Bayou Hero

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.”