Relatively Risky (7 page)

She'd been tempted, but tempted wasn't doing it. “I mostly sketch kids, and their parents buy the drawings…”

“None of them seemed…upset by it?”

“One mom didn't like their kid being turned into a radish. But the dad thought it was funny.”

“If they don't like the sketch?”

“I tear it up.” That had only happened once. Not her fault the kid picked his nose the whole time. She'd thought it funny to turn him into a comic ear of corn picking its nose from a line of five different noses. His Mom wasn't a fan of irony. Or maybe she didn't get the joke.

His fingers tapped some more, until he realized what he was doing. He flexed the fingers, then lowered them to the wood. “Anything seem out of the ordinary in the past few weeks?”

Nell couldn't help it. She had to give him a Look. “I moved here from Wyoming. Everything is out of my ordinary.”

He grinned, the cop dropping away for several very heady seconds. Her toes curled so tight she almost couldn't straighten those piggies out again. And they sure didn't want to go to market. She leaned her elbows on the table to stop the lean toward him. Propped her chin on her hands. Her fingers slid into her hair, started twisting strands.

“Let me rephrase that. Anything sinister?”

That brought back the creepy old guy, but other than the fact that he looked sinister, she hadn't seen him do anything sinister. Not even a shady meeting for her to accidentally observe. And she was one of thousands who had seen him, since the
Natchez
sailed past his perch several times a day. It wasn't actually a crime to misplace your cane, though they'd both acted like she committed one tripping on it. She gave a small shrug but felt a need to try. Not that she actually thought someone had tried to kill her. No, she just wanted the cute cop to keep looking at her like someone in need of protection. For that, she flipped through her mental portfolio for anything she could proffer. And came up with zip. Nada. Bupkis. Whatever Bupkis was—

“Sorry.”

“What about the past week?”

“Week?”

“Takes time to set up a hit.”

Well, wasn't that a lovely thought. “Last week was spent cooking with Sarah, handing out canapés, and washing dishes.” That's why the muse had been so insistent this morning. Usually she didn't roll out quite that early.

“What about today? Anything interesting happen?”

She waited for him to look up so she could give him another Look. Got another grin, which was pretty much the goal. The grin faded into a thoughtful frown. He made what looked like random doodles on the paper.

“What's bothering you?”

He glanced up, gave a half shake, then a wry grin. “Wish I knew.”

She shifted her chin to one hand, started tracing patterns on the wood with her other. “Wish I could help.”

“You have helped.” She must have looked skeptical, because he added, “Eliminating possibilities helps.”

“Okay.” She hesitated. “You'll…be careful, won't you?

Before he could respond, they heard footsteps in the hall.

“Detective?”

“In here,” Alex called, half turning in his chair.

The uniformed cop peered inside. “They need you outside, sir.”

“Right.” He pushed his chair back. Looked like he wanted to say something, but if he did want to, he decided against it. “Excuse me.”

He strode out and she didn't know if he would be back. Her sigh was on the shuddery side, but a rumble from her stomach helped redirect her thoughts. She got up, felt free to groan now that she was alone, then headed for the fridge. This time she flicked on the small TV sitting next to it. Just in time for the news. She flipped to the channel that she'd seen lurking outside—maybe they'd be on the news—and opened the fridge, randomly shifting through containers as the announcer did a recap of the stories to come and then launched into the top one.

“In a bizarre twist, wealthy businessman Phineas St. Cyr was shot to death on the Moon Walk—”

It was the location that made her look at the screen just in time to see a photograph replace the announcer. She straightened and stared. If it wasn't the creepy old man who tripped her, then it was his twin.

A
lex watched
the tow truck drive away, taking his wheels to an uncertain future. It wasn't just the windows that got hit this time. Shooter had taken out his engine, which was better than taking their lives—though he had a feeling his insurance company wouldn't agree. Techs were rolling up the tape, uniforms had thinned to just those trying to untangle the snarled traffic. Laura had been gone when he came out, but she must have started texting the family as soon as she and her partner drove away. His cell had started buzzing like angry bees. Hadn't stopped either, despite being ignored. Press had cleared off. He looked at his watch. They might make the end of the broadcast. He expected the texts to graduate to a call from his dad, who never missed the news. Eventually he'd have to call someone, unless he wanted to walk home. He looked at the house, wondering why he didn't make the call. It was past time to leave.

It's not like Nell would go out with him, even if he had a way to take her somewhere. Getting shot at twice in a single day had probably cooled her jets. Wouldn't take her long to figure out that hanging with a guy like him was a bad idea. Too bad. Been awhile since he'd kissed a girl. Been longer than that since he kissed one he liked. Couldn't remember when a woman had asked for it. He liked that.

He should make sure she was all right before he left. He knew it was an excuse, maybe even a stall. So far he was only one who knew it. If the signs looked good, maybe he could still get in the lip action…he climbed the shallow steps but before he could knock, the door opened. For some reason, seeing Nell there in the open made him uneasy, so he stepped inside, like she'd invited him, and closed the door. He didn't really believe someone wanted to kill her, but…

“You all right?” He studied her. She looked a bit pale.

She rubbed the back of her head, creating more disorder in her hair. It was kind of cute.

“I'm fine.”

She wasn't. With six sisters, he knew when a woman wasn't all right. He'd never knew the what, didn't expect to cuz he was a guy, but had learned to know when something was. “Did you remember something else?”

She shook her head. “It's just…well, odd.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you have time to come back in the kitchen?”

“Of course.” The trip felt short, though the hall was long, and not unpleasant following Nell. The boots put a nice sway in her caboose. Inside, his gaze swept the room, stopping at the small television, an image frozen on the screen. They must have a DVR. “Someone capped St. Cyr? Well, that was a public service.”

“He's not…nice?”

“No, he's not nice.”

“I didn't think he was, but then I thought, well, I do have an imagination. It's kind of obligatory for an author, you know.”

He frowned, unease creeping in and making itself at home. “What?”

“I think I…actually I don't think, I did see him today. In the Quarter. On the Moon Walk. Where they found…him—he wasn't dead when I saw him,” she added hastily.

“No, of course not.”

She shifted from one foot to the other. The move was not unfamiliar to a guy with six sisters. He jerked his head toward the table.

“Let's sit and you tell me what's worrying you.”

“It's probably nothing.” She didn't protest when he pulled out a chair for her and only winced a bit when her ass hit wood.

He took the chair next to hers, angling so he could watch her face. Settled back, his feet planted, but relaxed, like his dad. Even heard his dad's words come out his mouth. “Tell me.”

So she did. She was a natural storyteller, guess she would be since she wrote stories, but he could tell she tried to stick to the facts. Almost enjoyed her recital until she got to the part where she tripped over the wise geezer's cane. He straightened some, even though he could see no possible connection between that and the recent shooting. Or the wise geezer's timely demise. It was weird, though. “So the bodyguard helped you up.” That made him itchy, not sure why. She nodded. “St. Cyr say anything to you besides sorry?”

“Told me I should wear a hat.” She touched the end of her lightly sunburned nose. “Or use sunscreen.”

He studied her, trying to figure out if it meant anything. “I'll make some calls, see what I can find out. Don't think a chance, one-time—”

She twitched a bit.

“This was the first time?”

She shook her head. “Not the first time I saw him. First time we talked. I notice faces, it's kind of my thing when I'm not doing Alphonse, or even when I am because—” She stopped. “Sorry. Anyway, I noticed him before today. I guess he liked to come sit on the Moon Walk. That's where I saw him.”

St. Cyr liked to sit on the Moon Walk? Since when? “You say this is the first time you talked?”

“He sort of smiled at me once.” She made a face.

“Sort of?”

“He's not—he wasn't good at it. Kind of creepy, actually. Like a crocodile.”

“He probably didn't get much practice smiling,” Alex pointed out, a bit dryly.

That made her smile, though it faded too fast. “I felt a bit guilty. I didn't like him. When I saw him after that I'd avoid him, but today—”

“What about today?”

“Today he was between me and my lunch. And my bike. And I didn't see him until it was too late to find an alternate route. And I was running late—” Her gaze turned distant. “It was probably a good thing I was late. I wanted to sketch him, but I didn't think he'd like being a bok choy.”

Had he missed something? “A…bok choy?”

She blinked and distant disappeared. “It's a Chinese cabbage.”

“I know.” Maybe. He knew that it was a vegetable anyway. “So you didn't sketch him?”

“Not as a bok choy.” She turned and grabbed a sketch pad he hadn't noticed laying on the table. She flipped through the pages and then handed it to him. “Sometimes I just need to do a mental dump, to clear my head. So I sketch my day.”

She'd had a lot of material today. He looked down, not surprised he'd made the mental dump. She was better than he'd expected. Not sure why he hadn't expected it unless, maybe it was the whole vegetable thing. Following the muse on a bicycle. But she was published. Someone had invested money in her books, and she had at least one creepy little fan, so he should have expected her to be decently good. But she was better than that. Not that he was an art critic, but he liked what he saw.

It wasn't just the white of the page and gray of the pencil that made it so surprising. The sketches were small, but well done. There was one of him getting jacked by the kid. She'd caught the humor of it. The contrast. He gave her a quick glance and got an apologetic grimace. His gaze got caught by another sketch, across from his. He blinked. Tapped it.

“What's this?” he asked, even though he knew.

She angled her head to look. “Oh, a client. Sarah had an appointment so I had to meet with him.”

“Dimitri Afoniki was here? In this house?” It had to be a weird coincidence.

Her brow wrinkled. “His uncle hired us to cater his dinner party.”

In one day, she'd had contact with a wise geezer who died and the evil nephew of another. And got shot at. Hi gut twitched, but it refused to tell him what or why. And his brain couldn't find the connection between the three events, though he pressed it.

“You ever met him before?”

She shook her head. It helped. Some. Though his gut still twitched with unease.

“Why does it matter?”

Alex hesitated. “New Orleans has a mob trifecta we call the three wise geezers, or rather we did,” he added, casting a glance at the frozen television screen.

“Geezers?”

“They're really, really old.”

Nell straightened. “St. Cyr, Afoniki and—”

“Calvino.” He half expected to hear she'd met him today, too. She frowned. “Don't tell me you met him?”

Nell half grinned, shook her head, then paused. “Might have served him canapés, but not even sure about that. We did this big fundraiser last week with some other catering companies. Seems like I've heard the name, but it doesn't mean he was there…”

Not sure whether to be relieved or not, he returned his attention to her sketched mental dump—yeah, that was St. Cyr. No question. She'd managed to capture the moment. And the sinister quality of both men.

The river, the Moon Walk, the old man on the bench. He even got the impression of light and dark, of sun and cloud, all with a pencil. In one cameo, the old man leaned toward her. The angle was from the ground, the other man standing aloof, behind him, though his hand was outstretched. Reluctance in every line. Hard-faced, cold eyes. Alex shifted his attention to the old man. She'd caught something in his eyes, though he didn't know what—the more he looked, the more the drawing flattened out. It was like he had to glance, then look away, and think about it. He leaned back, trying to figure out what he'd seen. When he couldn't, he sighed, looking down again. Something bothered him— “His cane was tucked in.” He tapped the drawing.