Bayou Hero (13 page)

Alia was convinced that one of her mother’s reasons for disliking Jimmy had been his dislike of her native food. Lien Hieu Kingsley loved fixing dishes that reminded her of home and was accustomed to similar passion in everyone who ate them. She would love a man who already had shared that passion.

If they ever met. If they ever had reason to meet. It was way too soon to make a guess about that.

“How did you discover Vietnamese food? I can’t imagine you picked it up from your parents.”

“I went out with Huong a few times before I introduced her to her husband. One day I met her at the restaurant, and her grandmother insisted on feeding me, and...”

He shrugged as if there was no need to go on, and for Alia, there wasn’t.

“So Huong’s married now.” Sure, Alia always tuned in to food matters, but she’d heard the important part of the nonfood conversation, as well.

“With two kids. They’re the light of Mama Tranh’s life.”

Of course. “You plan on having kids someday?”

Landry’s gaze was directed past her, thoughtful but unfocused. It took him a while to offer another shrug. “I don’t know. Fifteen, ten, even five years ago, the answer was absolutely not. The older I get, though... What about you?”

“I tell Mom if she wants grandbabies, she’d better adopt them. I’m not exactly warm and fuzzy with helpless little bald creatures.”

He laughed. “I hear it’s different when it’s your own bald creature.”

“That’s what Mom says. Seriously, I’ve never held a baby, fixed a bottle or changed a diaper. My friends laugh hysterically at the idea of me with a miniature human. They would leave their kids with their dog before they’d trust me with them.”

“Aw, I used to babysit my nieces all the time when they were
both
in diapers. It’s easy.”

She exaggerated her shudder for effect. “And yet you have none of your own and aren’t sure you want any.”

“Not because of the kids themselves. My parenting role models should have run fast and far from even the idea of bringing another life into their world. Jeremiah never taught me anything about being a father except through his actions, and those all fell under the category of things
not
to do to a child.”

He didn’t want to be a father unless he was sure he could be a good one. The realization touched Alia—and, of course, made her wonder yet again about the relationship he’d had with Jeremiah. Had Jeremiah been one of those fathers who couldn’t bear to not be the strongest, the smartest, the most successful, who would crush his son’s ego to puff up his own? Had things between them changed as Landry grew up, or had it always been ugly? Did Landry have one single good memory of his father?

“He may not have intended to teach you anything,” she said quietly, “but he did. He taught you the
don’t
s to raising a child. By elimination, the things left are the
do
s.” When he looked skeptical, she added, “There’s not much difference between being a good uncle and a good father.”

After his noncommittal gesture, the conversation lightened. They compared favorites. Sports: his, football; hers, baseball. Movies: his, action movies; hers, comedies, the dumber, the better. Books: his, mysteries; hers, thrillers. Music—blues and jazz—and food—Cajun for him, everything for her—were the only things they agreed on.

It didn’t bother Alia, because there was one other thing they agreed on, and it was the most important one: each of them liked the other.

Which led to another important thing: with the situation—and her job—in mind, how far could they explore that?

Chapter 8

T
he time was nearing midnight when they left the bar. Since Alia had driven, Landry offered to walk back to the Quarter; Alia offered to walk with him. “If something happened to you on the way home, it would taint your image of my neighborhood forever,” she said with a smug smile.

“Your feet hurt.”

“My house is right over there.” She gestured vaguely, but he didn’t bother to look. He preferred to watch her face and her body and the way she moved. Just something as simple as lifting her arm to point off into the night was enough to leave him in an off-balanced daze.

“I’ll change shoes.”

He agreed to that much, not because he really expected her to walk with him but because he wanted to see where she lived. Which of these small, stately houses had she liked enough to live in, both with DiBiase and without? What kind of house appealed to a woman who’d never lived more than three years in one place?

So he followed her to the car. Again, she kicked off the heels, this time ignoring the seat belt as she reversed down the street and around the corner, then headed for Divinity ahead.

The block was quiet, the streetlights buzzing, each one surrounded by a halo of bugs, while at least one light showed in every house. One of Landry’s neighbors played the TV loud every night; another was a huge fan of Miley Cyrus at eardrum-piercing levels. When he stood on Alia’s sidewalk, he didn’t hear anything but a few birds, a dog or two, an occasional car a few blocks away.

“Home, sweet home.” Alia joined him, heels cradled in her arms with her purse. “Would you have picked it out as mine?”

Landry glanced from her to the house. It was a cottage with a little Creole influence, a little Gulf Coast influence and a few embellishments from a typical Victorian. A half dozen broad steps led to the deep porch that stretched from end to end, with the door off center in the middle. Typically in a cottage of this style, every room had an exterior door to improve airflow, but here the second door had been replaced with a full-length window. The wood was painted pale yellow with shutters and trim the color of lime sherbet, and it sat on a good-sized lot of lush green grass in need of a mow.

It was fairly small, probably only four rooms downstairs and maybe two up. Great for a woman alone or a couple, but cramped once you added a toddler or two.

“It suits you better than those bigger places.” He gestured toward a row of three-story minimansions across the street. “But if I’d been guessing where you lived, my money would have been on a riverside condo.”

“I get that a lot. I don’t know why. I’m not rich. I’m not elegant. I’m certainly not all about modern sterility.” She climbed the steps and unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal a living room filled by only two pieces of furniture: a huge sectional sofa and a square wood coffee table that looked as if it had been reclaimed from someone’s falling down old barn. Above the fireplace was the flat-screen TV, and built-in shelves to the right held an old-style turntable and a sizable collection of record albums.

Forget the riverside condo
,
he thought as he stepped inside. There was something about the place that fitted her just fine: the comfort, the solidness of everything, the coziness, even the faint leather/wood/vanilla scent that stirred in the still air. He could easily see her stretched out on the sofa, feet propped on the back cushions, an old Etta James record spinning on the turntable.

“Quick tour,” she said, and headed from the room. There were no hallways on the first floor. A small bathroom opened up next door, stairs climbing to the next story, the kitchen beyond that, and a doorway from the kitchen led into a tiny laundry room, then the front room opposite the living room. That room was an office: computer, scanner, two printers, file cabinets, framed photos and her college degree. Back in the kitchen, glass jars filled with candy and snacks lined the counters, and the table, like its smaller twin in the living room, appeared to have escaped the barn but not before the roof collapsed on it. The aged wood had some serious dings.

“Let me grab some comfortable shoes.”

Before he could tell her he was big enough and brave enough to walk home alone, she was disappearing up the stairs. Rolling his eyes, he stopped in front of the bookcase and flipped through her record collection. She’d claimed blues and jazz as her favorites, and they did make up the bulk of the selections, but her tastes were much broader. Country, zydeco, classical, gospel, rock, and everything else shared the smaller of the bottom two shelves.

A few thunks and thuds filtered from above before Alia came down again. She’d changed not only shoes but clothing, too, from the minimalist dress to a pair of snug-fitting running shorts and a tank top that left even less to the imagination than the dress had. Her shoes were, by far, the most substantial thing she wore.

Landry’s gaze skimmed the running shoes, then slowly glided upward. Soft, smooth, bronzed skin—one of his weaknesses. Long sexy legs—another. A flat belly, a gentle curve from hip to waist, the roundness of her breasts, strong arms...

The crazy thought drifted through his mind that he didn’t need an escort home. He could just stay here until dawn, appreciating everything that went together to make her so damn appealing. He could even just look and not touch...though he wanted to touch, to stroke, to hold and kiss and see where things went from there.

Which would be pretty much nowhere. She was a cop. She was working a case that, lucky him, kept bringing them together. She wasn’t about to risk her job—or disappointing her father, the admiral—by messing around with him.

“You’re not really planning to walk home with me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She didn’t pause in the act of shrugging into a nylon shoulder holster—cooler, he assumed, than leather on a muggy night. Once she’d adjusted it the way she wanted it, she pulled a lightweight hoodie on over it.

He swallowed hard. He’d never been drawn to delicate women in need of a big strong man to protect them, and Alia was a prime example why. She damn well protected herself, and he found that way sexier than a damsel in distress.

Beads of sweat were gathering across his skin, sliding down the center of his spine, and they made his voice thick, even though he tried to hide it with teasing. “What’s the plan? If we get mugged, you’ll hold them off while I run for help?”

She smoothed the jacket over the holster, then flashed him a measuring look, from his worn T-shirt all the way down to the ratty sandals on his feet. Her gaze was warm and heated him from the inside out. “I don’t know how fast you can run.”

“Doesn’t matter. I only have to be able to outrun
you.
”

She smirked. “Not likely. I’ll tell you what, if we get mugged, I’ll handle the bad guys. Then you can thank me later.”

He knew exactly what form he would want that thank-you to take. Blocking the image from his mind, he snorted. “I think getting to kick bad-guy ass in front of me would be reward enough for you.”

“It is my favorite activity,” she agreed as she opened the door, locking up behind them. For a moment, she stopped on the porch, still, a shadow among other shadows, the only sound her slow, even breaths. She stood, eyes closed, listening, and he watched her, also listening. Slowly other noises joined her breaths: his own breathing, a baby crying next door, the soft steps of the fattest orange cat he’d ever seen stalking across the neighbor’s porch. A helicopter buzzed overhead, navigational lights blinking in the dark sky, and a motorcycle roared a few blocks away, the two engines combined so powerful they seemed to vibrate the ground under their feet.

The whole quiet of it was relaxing. Give him a drink and a few hours’ use of one of her comfortable-looking chairs, and he couldn’t think of much else he might want.

Besides her.

Landry didn’t know if he broke the spell or she did. She drew a loud, sudden, shaking-herself-back-to-action breath at the same time he moved down the first step. Without speaking they walked to her car, backed out of the driveway and drove out of the neighborhood, leaving behind Serenity, Divinity and Trinity.

A few minutes later, she pulled to the curb on Bourbon Street, blocking his driveway, and gazed at him. She wanted to say something, or wanted him to. He didn’t know. He opened the door and swung one foot to the ground, then turned back to her. “Lunch tomorrow?”

Her faint smile was echoed in her eyes as she nodded.

“Noon? Here?”

Another nod.

He slid out, then bent down to look at her. “I’ll see you then.”

He watched until her car disappeared into the shadows down the street, the red taillights the only sign of it, then they were gone, too. He breathed deeply of garbage and beer and sweaty people partying on a miserably hot night. He listened to the competing music from nearby bars, the loud voices of tourists passing by, the sound of a siren down the street, the clank and wheeze of an air conditioner losing the fight to the heat, and he smiled ruefully.

Five minutes of Bourbon Street made him miss the evening of peace on Serenity. He never would have believed it.

* * *

Alia wasn’t a shoe whore. She had a few pairs of killer heels—in ways both good and bad—but she would never buy a pair of shoes that cost more than her monthly mortgage, and she didn’t need an excessive number of them. Other than three pairs of good running shoes, the rest of the shelves were filled with shoes ranging from reasonably priced pumps, boots and sandals to dollar-sale flip-flops.

Clothing, however, was a different matter.

She stood in the closet—formerly known as the guest bedroom—Sunday morning and surveyed her choices for lunch with Landry. There was a rack filled with dresses like last night’s, some reaching to her ankles, others barely covering her butt, all of them snug-fitting and flattering. There were pants, skirts, suits, sundresses; jeans, capris and shorts; shirts and tees and tanks, covering the gamut from casual to nice-restaurant-worthy.

And there were a lot. They filled the racks around the perimeter of the room and the drawers of the two dressers that stood back to back in the middle. Never let it be said Alia Kingsley had nothing to wear.

She pulled a pair of capris from their hanger. They were the exact shade of her favorite lime sherbet, loose-fitting and cool, and she’d had the luck to find a print scoop-neck top that matched. That and a pair of well-worn sandals, plus dangling earrings and a couple of thin bangles, and she was ready to—

Her cell phone interrupted the thought, a standard ring—not her mom’s or dad’s. She pulled on the shirt on her way to the bedroom and snatched the cell off the bed, noting Jimmy’s number on the screen before answering. “I’m off today.”

“Yeah, so am I. But not everyone has our good luck, sweet pea. What are you doing?”

She turned on the speaker, then dropped the phone so she could wiggle into the cropped pants. “I’m getting ready for lunch. What do you need?”

“Maybe I’ll join you. What are you having?”

“Vietnamese,” she said sweetly.

“Yeah, maybe some other time,” he responded, just as she’d expected. “Listen, I got a call from Jack Murphy. Remember him?”

“Sure. Best detective NOPD has.” Intense, damn good-looking, loved his wife, adored their kids and had an admirable solve rate.

“Yeah, well—hey. I thought I was the best.”

“You keep thinking that, Jimmy.”

“You’re hard on a man’s ego,” Jimmy said in a wounded tone. “Anyway, Murphy caught a case this morning. Woman came home from early services at church and found her husband dead in his office.”

Alia fastened her watch, then sprayed a cloud of perfume around her. “And that has to do with me how?”

“The guy was Bradley Wallace.”

She knew that name: it had appeared on the lengthy list of Jeremiah Jackson’s associates. According to Mary Ellen, Wallace had been one of her father’s nearest and dearest friends. They, along with three others, had grown up together, gone to college together, lived within blocks of each other their entire lives. Their wives had been friends, their kids playmates, and Brad Wallace had been devastated by Jeremiah’s death, according to the interview the police had done with him.

Taking the phone off speaker, Alia held it to her ear as she started downstairs. “How did he die?”

“Stabbed multiple times in the office in his Garden District home. Wife hadn’t seen him since she went to bed last night. He’d stayed up to work, never did go to church with her anyway, so she wasn’t expecting him. Today she went to roust him for brunch with some friends and found him.” Jimmy paused. “There were cuts and stab wounds pretty much everywhere, and when they moved him, his tongue fell out of his mouth.”

“Well, that’s interesting.” Alia picked up her purse and keys, then let herself out of the house. After the coolness inside, it was like stepping into an oven set on broil, with the added discomfort provided by the humidity. It reminded her of the first facial she’d ever got, back when she was barely a teenager, when the tech had spread a hot, steamy towel over her face, sucking the air right from her lungs.

“Jeez, Alia, a man gets sliced and diced, and you think it’s
interesting
?”

“Don’t you?” she retorted.

“Well, yeah, but you’re supposed to be a better person than me. Where’s your feminine sympathy?”

She snorted at that. “Are you going to the scene?”

“Hell, no, it’s my first day off in nearly a week. Murphy only called because of the connection between his victim and ours. He’ll keep in touch in case it turns out there’s something there. Enjoy your lunch. I’m gonna go find me a rare steak.” He said a cheerful goodbye.

Alia tossed the phone on the passenger seat. Leave it to Jimmy to describe a gruesome murder, then happily turn his mind to raw meat. Not that the same gruesome murder had had any effect on her appetite, either. What did that say about them?

As she drove away from her house, she considered the information. Was it coincidence, two old friends being murdered in the same manner less than a week apart? Possibly, but everything in her doubted it. Wallace’s death wasn’t a robbery gone bad. Burglars might kill if surprised by the home owner, but take the time to inflict extensive stab wounds? To sever his tongue? No way.