“If you’re not interested in talking, we don’t have to. I’m good at other things, too.”
Ry knew what she was good at—causing grief for her daddy. “I came here to eat, Char. That’s all.”
“Ouch. Aren’t we in a nasty mood tonight?” She smiled, not at all daunted. “Come on, Ry, I’m a sure thing, and I know I could improve your mood. Say yes—” she paused, her frosty lips parting “—say yes, then take me home with you.”
She had one of those refined Southern accents, the kind that easily attracted men. And Char had attracted plenty—the primary reason the judge was taking ulcer medication and seeing a shrink twice a week, Ry determined. “Shouldn’t you be home? Your daddy—”
“Thinks you’re wonderful.” She reached out and ran a manicured finger over the back of his hand where it rested on the bar. “For the first time in just ever, Daddy and I agree on something.” She giggled and leaned close. “You’re our favorite detective, Detective Archard.”
What she said about the judge approving of him was true enough. But Ry also knew there was a simple explanation behind that approval—if Char was seeing a big bad cop, the rest of the men making a nuisance of themselves might think twice. Judge Stewart was a shrewd old Creole. Ry didn’t blame him for scheming to keep his wild, scandal-seeking daughter out of the newspaper. Only, he had no intentions of being her baby-sitter or anything else. They had already settled that months ago.
Char ran her finger further up Ry’s arm. “You look like you’ve lost your dog and best friend all in one night. I can be anything you want, Ry. A lap dog suits me fine. You can stroke me or I’ll stroke you. You name the game and I’m willing to play.”
“You’re wrong, as usual, Char. Tonight all I need is a hot meal and a few extra hours of sleep.”
At Ry’s mention of food, Tony came to the rescue with a plate of shrimp and a tall beer. “There you go, mon ami. Seconds are on the house. Jus’ holler.”
Ry shed Char’s warm touch and picked up the fork next to his plate. He stabbed a plump shrimp, shoved it into his mouth and chewed vigorously. Unwilling to be ignored, she inched closer. “Remember the night I slipped through that hole in your hedge and found you asleep in that big hammock on your veranda? Remember how I woke you? The day’s heat was nothing like what we sparked, and nothing has compared since, I’m not ashamed to say.”
“Remembering that night doesn’t do either of us any good,” Ry drawled, reminded that when she’d arrived that night he’d been deep into one of his favorite dreams, a dream so potent and real that he’d almost made love to Charmaine Stewart thinking she was someone else.
She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “If you’re tired I’ll do all the work. Promise and—” slowly she traced an invisible X across her chest with a hot-pink manicured nail “—cross my heart.”
Ry didn’t doubt Char would be good at her word, she’d had enough practice. His gaze drifted to her full breasts, then lower to the rounded curve of her hips beneath her pink silk T-shirt dress. A man would have to be crazy not to take what she was offering.
He stood, dug two twenties out of his back pocket and laid them on the bar beside his half-eaten food. Out of habit, he glanced toward the stage where the piano sat idle. He still thought it odd Margo wasn’t there. A creature of habit, she was as dependable as she was loyal. The only thing that would make her take a night off was if she was sick.
Ry’s gaze went back to Char. “Want me to call you a cab?”
“I take it that means you’re turning me down again.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re a stubborn man, Detective Archard. But, lucky for you, so am I.”
It was still raining when Ry left the Toucan and turned his green Blazer toward the Garden District, and his thoughts back to the Burelly case. It went without saying he was committed to finding Mickey’s killer. Even though there wasn’t much to go on at the moment, the crime hadn’t been perfect. Along with Mickey’s body, he’d found evidence that someone else, possibly two other people, had been with Mickey at the time of the shooting. A blood trail leading to the end of the pier suggested that they had attempted to escape by jumping into the river.
Would the Harbor Patrol find their bodies in the next few days? Or had their escape been successful? The odds were slim that, wounded and fighting the river’s current at night, a person could survive. That is, unless their wounds weren’t serious and they were good swimmers who knew the area. Ry had learned that a slim chance was better than none. Until he explored every possibility, he would assume there were witnesses out there who could shed some light on his case.
He punched in the cigarette lighter, again recalling Mickey boasting about getting his picture on the front page of the newspaper. Well, he was going to make the front page, all right. Cursing the waste, then reminded that he was out of cigarettes once the lighter popped, Ry gunned the engine and sped past the Lafayette Cemetery. As he turned onto Chestnut Street, the red brick two-story came into view, and he hit the remote and watched the lacy iron gate open.
The rain had diminished to a fine sheeting mist, Ry noted as he killed the engine and climbed out of his Blazer. As he walked toward the rear entrance of the house, he could smell the night-blooming jasmine that grew tight to the veranda. He walked past a towering oak dripping with Spanish moss and strolled up the concrete steps. The iron railing felt warm to the touch—the day’s incessant heat still evident after midnight.
On the veranda Ry passed by the rope hammock, gave it a push, then opened the back door that he never bothered to lock.
Back in Texas the ranch house had always been left open to friends and neighbors, the coffeepot full and hot, along with a radio playing as a form of welcome. When Ry had moved to New Orleans, he had promised himself that once he’d gotten his own home he would keep the same tradition alive. And though no one ever came around much except for Jackson, he’d kept his promise.
Inside, he switched on the light, then pulled his sodden blue shirt from his jeans and tossed it over a chair at the kitchen table. The tape playing softly in the boom box was a blend of flute and guitar, a Native American arrangement that fit his somber mood as well as his Texas roots. He left it on and turned off the automatic coffeemaker and emptied the two inches in the bottom. Efficiently he prepared tomorrow’s brew, reset the timer, then turned the light off and left the kitchen.
A stairway just before the living room led to the second story. Tired, anxious to get some sleep, Ry climbed the steps, loosening his belt to remove his .38 Special from the compact holster tucked into the small of his back. At the top of the stairs, he turned left once more and stepped into the bathroom, his hand finding the wall switch a second later.
“What the hell!”
Ry quickly flipped off the safety of his .38 as he surveyed the room. There was blood in the sink and bloody fingerprints on the mirror. The closet door stood open. A small trail of blood led to the shower.
He eased into the room, checked behind the door, then warily crept to the shower and shoved open the slider. The white marble shower stood empty except for a white towel stained red that lay next to the drain.
Back in the hall, aided by the glow from the bathroom light, Ry took inventory of his surroundings. His closed bedroom door drew his attention and he arched a knowing brow—he never bothered to close doors in his house. Why should he? He lived alone.
The floorboards beneath his boots barely creaked as he took his position outside his bedroom. Then, silently counting to three, going in low and fast, Ry burst into the room.
The door hit the wall with a resounding boom, and in one fluid motion he flicked on the overhead light switch, then did a fast spin-around on his boot heels—his gun-hand outstretched, ready for whatever moved.
The force of the door smacking the wall brought the sleeping beauty lying on his bed awake. She jerked upright, at the same time