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“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.
When Swafford had crawled off her, he’d noticed the tears in Kendra’s eyes. He’d never quite understood them, but that one glimpse of her vulnerability had twisted at heartstrings he hadn’t even known he possessed.
But he was all about the job, and like a good cop, he’d cozied up to her to use her.
Then he’d been the recipient of that mouth, and he’d fallen in love.
No, lust. He might have mistaken the two a couple of times, but never again.
“You began seeing Miss Yates, hoping she’d squeal on Swafford?”
He nodded. He’d thought he could seduce her into talking. “But it didn’t pan out. Turns out she was just a dancer who hooked up with him one night.”
The lieutenant exchanged a querulous look with the female cop, and Antwaun knew he was cooked. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure how. What did they have on him? On Kendra?
Sure, maybe he’d been an idiot. Gotten tangled up with a suspect. A woman who had slept with a man he’d been investigating for illegal activities.
And when she’d gone missing, he’d been curious, even suspicious at first. But reporting her missing would have blown his cover. And he’d wanted to put the guy away. Especially if he’d killed Kendra…
“Then what happened?” the lieutenant ordered in a brittle tone.
Antwaun chewed the inside of his cheek, then explained his reasoning. “She admitted that Swafford didn’t want to end things with her.” A river of tears had fallen afterward that had wrenched his heart. She’d claimed he’d blackmailed her into sex, trapped her into being with him, and that she wanted out. Shaking with rage toward Swafford, and tenderness toward her, Antwaun had drawn her into his arms. He’d have promised her anything to alleviate her pain and stop her cries. “Then she disappeared. I figured she’d left town to escape the bastard.”
“You reported her missing?”
Antwaun shifted. “Not exactly. I couldn’t let anyone know our connection. I asked around, but didn’t find anything.”
“You know I want to believe you.” The lieutenant tilted his head sideways, his deep-set gray eyes narrowed to slits. “Kendra Yates didn’t connect with Swafford by accident.”
Antwaun frowned. The ax was about to drop.
“Neither did she meet you by coincidence either.”
Anger burned a path down his belly as reality interceded. “She made me for a cop?”
The lieutenant offered a mirthless laugh. “Dammit, Antwaun. She didn’t just make you for a cop. She was a reporter working undercover. She came onto you for information.”
Antwaun gritted his teeth. “The jolie fille was a reporter?”
“Yes, the pretty lady was a reporter.” The lieutenant leaned forward, accusations brimming in his condemning eyes. “And guess what her story was about?”
Antwaun shrugged, but his mind was spinning. Now he understood why the press had pounced so quickly. “Swafford’s casinos, I suppose. It was common knowledge that he donated millions of dollars to rebuild them. She probably figured the same as we did, that he was crooked.” He moved to the edge of his seat. “Don’t you see? He probably found out who she was and killed her.”
Lieutenant Phelps grunted. “What do you know about Swafford’s operations?”
That he was linked to illegal activities. “I hadn’t found anything definitive yet. The man is a master at hiding his actions and his money.” He cleared his throat. “Then he disappeared. I figured it was to cover his ass, that he’d eventually resurface again.”
“You didn’t think that he might be dead?”
“Sure, the thought occurred to me. In fact, I was looking into the angle that one of his minions might have gotten selfish, wanted a bigger piece of the Swafford pie and offed him.”
Another possibility needled him. The fact that Swafford and Kendra might have run off together. That still could have happened, then the man discovered who she was and killed her. Swafford could have also faked his death and disappeared so he wouldn’t get caught. “Did Kendra have proof of his corruption?”
The lieutenant watched him with hooded eyes. “Not that we know of. But she had a theory.”
Antwaun ground his teeth, tiring of the game. “Which was?”
One black eyebrow rose a fraction. “You don’t know?”
Antwaun rolled his fingers into fists to rein in the anger churning in his gut. He’d been interrogated in the military behind enemy lines before and had handled it with aplomb. He had to get through this the same way. “No.”
The lieutenant’s eyes stabbed through him like lasers trying to cut out the truth he thought hidden behind Antwaun’s steel mask. “Kendra Yates was not only investigating Swafford, but also dirty cops.”
In spite of his control, the air whooshed from his chest in a painful rush. Fuck.
Their rendezvous took on an entirely new light. The seduction. The mind-blowing sex. The pillow talk.
Hell, he had thought he was in control, but he was a fool. She’d been using him all along, hadn’t fallen for him at all. Had she believed that he was on Swafford’s payroll? That he worked for the mob? That he might have killed Swafford? That he was dirty?
His gaze swung back to his superior as he mentally replayed their conversations. Kendra must have had notes on him. Notes that pertained to her story. Notes on things he’d said that might have been misinterpreted.
Holy hell.
They obviously thought he’d killed her because of something in her notes. Something that made it look as if he were on the take.
ESMERALDA PORTER, aka the Cat Lady, felt the tremble of the earth and the stench of death in the air. The whisper of danger rustled in the air as the winds rattled dry leaves from the weeping willow trees and sent them raining down onto the parched earth. In another place, it would have been a musical sound, but here the eerie, grating threads sounded like the devil’s voice, announcing his presence.
She searched the backwoods from her porch. The rumors of the devil in the bayou taunted her—legends of faceless monsters that roamed the land. Some wore smiles to masquerade their evil souls. Damned into the darkness, kissed by the devil’s breath, they licked quietly at the blood on their fingertips as they ate away at the vestiges of man’s humanity. Those had clawed their way through the dirt and debris of their own graves to rise again as if the devil had pushed them upward through the ground with spiny fingers. They preyed on the weak, leaving tattered bodies and hearts in their vicious wake like the swamp gators after a nightly feeding, jagged teeth crunching on bone.
Evil cannot be destroyed. Its black unbending heart beats on, old with rage, its tendrils of anger as choking as the twisted hands of lust that consumes man’s soul.
But the battle wasn’t over. She summoned the magic to help fight off the evil. After all, she was a traiteur, a healer, a soldier for good, though not a warrior herself.
Satan must have found a victim. A new soul to possess and carry out his vile will. Another source to spread pain and anger. She smelled his victory, a coppery scent like blood.
Her black cat, Midnight, slithered onto the stone hearth and yowled to the heavens, and her tabby, Persimmon, bellowed in a long-winded refrain of terror.
“Come here, ’tite chatte,” she murmured, scooping up the little cat in her lap. The wind chimes hanging from the porch of her wood-frame house trembled, though, tinkling and clattering so hard one of the glass angels shattered.
She pulled her black shawl around her shoulders, urging her arthritic body and mental will not to fail her. Though she’d been blind for years now, she saw things through the darkness. Living in a world without sight had honed her other senses, especially her sense of smell.
She knew each feline by its odor, as well as the unique tone of its meow, the texture as she ran a fingertip across its nose. Gorgon, an orange-striped male, climbed on top of the organ and peered out the window as if planting himself as guard against the danger waiting in the bayou.
A danger that marched closer with every passing minute.
She mentally flipped through the recipes from her book of spells, searching for one to fend off the bad coming. Not that she had power, for the magic lay in the cats.
Once upon a time, she had been a nonbeliever. But her life had taken a drastic turn into misery, and she had learned to listen to the spirits.
Her dead husband spoke to her sometimes, crying out his rage at being taken so early. Yet his demise had come from his own wrongdoings. And he had taken more secrets to his grave. Secrets that might have offered comfort and closure to some while tormenting others with the twisted viciousness of his crimes.
His transgressions were plenty. Not only to her but to humanity. And he was burning in eternity for them now.
She’d feared her grandson had fallen to the same demon. And now in death, he lingered, caught between realms. Begging for a chance to redeem his soul and go to heaven.
Titan, a fat gray cat who’d come to her during the latest storm of violence in the bayou, pawed the floor and snarled. Suddenly the earth trembled again, more violently this time, and the scent of graveyard dust filled her nostrils.
The cats slithered from their posts, tails swishing, ears perked, listening as they formed a circle. In unison, they began to scratch at the wooden floor, hissing to the heavens as they united to protect her.
But another woman needed protecting. Lex had told her so. The image of a mangled face and body materialized in her blind mind. The woman was nearby. In danger.
Someone had tried to kill her before. They’d stolen her life already. Her memory. Her face.
