see that justice is served.”

“How is that possible? Antwaun Dubois is not only surrounded by his friendly police force, but you and your brother, a federal agent, are here to defend him.”

In a barely controlled move, Jean-Paul jerked the man by the tie, knotting it into his fist until the pissant coughed to get air. “My brother is here to help his fellow officers find this woman’s murderer. Now, get out of the way.”

Antwaun’s emotions boomeranged between gratitude to have his brothers on his side, and humiliation that they had to be. His partner pushed him inside the door, and Antwaun glared at a couple of rookies who watched him with lecherous expressions as if they were ready to string him up and hang him.

Clenching his jaw, he braced himself to face being seated on the other side of the table in the interrogation room. He knew how the cops would play him; he’d acted the role of bad cop a hundred times himself, although truth be told, he didn’t have to act.

At the same time, his mind spun with questions, theories, and…lies.

Had he been the last person to see Kendra alive?

“All right, Dubois.” Lieutenant Phelps spread photos of the decimated hand across the scarred wooden table. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Antwaun forced himself to remain calm. He hadn’t yet requested legal representation, but he would if needed. For now, he schooled his reactions. He didn’t want to antagonize his superior, and calling in his union rep or a lawyer would do that. So would being a smart-ass. He’d had that lesson pounded into him in the military more times than he could count.

“It’s a hand, Lieutenant. A very decomposed one at that,” he said quietly. “I can’t say with any certainty that I know who it belonged to, not without forensic reports.” He paused, leaned back in his chair. Knew his brothers were watching from the other side of the two-way glass. If ever he’d wanted to impress them by being cool and professional, it was now.

But sweat rolled down his back, soaking his shirt and making it stick to the cheap vinyl chair. A droplet tickled his scalp, slowly making its way down his crown. The next thing he knew it would be trickling down into his eye. He’d wipe it, the cops would see that he was nervous, then they’d pounce like vultures hunting prey. Even aware of the goddamn drill, he still couldn’t stop the flow of nervous energy seeping through his veins.

“Who do you think this woman is? And do you have proof?” Antwaun asked.

“We checked fingerprints. Her name is Kendra Yates,” Lieutenant Phelps said with no inflection in his voice. “We also know that you and she dated. That the ring on the finger of the woman’s hand we found was bought by you.”

Antwaun schooled his reaction. They’d done their homework, and very quickly. “So. I haven’t seen her in months.”

“You were working undercover at the time?”

He nodded. “I thought she might have a connection to Karl Swafford.”

“And what had you discovered about him?”

This was all in his report, but again, he wrestled his anger under control. He had to go through the motions. “Since Katrina, Karl Swafford has spent millions of dollars rebuilding the casinos. He was being investigated for possible connections to the mob, embezzlement, money laundering and murder.”

“You suspected Miss Yates was involved with him?”

“Yes.”

“What made you suspect they had a relationship?”

Antwaun hesitated. Kendra had no idea how he’d first seen her. What he’d thought. “I was doing surveillance on Swafford. I saw her in bed with the man.” In fact, he’d watched her perform a very seductive strip show for the bastard. Had seen her give Swafford a blow job that had made Antwaun want her mouth wrapped around him. Then he’d watched Swafford run his fingers over her naked body, throw her down on the bed and bang her with such force that Antwaun had nearly ground his molars down to nubs with envy…and disgust.