Black Silk

Black Silk Metsy Hingle The victim was young, lovely and seduced by the wrong man…Mere hours before her wedding, the fianc?e of real estate mogul JP Stratton is found strangled in her penthouse. New Orleans homicide detective Charlotte “Charlie” Le Blanc views the crime scene, finding a black silk stocking draped casually beside the body – a chilling calling card from the killer. The dramatic clue leads Charlie to a world of privilege and wealth, and before long she singles out a suspect whose identity creates a furore in the city: Cole Stratton, JP’s estranged son.But what she doesn’t know is that Cole has been set up. While she sets out to prove his guilt, a real killer is on the loose – a man who now has Charlie in his sights… Also byMetsy Hingle DEADLINE FLASHPOINT BEHIND THE MASK Dear Reader, Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Black Silk. I hope you find it to be a real page-turner and it keeps you entertained. If this is the first time you’ve read any of my books, I do hope you enjoy it. For those of you who are familiar with my work, you won’t be surprised to find Black Silk is set in New Orleans, my birthplace and the city that continues to inspire me. As always, one of the greatest joys for me as a writer is hearing from readers. Your comments, opinions and feedback on my books mean a great deal to me. So please keep those letters, cards and e-mails coming. My address is Metsy Hingle, PO Box 3224, Covington, LA 70434, USA, or you can contact me on the web at metsyhingle.com. Until next time, best wishes and happy reading! Metsy Hingle METSY HINGLE BLACK SILK www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk) In Loving Memory of Missy 1991–2004 The four-legged ball of fur who owned my heart. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS During the course of writing this book, I lost dear family members, a lifelong friend and my beloved Missy, the puppy who sat on my lap for every book I’ve written until now. It was a difficult and sad period for me that made writing all the more difficult. Were it not for the grace of our Lord and the Blessed Mother, along with the support of some very special people, this book would never have been written. My heartfelt thanks go to the following people for their help in bringing life to Black Silk: Valerie Gray, my editor and friend at MIRA Books, whose continued guidance has been a blessing. Dianne Moggy, editorial director of MIRA Books, for her friendship and support. The amazing MIRA staff, who continue to astound me with their support. Sandra Brown, my dear friend, for her friendship, love and for the shoulder to cry on whenever I needed it. Erica Spindler and Nathan Hoffman, dearest of friends, for their friendship, advice and love. Hailey North, my dear friend and fellow writer, for her friendship, love and support. Carly Phillips, my friend and fellow writer, for her support. Bill Capo, TV investigative reporter for Channel 4 News in New Orleans, for his friendship, support and for answering my questions about the inner workings of the newsroom. Marilyn Shoemaker, my friend, fan and researcher. A special thank-you goes to my children and my family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after. And as always, to my husband, Jim, who is my lover, my best friend, my rock and the person who has taught me everything that I know about love. One She should have found him by now. Ignoring the chill of the February wind, Detective Charlotte “Charlie” Le Blanc stared down at her sister’s grave. Six years had passed since an unspeakable monster had murdered her sister Emily. And still he remained free. Free to walk the streets. Free to breathe. Free to kill again. Thunder rumbled overhead and the angry sound seemed to echo Charlie’s mood. She was no closer to finding her sister’s killer now than she’d been when she’d quit law school and joined the New Orleans police force almost six years ago. “It sounds like we’re in for some bad weather,” her mother remarked, drawing Charlie’s attention from her dark thoughts. “I wish you had worn your heavy coat like I asked you to, Gordon.” “My jacket is fine,” her father replied. “Honey, this is New Orleans, not New York.” Charlie looked over at the two of them. Grief had taken its toll on both of them, she thought. Despite the grief counseling that had helped them get through the loss of their middle daughter, the twinkle in her mother’s hazel eyes was never quite as bright again, her smiles never quite as wide. And although he’d never fallen apart, Emily’s murder had left its mark on her father as well. The lines around his eyes had grown deeper, his hair grayer, his laughter less frequent. When another growl of thunder was followed by a crack of lightning, her father placed an arm around her mother’s shoulder. “Looks like that rain is moving in this direction. We’d better go if we want to beat the downpour.” “All right,” her mother responded and walked over to the headstone. Stooping down, she placed a bouquet of yellow roses in front of it. After pressing her fingers to the marble stone where Emily’s name had been engraved, she straightened and returned to her husband’s side. “Charlotte, are you coming?” “Not just yet. You and Dad go on ahead. I won’t be long.” “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone,” her mother said. “It’s not safe.” “Mom, I’m a cop,” Charlie protested. “You’re still our little girl,” her mother informed her. “Your mother’s right, Charlie,” her father told her. “We’ll wait and walk you to your car.” Charlie fingered the package of yellow M&M candies in her jacket pocket. It was a silly gift—her sister’s favorite snack in her favorite color. It had become both a joke and a tradition since she’d fished out six of the yellow candies from a bag of the treats, bundled them up in tissue, tied it with a yellow ribbon and presented it to Emily for her sixth birthday. Emily had adored it. So every birthday that had followed, Charlie had added another candy to mark her sister’s age and presented her with the gift—right up to the year that her sister was killed. And for the past six years, she had continued the tradition. Only now she placed the gift on Emily’s grave. She knew it was foolish. After all, her sister was dead and as far as she knew, ghosts, if there was such a thing, didn’t eat candy. But continuing the practice somehow kept the memory of her sister close. It also renewed her determination to keep the promise she’d made to both of them at Emily’s funeral—to find her sister’s killer and bring him to justice. “I’ll be fine, Dad,” she told him. “Charlotte,” her mother began. “I’ll only stay a few minutes.” She kissed her mother on the cheek and then her father. “Now you two go on before the rain hits. I won’t be long. I promise.” “Are you still coming over for dinner?” her mother asked. “Yes. But I’ve got some paperwork to do at the station first so I may be a little late.” “That’s all right. Anne got sent out on some kind of assignment at the TV station this afternoon and she’ll probably be late, too,” her mother explained. “We’ll just plan on eating a little later than usual.” “Sounds good. I’ll see you tonight,” she said. “Make sure you don’t stay long,” her father instructed. “I won’t,” she promised again. Once her parents had departed, Charlie walked over to the marble stone that marked her sister’s grave. She retrieved the package of twenty-five yellow M&Ms from her pocket and placed it beside the roses her mother had brought. “Happy birthday, Em,” she whispered just before the skies opened up. Charlie made a run for it. By the time she reached her car, the black boots she’d splurged on the week before were a mess and she was soaked to the skin. A gust of wind sent a surge of rain into the vehicle as she hurried inside. After starting the car, she pushed wet clumps of hair away from her face. She was debating whether to go home and get a dry jacket before heading to the station when her cell phone rang. “Le Blanc,” she answered as she hit the defrost button on the dashboard. “It’s Kossak,” “What’s up?” she asked Vince Kossak, her partner for the past two years. “We’ve got a possible 187,” Vince informed her, giving her the code for a homicide. “What’s the location?” she asked. “The Mill House Apartments in the Warehouse District,” Vince replied. “I’m headed there now.” “I’m on my way.” Maybe she had yet to find justice for her sister Emily, but at least she could try to find justice for someone else. He stood across the street shadowed by both his umbrella and the trees in the small park. Smiling, he watched the activity unfold at the apartment building. It had been risky for him to hang around, but the camouflage of the rain made it too tempting to resist seeing the reaction to his handiwork. Everything had gone according to plan. The discovery of Francesca’s body by the maid couldn’t have gone better if he’d scripted the scene himself. Which, come to think of it, he had—at least indirectly, he thought proudly. Maybe when he finally collected the money due him, he would invest some of it in the movie business. Making movies in Louisiana had become big business and it made sense for him to get in on some of the action. Better yet, instead of simply being the moneyman, hewouldact as the movie’s director. After all, he had directed the players in the drama going on across the street for months now, hadn’t he? And look at what a masterful job he’d done. Yes, he thought with a chuckle, the idea of directing appealed to him—almost as much as killing Francesca had appealed to him. The M.E.’s van pulled up and he shoved his plans for the future aside. Another group of the city’s gofers exited the vanfollowed by a tall woman wearing an ugly beige raincoat.Mid-forties, moderately attractive, he thought, studying her. After speaking to the doorman for a moment, she turned and began giving instructions to the men accompanying her. The medical examiner herself, he realized, his gloved fist tightening on the handle of his umbrella. Another woman in a position of power—power that she wielded over the men beneath her. Adrenaline surged through him as he considered the prospect of showing her what real power was. He couldn’t risk it, he told himself as he watched her and her minions enter the building. Besides, she really wasn’t worthy of his attention. Now the pretty, blond detective who had arrived flashing her badge was another matter altogether. He smiled. He hadn’t anticipated that the police department would assign a woman to Francesca’s case and certainly not one so young and attractive. Even all wet and in the bland clothes, she was a looker. And hadn’t he always been partial to blondes? She was a bonus, one he hadn’t expected. He was going to enjoy sparring with this one. And maybe he would do more than just sparring, he amended with a smile as he touched the black silk stocking in his coat pocket. But the lady cop would have to wait, he decided. First…first, he had to put the next part of his plan into play. Whistling, he strode down the street toward his car. By the time Charlie turned onto the street where the Mill House Apartments were located, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. But the wet streets had caused a slew of fender benders that had turned what should have been a ten-minute drive into twenty. With a touch of impatience, Charlie pulled her unmarked car to a stop behind a silver Rolls-Royce. “Ma’am, this is a no-parking zone,” a uniformed doorman holding a black umbrella told her as she exited her car. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to move your vehicle.” She didn’t bother pointing out that the Rolls was in the same no-parking zone as her car. Instead she flashed him her badge. “I’m here on official business. The car stays here,” she informed him and strode toward the apartment building. Nervously tailing her, he called out, “But, ma’am—” “Detective,” she corrected without breaking her stride, making her way to the building’s entrance. Once a working cotton mill, the Mill House was one of several vacant buildings that had been converted into luxury apartments following the success of the city’s 1984 World’s Fair. The place bore little resemblance to the old mill now, she thought as she reached the porte cochere that had been part of the building’s original architecture. She climbed the dozen steps and was about to open the door when the doorman practically jumped in front of her. “It’s my job,” he explained when she leveled him with a look. “Thanks,” Charlie murmured as he pulled the door wide. This had to be a first, she thought. She couldn’t recall ever being greeted at a crime scene in such a manner before. Then again, this wasn’t the typical place for a homicide. Although New Orleans held the unwanted distinction of ranking number one in the nation for murders per capita, most of the crimes were committed in the poorer sections of the city. Nine times out of ten, where the poverty was most prevalent so were the drugs, gangs and turf wars that so often resulted in murder. It was a sad fact of life and a black eye on the city of New Orleans, despite the current efforts being made by the police chief to rectify the problem. But barely into the second month of the calendar, the murder rate had already exceeded one a day. In her five years on the police force Charlie couldn’t ever recall a murder occurring in one of the city’s upscale apartment buildings. And there was no question this one was upscale, she conceded as she marched across shining marble floors, past urns filled with fresh flowers and over to the front desk. A nervous-looking clerk in a gray-and-red uniform that matched the doorman’s looked up and asked, “May I help you?” “I’m Detective Le Blanc,” she said, flashing him her badge. The man paled. “You must be here about poor Ms. Hill.” “That’s right,” she said, assuming poor Ms. Hill was the victim. “What’s the apartment number?” “Let me call Mr. Blackwell for you. He’s the building manager,” he explained. “He’ll take you up to Miss Hill’s apartment.” “That’s all right. I can manage on my own. Just give me the apartment number,” she told him. “It’s 513. But—” “Thanks,” she said and started toward the elevator. “Wait! Ma’am. Officer—” “It’s Detective,” she corrected, pausing at the panic in the young man’s voice. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, Detective,” he said. “If you’ll just wait a minute. I’m supposed to notify Mr. Blackwell—” “It’s all right, Dennis,” a portly man with a horrible comb-over said as he materialized from a door behind the desk to stand beside the nervous clerk. “I’m Mr. Blackwell, the manager of Mill House Apartments,” he advised her with a pomposity that annoyed her. “Detective Charlotte Le Blanc,” she told him with a flash of her badge. “New Orleans Homicide.” “So I see,” he all but sniffed. “Several of your associates have already arrived, Detective. Perhaps you would like to remove your coat before you join them.” The disdain in his voice was clear as he surveyed the wet tracks she’d left in her wake, and Charlie suspected he would have preferred showing her the exit instead of allowing her further access. And because she’d never understood why some people thought a fancy title or money entitled them to act pompously, she said, “It’s a bit chilly in here. I think I’ll just keep it on.” And without waiting for his response, she walked past him, down the corridor to the elevator, where she found a uniformed police officer waiting. “Detective Le Blanc,” she said, showing him her ID. “Yes, ma’am.” The officer stepped inside the elevator with her and hit the button for the fifth floor. “Why don’t you fill me in, Officer,” Charlie said and noted the surveillance camera inside the elevator. She made a mental note to have the tapes confiscated if Kossak hadn’t already done so. “I wasn’t first on the scene, Detective. All I know is that we have a robbery/homicide in apartment 513. Any details on what went down and who was involved are being kept in there.” Moments later when the elevator doors slid open, the police officer remained where he was and she stepped out into a carpeted hallway adorned with artwork and more urns of fresh flowers. As she walked down the hall, her damp boots were silent on the thick carpet. More surveillance cameras were in evidence and Charlie was impressed by the security measures. The tapes should prove useful, she thought. As she approached apartment 513, she noted the crime-scene tape that had been stretched across the doorway and another uniformed police officer, whom she pegged as a rookie, standing at the door’s entrance like a sentinel. Charlie held up her badge. “Detective Le Blanc.” “Detective,” he said, all but snapping his heels together. “Who was the first on scene?” she asked. “I was, ma’am. My partner and I were on patrol when we got the call. After we arrived, we confirmed the victim was dead and phoned it into the station. We secured the scene and took a statement from the woman who found the body.” Charlie quickly scanned the room, taking in the crime scene, which she guessed had been the site of a party, judging by the empty glasses and half-eaten food. The various police units were at work, sorting through it all. The forensic photographer snapped shots of empty glasses and champagne bottles on the table, then bagged the items. She spied her partner, Vince Kossak, in a far corner of the room, questioning a woman in a maid’s uniform. From the look of things, the fresh-faced officer had followed procedure. His securing the scene properly would certainly make her and Vince’s job easier. “Good work, Officer…” “Mackenzie, ma’am. Andrew Mackenzie.” “You did a good job, Officer Mackenzie.” “Thank you, ma’am.” Charlie nodded, then made her way across the room toward her partner. At thirty-two, Vince was three years her senior. An average-looking man of average height with brown hair and eyes, Vince was anything but average when it came to being a cop. He had a string of commendations for his bravery in the field. Though he downplayed the awards, she knew firsthand that he deserved every one of them. Just last year he’d faced down a drugged-up junkie wielding a knife who was holding his own wife hostage. Vince got the woman away unharmed, but it had taken a dozen stitches to close the gash in his shoulder. No, Vince Kossak wasn’t even remotely average, she mused. He was everything she believed a cop should be—honest, trustworthy, a man you could stake your life on. They didn’t come any more solid than Vince Kossak. And she’d been lucky to be assigned to work with him. The two of them made a good team. In the two years that they had been partners, she had learned a great deal from him. More than that, they had become friends. She trusted Vince with her life and vice versa. He was among the few people that she’d confided in about her sister’s murder and her determination to track down the killer. Looking up, she caught Vince’s eye and he motioned for her to join him. “Thank you, Mrs. Ramirez. You’ve been a big help,” Vince told the woman and waved the uniformed officer over to join them. “Now if you’ll just go with the police officer, he’ll get your contact information and we’ll be in touch with you.” “You will find this person who hurt Miss Francesca, yes?” the woman asked, her accented voice thick with tears. “We’re certainly going to try.” Once the police officer led the woman away, Vince turned to Charlie. “Jeez, Le Blanc,” he said as he took in her wet hair and jacket. “Haven’t you ever heard of an umbrella?” She shrugged. “The weatherman said no rain today.” “And you believed him?” “I was hoping he’d get it right for once.” Of course, he hadn’t gotten it right. Nine times out of ten, the weather forecasts were off the mark, as was typical for New Orleans. The weather was as wide-ranging as the people who lived there. You could find yourself in shirtsleeves and suffering from a drought one day only to be hit with freezing temperatures and floods the next day. “You’re lucky they even let you in the front door of this place.” “Trust me, that prissy manager wouldn’t have if he could have helped it,” she replied. “So what have we got?” “The vic’s wallet is empty and according to the maid there’s jewelry missing.” “A robbery gone bad?” Charlie asked. “Maybe.” He gave her a quick rundown of the situation, explaining the maid had arrived that morning to help the victim get ready for her wedding, only to find the bride-to-be dead. “Today was her wedding day?” While each case she investigated left a mark on her, Charlie couldn’t help feeling sad for the woman whose dreams had ended before they’d even begun. “It was supposed to be.” He paused. “This one is going to be touchy, Le Blanc. Word from the top is that we’re to handle this with kid gloves.” She wasn’t surprised given the real estate. “Who’s the victim?” “Her name’s Francesca Hill. Age twenty-six, a former casino hostess.” The name didn’t ring any bells. Charlie glanced around the apartment. Lots of white and black, bold splashes of red, modern artwork that looked like a kid had been let loose with finger paints. It all added up to one thing—money. “Casino hostessing must pay really well.” “It does if you’re marrying the boss.” Charlie arched her brow. “The fianc? is J. P. Stratton.” “Stratton,” she repeated. “As in Stratton Real Estate?” Vince nodded. “And Stratton Hotels. The man also has an interest in two casinos and a professional football team. Our vic was supposed to become wife number five this evening.” Charlie conjured up a vague image of a gray-haired man with a George Hamilton tan. The guy was sixty if he was a day. “Apparently Stratton likes his brides young.” “Apparently,” Vince replied. “Where’s the body?” “In the bedroom.” “How’d she buy it?” Charlie asked. “We’re waiting for the M.E. to give the official cause of death,” he said, a troubled look coming into his eyes. “But it looks like she was strangled.” For a moment, everything inside Charlie froze. Murder investigations were never easy. But the ones where strangulation was the cause of death were the hardest for her because it always brought back thoughts of her sister’s death. “Listen, why don’t you stay out here and make sure the techies don’t screw up and I’ll handle things in there,” he offered and urged her away from the bedroom. Charlie narrowed her eyes. “All right, Kossak. What’s in that bedroom that you don’t want me to see?” Vince eyed his partner carefully, noting the shadows beneath her dark brown eyes. In the years they’d worked together he’d watched Charlie push herself, driven by demons to find justice for the victims. He knew from the countless hours she spent poring over case files that the demon that drove her hardest was finding her sister’s killer. It was the reason he was worried now about how she would respond to what was in the next room. It had nothing to do with her toughness. He’d seen Charlie hold it together at more than one bloody homicide scene when even a seasoned vet would have lost his lunch. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t a better, smarter or more dedicated cop on the force than Charlie Le Blanc. But for all her smarts and toughness, Charlie Le Blanc had a heart, a heart that sometimes felt way too much. And her sister’s murder was like a wound with a bandage on it that had been pulled off too soon. It was painful. And it wouldn’t take much to reopen that wound again. “You going to answer me, Kossak?” “Come on, Le Blanc. We’ve got a female strangling victim. Give yourself a break. Let me handle this one.” “I can carry my end of the job, Kossak,” she informed him, her already husky voice dropping even lower. “Nobody said you couldn’t,” he said sharply and when he noted heads turn in their direction, Vince hustled her over near a window and out of earshot of the fingerprint team. Lowering his voice, he repeated, “I never said you couldn’t carry your end of the job. Hell, half the time you’d carry mine if I’d let you. But you are not personally responsible for solving every homicide in this city.” “I know that.” “Then act like it. Cut yourself some slack for once.” “I can’t,” she told him and looked away. “Why not?” “Because I can’t,” she insisted. “Why can’t you?” he pressed. She whipped her gaze back to him and spat out, “Because if I don’t stop him, he might kill another—” She paused, took a steadying breath. “He might kill someone else.” Vince said nothing. But he had no doubt that what she had been about to say was that he might kill another innocent girl like her sister. “I thought you said this one was high priority,” she said more calmly. “So are we going to process the scene or not?” Vince knew any further attempt on his part to dissuade her would be pointless. So he said, “Let’s do it.” He headed to the bedroom, knowing she was behind him. He paused at the door and donned gloves so as not to mar any evidence. “Ready?” “Ready,” she replied as she finished putting on her own gloves. They stepped into the room. It was huge, almost the size of his apartment, he noted as he surveyed the scene a second time. Only this room smelled of booze, perfume and sex. The virginal-white color scheme was only broken by the clothing that lay strewn on the carpet and the golden-blond hair of the woman who lay on the bed. “She’s beautiful.” “Yeah,” Vince replied. From a distance she did look beautiful, like something out of a painting, a siren draped in satin sheets. Her heart-shaped face looked as if it had been carved from ivory. It was smooth and perfect. The green eyes stared glassily up at the ceiling. The long, yellow-gold hair was spread out against the pillow and fell across pale shoulders. One hand rested near her face, the diamond ring on her finger catching the light. Only the marks across her throat marred the picture of beauty. He eyed Charlie, worried about the impact of the scene on her. But other than a momentary stiffening, she gave nothing away. “Judging by that rock on her finger, we either have ourselves a very dumb thief or robbery wasn’t the motive. The way she’s positioned on the sheets with her hair spread on the pillow and her hand near her face looks staged,” Charlie remarked. “Our killer is evidently into showmanship—which tells me this was no robbery turned homicide. And it was no act of passion either. It was planned.” He had reached the same conclusion himself. “Given the security in this place, I’d say our vic must have known her killer.” She glanced down at the discarded underwear. “I’d say she knew him well enough to go to bed with him,” Charlie added. “I figure they started off with drinks in the living room,” he began, mentally re-creating how the murder had gone down. “Then they decided to take the action into the bedroom,” she continued. She walked past the high heels that had been discarded a few feet from the door, then stopped in front of the black sequined dress that lay in a heap. “Pretty,” she said and stooped down to examine the dress. She checked the label and read, “Ricardo’s. I know this shop. It’s very expensive.” “Why, Le Blanc, I never would have guessed that you’d go in for this kind of number,” he said in an effort to distract her from what awaited. “Oh, I’d go for it all right. The problem is I’d never be able to conceal my gun in it or be able to afford it, which is exactly what I told my sister Anne when she dragged me into the place to see a skirt she’d been drooling over.” “Did she buy it?” The question was out before he’d been able to stop it and he could have kicked himself for the slip. Anne Le Blanc was little more than a kid, but for some reason she got under his skin. “No. I managed to talk her out of it,” she said and went back to examining the dress. “We should get the techs to dust the zipper for prints. There’s always the chance we’ll get lucky.” But it wasn’t likely, Vince thought. A killer who would take the time to pose the victim wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving his prints on the dress’s zipper or anyplace else. Charlie moved farther into the room and stopped again, this time to check out a spot on the carpet. She poked at the matted section of carpet with her gloved fingertip, then sniffed it. “My guess is it’s champagne,” he told her. “There was an empty bottle in the living room and a couple more bottles in the bar.” She nodded, rose and continued toward the bed. “So they get a little more frisky here. She loses the bra,” Charlie said, playing out the scene just as he had. She looked at the overturned glasses that rested on the night table, eyed the panties beside the bed. Then she spied the black silk stocking draped on the bed next to the victim. Suddenly her body stiffened. Vince was sure Charlie noted, as he had, that the stocking looked smooth, no visible snags, not even a crease, as though it had never been worn. Instead, it appeared to have been placed beside the victim for effect. Finally she looked up at him. “The other stocking isn’t here, is it?” “No,” he told her, knowing the conclusion she would draw. Her sister had been strangled, her body posed in the bed in a similar manner and a single black silk stocking found at the scene. “He took the other one as a trophy. Just like the last time,” she said and stared once more at the bed. “Just like when he killed Emily.” Two Cole Stratton studied the floor plans of the newest Logan Hotel for which he and his firm, CS Securities, had been contracted to provide a security system. Spreading out the blueprints on his desk, he made notations to those areas where additional cameras would be needed. Logan Hotels, which had begun with a few small, luxury hotels a decade ago had blossomed into an international chain whose “L” logo guaranteed excellence in accommodations and in service. Cole had set his sights on this account nearly a year ago. Getting the call from Josh Logan telling him the job was his had been the culmination of months and months of hard work. It had been a major coup for him. He should be thrilled. He should be out celebrating. Instead, he was sitting in his office on a Saturday afternoon trying to assuage his concern for his sister by concentrating on business. But it wasn’t working. Frustrated, Cole threw down his pen and rammed his fingers through his hair. If only he had been able to convince Francesca not to file charges against his sister, Holly. But despite his efforts, the woman had been determined to follow through on her threat and have Holly arrested for violating the restraining order. Even though he’d sent Holly out of town for the time being, it would only be a temporary fix. If Francesca had contacted the police this morning, as she’d sworn she was going to do, they would already be looking for Holly. For his sister’s sake, he hoped Margee Jardine’s skill as a lawyer would be able to override J.P.’s political influence. The last thing his sister needed was the trauma of being dragged into the police station by her father’s newest wife. “Damn,” he muttered. Thinking about what Francesca was putting his sister through infuriated him. But he couldn’t lay all the blame at Francesca’s feet. No, J.P. was the one responsible for this mess. If the man hadn’t fallen into lust with his own daughter’s friend, Holly wouldn’t be in trouble now. Damn you, J.P. The selfish S.O.B. didn’t care whose life he ruined as long as he got what he wanted. If he weren’t so angry at Francesca, he might even feel sorry for the woman, because it wouldn’t be long before she discovered that being Mrs. J. P. Stratton came at a very high price. His mother had paid it. First with her fortune, then with her dignity and finally with her life. The women who had followed had paid a price as well. So had each of J.P.’s children—including himself. Unfortunately, by the time his father’s new bride discovered the cold, ruthless man behind the charming facade she’d married, it would be too late. She would have become another casualty of J. P. Stratton’s ego and greed. But, maybe not. After all, Francesca Hill struck him as the type of woman who always landed on her feet. Of course, her share of J.P.’s fortune would certainly help cushion her fall. But Francesca wasn’t his concern. Holly was. And for the time being, there was nothing more he could do but wait and hope Francesca was too busy preparing for her wedding to follow through with the charges. Reminding himself that his sister was safely tucked away for now, he picked up his pen and went back to work. Lost in the challenge of the hotel project, he didn’t register the pounding on the door out front until he heard the shouting. “Cole!” Recognizing his brother Aaron’s voice, Cole pushed away from his desk and headed down the hall to the reception area. His first thought was that there had been a warrant issued for Holly. Just as quickly he dismissed that notion. Margee Jardine’s contact in the police department had promised to notify her if a warrant was issued. “Cole, open the door!” He frowned as he approached the door, suspecting that his brother was there to try one last time to convince him to attend J.P.’s wedding. Younger than him by four years, Aaron had been blessed with his mother’s blond hair and green eyes while he had inherited his father’s dark hair and blue eyes. Even though he more closely resembled his father than his four half siblings, it was Aaron who shared the closest bond with J.P. And it was Aaron who constantly tried to bridge the rift between them. Cole unlocked the door. “It’s about damn time,” Aaron snapped. “I’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour. Why in the hell aren’t you answering your cell phone?” “Because I didn’t want to be disturbed,” Cole told him. “So if you’re here to try and change my mind about going to J.P.’s wedding, you’re wasting your time.” “There isn’t going to be any wedding,” Aaron told him, his voice flat. “Francesca’s dead.” For a moment, Cole thought that his brother had made some sort of tasteless joke. After all, Aaron had made no secret of the fact that he thought J.P. marrying his own daughter’s friend was disgusting. But one look at Aaron’s face and he knew his brother wasn’t joking. “What happened?” “It looks like she was murdered.” Cole’s brain tried to process the news. The determined young woman he’d tried to reason with the previous night was dead? “When? Where?” “Sometime last night at her apartment,” Aaron informed him. “The maid found her a few hours ago. Blackwell, the manager at the Mill House, called me and I had him phone the police. Then I went over to the apartment building to wait for them. Seeing that dead body shook me up. You’d think my years in the military and in the SEALs would have prepared me for something like this.” “Sit down,” Cole told his brother, motioning to the sitting area where sofas and chairs had been grouped around a square marble table. Aaron sank down into one of the upholstered chairs. Cole did the same and waited for his brother to continue. “Anyway, once the police arrived, I left and came looking for you since I couldn’t reach you on the phone.” “I’m sorry about that,” Cole said and meant it. “Do the police have any idea who did it?” “Not that I know of. They think robbery might have been the motive. Francesca’s wallet was empty and the maid said some of her jewelry is missing.” “A robbery at the Mill House?” Cole remarked skeptically. He knew the building and the security system. Both were excellent. “I know. I find it hard to believe, too. But it’s the only thing that makes sense. You know how the old man drapes all his women in jewelry and shows them off. He spent another chunk of change on a bracelet for her just last week. And Francesca wasn’t at all shy about flashing her little gifts under everyone’s noses. The woman might as well have pasted a sign on her back. Every thief in a five-state radius could spot her as an easy mark.” Somehow he doubted the street-smart woman would allow herself to be anyone’s mark, Cole thought. But then he also couldn’t see her going down without a fight. “How did she die?” “The police say it looks like she was strangled.” Like a lightning bolt, a dark memory from his childhood flashed through Cole’s mind—a furious J.P. arguing with his mother, grabbing her and choking her. He’d been no more than five at the time, too small to take on a man J.P.’s size. But he’d grabbed his baseball bat and struck J.P. across the back as hard as he could. It had earned him a backhand and a bloody mouth, but it had given his mother time to get away. “How did J.P. react when you told him?” “He doesn’t know yet,” Aaron said. “That’s why I was trying to reach you. I was hoping you’d come with me to break the news to him.” “We both know the news will go down better without me there,” Cole told him. And it was true. He and his father were civil to one another, but just barely. Besides, they had nearly come to blows last night when he had ripped into J.P. for encouraging Francesca’s actions against Holly. “You’re probably right,” Aaron replied and stood. “I’m just not sure how he’s going to take this. You know how he is when he thinks he’s in love with a woman.” He did know, Cole admitted silently as he stood. He’d seen J.P. fall into lust more times than he could count when he’d been growing up. And each time, J.P.’s new fling had taken precedence over everything in his life—including each of his wives and his children. “I don’t think you have to worry about J.P. He’ll bounce back fast enough,” Cole said. “You’re probably right about that, too.” I am right, Cole thought. His own mother’s grave wasn’t cold before J.P. had married Aaron’s mother. He walked his brother to the door and placed a hand on his back for a moment. “Don’t worry about telling Holly. I’ll let her know what’s happened. Are you going to tell the twins or do you want me to do it?” he asked, referring to his two youngest half siblings. “Christ! I forgot all about them. They’re probably getting ready for the wedding right now,” Aaron said. “You’d better tell them. I don’t know how long I’ll be at the old man’s place and I don’t want them to hear about it on the news.” “I’ll tell them,” Cole promised. He walked his brother out into the hall, down to the elevator bank, and pushed the button. After the elevator arrived, he rode with Aaron to the parking level. When they exited the elevator into the garage, Aaron said, “Boy, talk about a mess. The press is going to have a field day with this and the timing couldn’t be worse. We’re waiting for approval on J.P.’s application for a new gaming license.” “I’d be more concerned with finding Francesca’s killer than with any bad publicity her murder might generate for J.P.,” Cole told him, irritated that his brother’s thoughts were on business and not the tragedy of a young woman’s death. Aaron’s eyes darkened and he shot him a look of annoyance. “You don’t have the market on empathy, Cole. I’m just as concerned as you are. I even liked Francesca. But someone has to look out for the business.” And because Cole had walked away from his father and the career path that had been planned for him, that duty had fallen to Aaron. Unfortunately, since Aaron had earned his law degree, J.P. had taken full advantage of his son’s legal skills. As a result, Aaron had never pursued the brilliant career or personal life he could have had outside of J.P.’s shadow. “I hope J.P. realizes how lucky he is to have you,” Cole told him honestly. “He’s my father,” Aaron said as though it was the only explanation needed for giving up his own career to work as his father’s attorney and right-hand man. “He’s your father, too. It wouldn’t hurt for you to remember that.” “Trust me. It’s something I never forget.” And Cole had certainly tried. In fact, he’d spent most of his life trying to distance himself from the man. Being J.P. Stratton’s son was something about which he had never taken pride. As far as he was concerned, the only good thing that J. P. Stratton had ever given him was his half siblings. It was because of them, and only them, that he maintained any relationship with the man at all. His brothers and sister were also the reason he had not destroyed J.P. as he had vowed to do following his mother’s death. The zap-zap of Aaron activating the door locks of his car with the remote broke into his thoughts. When they reached the vehicle, Aaron turned to him. “We’re going to need all the help we can get with damage control. It would help if you’d make a call to that friend of yours at the TV station to counteract any bad press.” “J.P.’s no stranger to publicity. I’m sure he can handle it.” “It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s Holly. What do you think they’re going to do when the story gets out about her crashing the rehearsal dinner last night and throwing wine in Francesca’s face?” Cole had heard all the ugly details from his sister last night. It had been a stupid and immature thing for Holly to do. Of course, she’d regretted her actions later. But by then the damage had been done. “How do you think Holly’s going to handle having the press in her face?” Aaron was right. Holly was as beautiful as a hothouse flower and just as fragile. And ever since that mess J.P. put her through eight years ago, she had never been the same. Having the press all over her would only unnerve her. “I’ll see what I can do.” Charlie stood, waiting impatiently for the M.E. to complete her preliminary examination of the body. As she did, she kept seeing that silk stocking lying next to the victim. But instead of seeing Francesca Hill’s face, she saw Emily’s. The memories came tumbling back like slides from a home-movie reel…back six years ago…back to another dreary and cold afternoon…. Charlie adjusted the rearview mirror of her car in an attempt to diffuse the blinding headlights from the car that was practically on her bumper. When the other driver pulled out into the oncoming lane to pass her, horns blasted as the car nearly collided with the SUV coming from the other direction. Gasping at the near miss, Charlie hit the brakes of her car when the driver pulled back into the lane in front of her. “Idiot,” she muttered when her heart began to beat almost normally again. The jerk could have gotten himself killed, not to mention the people in the SUV and her. Of course, she wouldn’t even be on this road if it weren’t for Emily. Emily. Just thinking of her younger sister annoyed her. This was payback. She knew it was. Her sister was punishing her by not answering her apartment phone or cell phone because Charlie had refused to drop everything and race over when she’d called yesterday. Emily’s claim that it was urgent usually meant one thing—guy trouble. Younger than her by four years, she and Emily couldn’t have been more different in appearance or personality. Emily was petite, feminine and blessed with the sexy curves that teenage boys dream about. Whereas she was tall, on the skinny side and more comfortable in jeans and T-shirts than a dress. Guys had been tripping over their tongues to go out with her younger sister from the time she’d gotten her first bra at the tender age of twelve. When it came to Charlie, the boys were more apt to ask her to play a game of catch than to go to the movies. She didn’t mind that Emily was always considered the pretty, ladylike one while she…she was the smart, athletic one. She never had minded. She was even glad to see that their baby sister, Anne, was turning out to be a good mixture of the two of them—pretty and feminine, athletic and smart. She loved both of her sisters, would do anything for them. But she resented the heck out of Emily screwing up her plans by playing stupid games. Because that’s just what she was doing by not answering her phone, Charlie reasoned. Emily knew that their mother would worry and insist that Charlie drive right over and check on her younger sister. And, of course, she would never refuse her parents—especially when her mother offered to make the drive from New Orleans to Baton Rouge if Charlie couldn’t. As a result, here she was driving clear across town and dodging idiotic drivers just to make sure that Emily was okay, when what she should be doing was studying for her criminal-law class. And she really, really needed the extra study time if she wanted to finish at the top of her class. You’d think by now their folks would be used to the fact that Emily was a drama queen, she reasoned, growing more resentful with each mile she drove. She didn’t know why her sister had bothered to take premed courses when she clearly belonged on the stage. Everything in Emily’s world was of major importance. Even a blemish popping up on her face the day before the senior prom in high school had been a life-or-death matter to her younger sister. Charlie smacked the steering wheel, irritated all over again that she had to put her own life on hold to come check on her sister. Finally she turned off onto the street where Emily lived. She pulled her car to a stop in front of the small cottage that their parents had leased for Emily at the start of the new semester. When she spied Emily’s Honda in the driveway and lights on inside the house, she fumed. She turned off the engine, slamming the car door as she exited, and marched up to the porch. She jabbed the doorbell with her thumb and held it there for an extra moment or two. Five seconds, ten seconds ticked by and she hit the doorbell again. When her sister still failed to answer, Charlie pounded on the door with her fist. “Come on, Emily. I know you’re in there. Open the door!” After several moments passed and her sister failed to answer, Charlie tried to peer through the frosted glass set in the wood panel of the door, but all she could see was the glow of lights. Since the drapes were drawn, she didn’t bother trying to look in the windows. Instead, she banged on the door again. When she still got no response, Charlie began to worry. Tilting the potted fern beside the door, she retrieved the spare key that her sister kept there. Quickly, Charlie inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. “Emily,” she called out as she stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind her. She could hear music coming from somewhere in the house, a mushy love song from that CD her sister had purchased a month ago and had played incessantly when she’d been home for the weekend. “Emily,” she called out again. Still no answer. A shiver of unease skipped down Charlie’s spine as she checked out the combination living room/dining room, but the room was empty. Charlie hit the off button on the CD player and suddenly there was silence. Too silent, she thought. Moving down the hall, Charlie glanced in the kitchen. The light was on, the room neat. Two empty wineglasses sat on the counter, washed but not put away. A dish towel had been folded in half and draped across the sink. But there was no sign of Emily. Charlie continued through the house to the next room, the spare bedroom. She flipped on the light, found it empty as well. Then she came to Emily’s bedroom. The door was closed, but she could see a faint light shining from beneath the bottom of the door. She tapped on it. “Emily?” Nothing. No response. No sound at all. With her heart pounding, Charlie opened the door. The heavy scent of honeysuckle hit her. Charlie noted the gutted candles, recognized the silky-sweet scent that Emily loved and that had driven her crazy when they had both still lived at home. But beneath the overpowering sweetness, she detected another scent. An unfamiliar scent. An unpleasant scent. Adjusting her eyes to the dimmer light, she saw her sister lying atop the bed, her body and face turned slightly away. At first glance, Charlie thought she was sleeping. She looked small in the four-poster bed, surrounded by the lacy yellow pillows and with the floral duvet draped over her lower body. She was wearing one of those silky, frilly nightgowns that she’d always favored over nightshirts and pajamas. A pair of matching black satin mules was askew on the floor. Although Emily’s face was turned away, her long blond hair cascaded across the pillow. One arm was lifted so that her hand rested on the pillow. Within reach of her fingertips lay a black silk stocking. For a moment, Charlie simply stared at her sister. Then she was struck by her stillness. Emily wasn’t moving, Charlie realized. Not even a slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Nervous, Charlie’s heart began to pound like ajackhammer. A knot formed in her stomach as she moved toward the bed. “Emily,” she said her name again, this time unable to keep the fear out of her voice. Reaching out, she touched her sister’s shoulder and Emily’s body shifted. Suddenly Emily’s arm fell limply over the side of the bed; her head tilted toward Charlie like a broken doll. As she stared at Emily’s lifeless brown eyes, Charlie began to scream. Charlie yanked herself back to the present. Shaking off the memory, she tuned into what the M.E. was saying to her and Vince and hoped that neither of them had noticed her lapse in attention. “What about a time of death, Doc?” Vince asked. “You know I can’t tell you that until I get the body back to the lab and examine it more closely,” Dr. Penelope Williamson said as she stripped off her gloves. “Come on, Doc. Just a ballpark idea,” Vince responded. “Well, based on lividity, I’d say she died sometime between midnight and four this morning. I should be able to narrow it down once I complete the exam.” “What about the cause of death?” Charlie asked her, even though she was sure strangulation would be ruled the cause—just as it had been for her sister. “My initial assessment is death due to strangulation. But like I said, I’ll know more once I get back to the lab and do a full exam.” She motioned for her team and they moved in and began to bag the victim for transport back to the coroner’s office. “I heard this one was a robbery turned homicide. Judging by some of the artwork left behind, your perp isn’t very bright. There’s a small fortune just on the living-room walls.” “He may have settled for the cash and jewelry because it was easier to get it out of here without attracting attention,” Vince offered. Or maybe the robbery had nothing to do with the murder, Charlie thought, because it simply didn’t feel like a robbery to her. “You’ll let us know if anything interesting shows up—like someone else’s DNA,” Charlie stated, knowing without asking that she could count on the other woman. Not only was Penelope Williamson a good doctor, she was thorough in her exams. Nothing got rubber-stamped on her watch. “I’ll let you know, Detective,” Dr. Williamson assured her in that cool, calm voice that reminded her of her high-school English teacher, her words perfectly enunciated and no hint of the South in her tone. “And I’ll also let you know if anything shows up in the toxicology report. From the looks of things, your victim liked to party.” If the champagne bottles and caviar in the other room were an indication, Francesca Hill liked to party in style, Charlie thought. “Sean, just one minute,” Dr. Williamson called out to one of the men with the body bag. Frowning, she said, “Excuse me, Detectives.” She and Vince watched as the other woman went over to her crew and had them wait while she tucked the victim’s hair inside the bag and away from the zipper. She stood there a moment longer, giving them instructions. Charlie had come to admire Penelope Williamson immensely in the year since she’d joined the New Orleans Coroner’s Office. To her surprise, the doctor had a sense of humor—something that helped make an often gruesome job more tolerable. Charlie had seen Dr. Williamson approach the most grisly of crime scenes without hesitation. And she’d seen her handle broken and bloody corpses with the same tenderness and care she would administer to a child. Penelope Williamson cared about the dead victims. It was something the two of them had in common, Charlie thought. She also felt in her bones that if anyone would be able to provide her with the information she needed to identity Francesca Hill’s killer, it would be Dr. Penelope Williamson. And her every instinct told her that when she found Francesca Hill’s killer, she would find Emily’s killer, too. “I know what you’re thinking, Le Blanc. And you shouldn’t start jumping to conclusions,” Vince warned. But before she could respond, Dr. Williamson returned. “Sorry about that.” “No problem,” Vince said. “How quick can you get us the autopsy results?” Charlie asked. Vince placed a hand on her arm and gave her a look. “Doc, what my partner’s trying to say is that we need the results on this one yesterday. So we really would appreciate it if you could process this one right away.” “Kossak, you and Le Blanc always need your cases processed right away. But you’re going to have to wait like everyone else. The weekend’s not over yet and I’ve already got five bodies lined up in the crypt waiting for me,” she told him, referring to the two homicides and three accident victims from the previous night. “But this one can’t wait,” Charlie began, only to grimace when Vince stepped on her foot. “The word from the top is that this case is a priority,” Vince explained. “We’ve been ordered to solve it quickly and quietly or heads are gonna roll.” “I don’t like politics, Kossak. They have no place in police business,” Dr. Williamson informed him. “I agree with you,” Vince returned. “But the victim’s fianc? has friends in high places and those friends are putting pressure on the captain.” The comment irritated Charlie—especially because she knew that despite the mayor’s efforts to rid the city of corruption, there were still a great many who held on to the good-old-boy system of doing business. “It doesn’t matter who her fianc? was or who the man is friends with,” Charlie said as she watched the body bag being carried out. “What matters is that a woman is dead and we need to catch the animal who killed her.” “You’re right, of course,” Dr. Williamson told her. “You’ll have the autopsy results as soon as I finish.” “Thanks. We owe you one, Doc,” Vince told her. “You owe me several, Detective.” She shifted her gaze to Charlie and back to him again. “Both of you do and one of these days I intend to collect by having you treat me to a lavish dinner at Commander’s Palace.” “Anytime you say, Doc. Right, Le Blanc?” Vince nudged her with his elbow. “Right?” “Um, right,” Charlie said, pulling her thoughts back to the present. “I intend to hold you to that,” Dr. Williamson told them, and after she gathered her bag, she headed for the door. “Snap out of it, Le Blanc, and start focusing on this case,” Vince said in a low voice near her ear before heading for the tech guys in the next room and barking orders about the surveillance tapes. Telling herself that Vince was right, that she did need to concentrate on the case at hand, Charlie made another sweep of the crime scene. Pictures had already been taken, evidence bagged and tagged. She walked through the bedroom, attempted to re-create where each piece of clothing, each shoe had been found. She looked at the bed, noted the markings on the mattress, outlining the position of the body when it had been found. She looked over to the spot where the stocking had been draped beside the body. As she did so, she called up the images forever etched in her memory from Emily’s bedroom six years ago. The similarities couldn’t be dismissed. It’s the same guy. She was sure of it—could feel it in her bones. He might have gotten away the last time, but not this time, she vowed. This time she wasn’t an unprepared law student who didn’t know enough to preserve the crime scene. This time she was a cop, one who knew what to look for and where to look for it. If he’d made a mistake, no matter how small, she would find it. And then she would find him. Three “De Nova, as soon as you process those bedsheets, get back to me,” Vince told the crime-scene tech who had bagged the bed linen to take back to the lab for trace evidence. “You got it,” the younger man said and gave him a salute that seemed strange coming from a guy with spiked orange hair. Shaking his head, Vince turned away. A quick once-over revealed that the rest of the crew were wrapping up. Satisfied, he glanced at the young officer who was still standing guard at the door. The kid looked barely old enough to drink, Vince thought. But he was tall. He had a good four inches on his own six feet, Vince estimated. His police uniform was neatly pressed; his shoes looked as if they’d been spit-polished. And he was standing so stiff and straight, it made his own spine ache. But buff and polish and baby face aside, the kid had done a good job securing the scene. He owed him one for stopping the apartment manager and staff from traipsing through the place and making everyone’s job a thousand times more difficult. The kid had a brain and had used it, which in his book was a big plus. He made his way over to him. “Officer Mackenzie, wasn’t it?” “Yes, sir. Andrew Mackenzie, sir.” “You can relax, Mackenzie.” “Yes, sir,” he said and shifted his stance so that his feet were separated by a foot instead of a few inches. Vince bit off a sigh. “Mackenzie, you did a good job here today.” “Thank you, sir.” “With the murder rate up, we’re a bit shorthanded in Homicide. We could use an extra pair eyes and legs on this case. How would you feel about being assigned to us temporarily?” “You mean work with you and Detective Le Blanc on a homicide?” “Yes, that’s what I mean,” Vince said. “If I can get it cleared with your captain, would you be willing to stay on for a while until we close this case?” “Yes, sir,” he said enthusiastically. “I’d consider it a privilege, sir. It’s my goal to work in Homicide one day.” “Then now’s your chance. Who’s your captain?” “Roussell, sir. Tom Roussell.” “I know Captain Roussell. He’s a good man.” He had worked under Tom Roussell himself when he’d been a rookie. “I’ll run this by Captain Warren in Homicide and ask him to call and square things with Captain Roussell. In the meantime, I want you to stay posted here and make sure no one enters this place without first talking to me or Detective Le Blanc. Got it?” “Yes, sir. Got it, sir.” Vince placed a call to his own captain first. He gave him a quick rundown of the situation, then made the request for Mackenzie’s reassignment. The captain didn’t hesitate and said he’d handle the duty change himself. After listening to the captain reiterate the need for them to close this case quickly and quietly, Vince ended the call. He turned back to Mackenzie. “It’s all set, Mackenzie. For now, you belong to Homicide and report to me and Detective Le Blanc.” “Thank you, sir. I promise I won’t let you down, sir.” Vince nodded and turned away. God, but the kid made him feel like an old man. Hell, maybe in today’s youth-driven culture, thirty-two was considered old. Or maybe all the years of dealing with the ugly side of humanity had aged him prematurely. Then again, maybe his mother was right and he needed a woman in his life—someone to remind him of the good in the world after dealing with so much of the darkness. Fat chance, he thought. Since his divorce five years ago, his longest relationship had lasted all of three months. And the truth was, that relationship would have hit the skids sooner if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in the case he’d been working on at the time. That was his problem, Vince decided. Work always came first. It had been one of his ex-wife’s major complaints—he was gone all the time. Of course, she hadn’t liked the size of his paychecks either. She’d given him an ultimatum—find another job or the marriage was over. He’d opted to keep the job. Luckily for both of them, they’d had the sense to call it quits before kids came into the picture. Last he’d heard, his ex had found herself a new husband with a nine-to-five job and a fat paycheck. But he was still a cop, he reminded himself. He was also still alone. Shoving aside his grim thoughts, Vince went to look for his partner. He found her in the bedroom, staring at the bed where the body had been. Vince frowned. There was an edginess in her stance that worried him. Charlie kept a lot bottled up inside and although she was better than most at hiding her feelings, he knew that every case claimed a piece of her. Some more than others. He knew that scene in the bedroom had hit her hard. He also knew that it had hit much too close to home. It was what he had been afraid of from the moment he’d arrived on the scene and discovered that single stocking on the bed. He’d worked enough crime scenes to recognize a perp’s signature. Every criminal, whether they were a torcher, a safecracker or a killer, had his or her own signature. The stocking was this guy’s signature. And from the report he’d been able to obtain on Emily Le Blanc’s case, he knew the similarities—death by strangulation and a single black stocking beside the victim—were identical to this one. Though he had attempted to downplay the situation, he knew she hadn’t bought it. The odds that the same man was responsible for both murders was more than good. Which meant Charlie had no business on this case. But getting her to see that was another story. He knew for a fact that she’d spent countless hours during her off time scrolling through Codis, hoping to find a match in the DNA index system to the DNA recovered from her sister’s crime scene. And each time she’d come up empty. Until now. Convincing her to back away would be next to impossible. But he had to at least try. Walking into the room, he came to a stop beside her. “The techs are finishing up out there. We probably ought to head over to Stratton’s place and give him the news before someone else does.” She turned to face him. “My car’s out front. You want to take it or follow me in yours?” “What do you say I work this one solo?” “Like hell you will,” she snapped. “Come on, Le Blanc. You’ve got a personal stake in this one. You don’t belong on this case.” “I’ve been looking for this guy for years. I know more about him than you or anyone else.” “That might be true. But you also have a major conflict of interest. If the captain knew there was even a possibility that this case is connected to your sister’s murder, he’d pull you off of it in a New York minute.” “But he doesn’t know. And neither does anyone else.” “You sure about that?” Vince asked. “Very few people know I had another sister besides Anne. And the ones who do only know that my sister was murdered while she was attending college in Baton Rouge. It happened years ago, before I even joined the force.” “And once you tell the captain that the two cases could be related, do you honestly think he’ll let you stay on this one?” “I don’t intend to tell him,” she informed him. “And what about me, Charlie? Am I supposed to lie, too?” “No,” she said more softly. “I’d never ask you to do that. All I’m asking is that you not say anything about my suspicions.” “You mean you want me to lie by omission,” he said, pointing out the truth of what she was asking of him. Keeping silent would be the same thing in his opinion. “Only for a few days—just until I have a chance to confirm whether I’m right, whether the guy who murdered the Hill woman is the same one who murdered Emily.” When Vince didn’t respond, she said, “Please, Vince. Just a few days.” Vince rubbed the back of his neck. “Suppose someone who worked your sister’s case remembers it and sees the similarities? Then what?” “One of the detectives on Emily’s case retired and the other one took a position out in Texas,” she countered. “Besides, Emily was killed a hundred miles from here, and she and the Hill woman were from two different worlds, and the case has been cold for six years. The police up there have their hands full just like we do. They won’t have time to start looking for a connection between one of their old murder cases and this one. Please, Vince,” she repeated. Vince sighed. “All right. You just better hope that this doesn’t come back and bite us both in the ass.” “It won’t. And if it does, I’ll take full responsibility,” she promised. “I’ll tell the captain it was all my doing, that I kept you in the dark.” “Why don’t we try to keep the lies to a minimum,” he suggested, because there was no way on earth he’d let her take that fall alone. “Now, what do you say we head over to Stratton’s and let the man know that he isn’t going to need his tux after all?” “What do you think a place like this goes for?” Vince asked sotto voce as the two of them stood in the parlor of J.P. Stratton’s palatial home waiting for the butler to announce them. “Just the real estate this place is sitting on costs more than you and I will make in a lifetime,” Charlie responded. Half the homes on this stretch of Saint Charles Avenue were more than a century old and had been carved from one-time plantations. A great many of them had been refurbished, the original architecture preserved and they were now designated as historic landmarks. The polished marble floors, sky-high ceilings and the magnificent chandelier were right out of a picture book. They screamed “money.” “You can add another million or two for the house—and that’s without the furnishings.” Before Vince could respond, the butler reappeared. A dour-looking man in a classic black butler’s suit, the guy could have been anywhere between forty and seventy years old, Charlie thought. “If you will follow me, Detectives,” he said in a voice that sounded more British than the combination of Brooklyn and the South that typified the speech of most New Orleanians. “Mr. Stratton will see you now.” Vince exchanged a look with her and she knew he found the exchange as pompous as she had. Silently, they followed the stiff-backed butler down a long hallway with walls that were covered in peach silk fabric and adorned with oil portraits. He stopped near the end of the hall and opened a door for them to enter. Once they were inside, he pulled the door closed in the same quiet manner in which he had walked. After identifying themselves to Aaron Stratton, they waited while J. P. Stratton barked out instructions to some poor assistant over the phone. “Aaron,” the older man called out. “Excuse me, Detectives,” he said and went to his father’s side. While they waited, Charlie used the time to size up J. P. Stratton. Her initial impression was that he was a big man with an even bigger ego. He was also arrogant, chauvinistic and a self-centered ass. She pegged him at about five foot eleven inches, two hundred and ten pounds. He sported a George Hamilton tan that was set off by black hair that a man well past sixty could only have achieved with the help of a hairdresser. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, his nose sharp, his mouth thin. Due to the miracle of Botox or a face-lift or both, his face was completely void of lines. In fact, the bronze skin was so taut, she’d wager a tennis ball could have bounced off it. The suit he wore looked expensive, probably from one of those Italian designers, Charlie thought. He wore a diamond Rolex on his left wrist, cuff links with diamonds set in gold and an onyx-and-diamond ring on his pinkie finger that was so large it could have been used as a weapon. There was a coldness about him that made it easy for her to understand how he had gone through a string of wives. She couldn’t imagine any woman tying herself to such a man. When he finally ended the call, Charlie introduced herself and Vince. “Mr. Stratton, I’m afraid we have tragic news, sir.” “If you’re here to tell me that Francesca’s dead, you’re a little late, Detectives,” he said in a deep, blustery voice that he directed at Vince. “When I called to speak with my fianc?e, the fool police officer who answered the phone told me she was dead.” “I’m sorry about that, sir,” Charlie told him. “You’re going to be even sorrier, Detectives,” he fired back. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with your chief of police and I’ve let him know how incompetent his staff is,” he added, directing his remarks to Vince again and barely glancing at Charlie. Charlie stepped in front of the man’s line of vision, forcing him to look at her. “The first officer on the scene is a new man, sir,” she explained. “He’ll be apprised of his error in judgment and disciplined, accordingly.” “He’ll be fired, if I have anything to say about it.” “Since you’re neither the chief of police nor the officer’s captain, you don’t have anything to say about it,” she said firmly. Stratton shot to his feet. He moved quickly for a man his age, Charlie thought. She couldn’t help being grateful that she’d been the sister blessed with long legs. With the two inches her boots added to her own five foot seven inches, it made it difficult for Stratton to look down at her. “Young woman, I—” “It’s Detective, Mr. Stratton. Detective Le Blanc.” “Dad,” Aaron said, and stepping forward, he placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “As you can imagine, Detectives, the news about Francesca’s death has devastated my father.” The son was definitely not a chip off the old block. To begin with he had a good two inches in height on his father, but he weighed at least twenty pounds less. While he had his father’s mouth, his eyes were green, his hair dark blond. His slacks and shirt were well made and tasteful and, from the way they fit him, it was obvious he kept himself in shape. His hands were strong and his grip had been firm when he’d shaken her hand. Charlie guessed him to be in his late twenties. The younger Stratton had a warmth his father lacked. Yet there was also a coolness. An odd combination, she thought. J. P. Stratton shrugged off his son’s hand. “I don’t need you to make excuses for me, boy. I’m not devastated. I’m furious,” he informed them. “Three hours from now, five hundred people from all across the state will be arriving at the New Orleans Museum of Art to celebrate my wedding,” he told her, with a sweep of his arm. “Do you have any idea the amount of time and money that went into planning that wedding? Or the headaches canceling it is causing me?” So much for the brokenhearted groom. “I’m sure I can’t imagine, sir,” Charlie told him, not even attempting to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Vince shot her a reproving look. “We realize this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Stratton, and we’re sorry for your loss,” Vince said. “But I’m afraid we do need to ask you a few questions.” “Instead of wasting time questioning me, why aren’t out looking for the person who killed Francesca? You probably don’t even have a suspect yet, do you?” “Not yet, sir. But we’re working on it,” Vince told him. “We’re interviewing Ms. Hill’s neighbors and checking the security tapes from her building. It would help us if you could tell us when you last saw Ms. Hill.” When Stratton started to object, Aaron said, “They’re just trying to get a time line on when Francesca was killed.” “Your son’s right, Mr. Stratton,” Vince informed him. “If we can narrow down the last time anyone saw or spoke to her, it would help.” Stratton sat down and retrieved a cigar from a humidor on the desk, but he didn’t light it. “I saw her at her apartment around nine o’clock last night. We had a rehearsal dinner earlier that evening and Francesca had a bit too much to drink. I wanted to make sure she was okay.” From the looks of the apartment, Francesca had continued to party after she’d returned home, Charlie thought as she took out her notebook and pen. “Was she okay?” she asked. “She was fine, just tired from all the excitement.” “How long did you stay?” Charlie asked him. “Until around nine-thirty. Francesca wanted to make it an early night so that she would be rested and beautiful for today.” “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Ms. Hill?” Vince asked. “There was an ex-boyfriend, some lowlife she was seeing before we met. He wasn’t happy about being dumped and accosted Francesca outside her apartment building a couple of weeks ago. I had Francesca take out a restraining order against him.” “Does this guy have a name?” Charlie asked. “Schwitzer. Marcus Schwitzer,” Aaron told her. “I assisted Francesca with the restraining order,” he explained. Charlie wrote down the information. “Do you know where we can find him?” “He was working as a bouncer at the Red Slipper Club,” the older man advised her. “But when the club’s owner was made aware that there was a restraining order out on him, his employment was terminated. I suggested he leave town and I believe he took my advice.” In other words, he’d had the guy canned and railroaded out of town, Charlie surmised. “I don’t imagine he was too happy about that.” J. P. Stratton gave her a smug look. “Would you be, Detective?” She didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she asked, “Did this Schwitzer make any threats against Ms. Hill before he left?” “None that I know of.” “Can you think of anyone else who might have had a grudge against your fianc?e or you?” Vince asked. “Detective, a man doesn’t get to be in my position without making some enemies along the way,” Stratton told him. “Any of those enemies hate you enough to kill your fianc?e?” Charlie asked. “You’d have to ask them,” he replied. “We’ll need a list of their names,” Charlie informed him. “Aaron can provide you with them. He’s my attorney. He’ll know of any business deals that didn’t sit well with other parties.” “I’ll get a list to you as soon as possible, Detective,” Aaron replied. “Thank you,” Charlie told him and directed her attention once more to the father. “What about on a personal level? Was there anyone besides this Schwitzer fellow who was unhappy about the upcoming wedding?” “Other than my last ex-wife who’s deluded herself for years that I’m going to remarry her, everyone was very happy about the wedding.” He was lying through his capped teeth, Charlie decided. She hadn’t missed the look exchanged between father and son. “Is there anything else?” J. P. Stratton asked, clearly annoyed. “Just one more thing,” Charlie said, following a hunch. “I’d like a list of the guests who attended last night’s dinner party.” The older man narrowed his eyes, causing his heavy brows to form a dark angry line. “Why would you need to know who my dinner guests were?” “Because it’s possible one of them saw or heard something that might help us find the killer.” “I’ve tried to be cooperative, Detectives, but my patience is wearing thin. Instead of wasting time questioning me and my friends, you should be out looking for Schwitzer.” “I assure you, we’ll find Schwitzer and bring him in for questioning. But I still need that list.” She offered him her card and when he failed to take it, she placed it on the desk. “I’ll see that you get the list,” Aaron Stratton said. “Let me show you the way out.” She directed her attention back to the older man. “Once again, we’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Stratton.” Aaron Stratton hustled them out of the room. “Please excuse my father,” he began, his voice sincere as they stepped into the corridor. “Francesca’s death has hit him harder than he lets on. He truly did love her.” Right, Charlie thought. And she had a bridge she’d like to sell him, too. “Here’s my card,” Charlie told him. “Just call me when you have that list and I’ll have it picked up.” “I’ll do that,” he replied, brushing his fingers against hers as he took the card. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stratton.” “Aaron,” he corrected, giving her a smile that she suspected was meant to charm before he turned and extended his hand to Vince. “Detective.” Vince nodded. “Henry will show you out,” he told them and, like magic, the butler appeared almost instantly. “This way, please,” he said. Once they exited the mansion, they remained silent while they negotiated the elaborate walkway. Starting toward the iron-lace gate that led to the street, Vince asked, “What do you think of our grief-stricken groom?” “I think he’s a pompous ass,” Charlie informed him. “You buy his story?” “No. He’s hiding something,” Charlie told him. “And I intend to find out what it is.” As they neared the gate, Charlie spotted the Channel 4 News truck and one of the station’s reporters with a microphone in hand. “Aw hell,” she muttered, because it wasn’t just any reporter—it was her sister Anne. * * * The moment Anne Le Blanc recognized the pair exiting the home of millionaire J. P. Stratton, adrenaline skyrocketed through her system. Her piece for the TV station’s evening broadcast had just gone from lifestyles of the local rich and famous to something a whole lot more serious. “Kevin, set up the camera,” she instructed the cameraman who had accompanied her. The hastily planned nuptials of one of the city’s wealthiest and most flamboyant businessmen to a much younger former casino hostess had set tongues wagging three weeks ago. The citizens of New Orleans liked nothing better than a juicy scandal, and despite his protests to the contrary, J. P. Stratton seemed to like providing the members of his adopted city with something to talk about. And the former Texan had given them plenty over the years with his business triumphs, lavish lifestyle and string of trophy wives. The man’s exploits read like a soap opera script—lots of money, lots of sex and lots of scandal. So it came as no surprise that the wedding scheduled that evening at the New Orleans Museum of Art with a guest list that read like a who’s who for the state of Louisiana had guaranteed J. P. Stratton another fifteen minutes of fame. Personally, she didn’t give a fig who the old goat married. But apparently the TV station’s viewers did. And she had been assigned to satisfy the public’s fascination and curiosity by providing them with a peek inside the fairy-tale affair. But when she’d gotten a tip that the wedding was off, she’d hightailed it over to the Stratton mansion, hoping to get the scoop. According to the rumor mill, the bride-to-be had balked at signing a prenuptial agreement that had been presented to her at the eleventh hour. She didn’t blame the woman. What woman wanted to start off her marriage by planning what her take would be in a divorce? On the other hand, she supposed she could see Stratton’s point. After four ex-wives and several palimony suits, the man had probably forked over a chunk of his fortune. Evidently, he did not intend to do so again. And with no prenuptial, there would be no wedding. Of course, that wouldn’t be the reason given for the cancellation. No, they’d probably spin some tale about a sudden illness or business emergency being the cause for delaying the happy couple’s wedding. At least that’s what she had thought initially, Anne admitted. But the presence of two homicide detectives at the Stratton home told her there was a great deal more than an unsigned prenup behind the canceled wedding. “Say, isn’t that your sister?” Kevin asked as he aimed the camera on the two people leaving the Stratton house and approaching the gate. “It sure is,” Anne told him. And the hunk with the sexy swagger at her sister’s side was Detective Vincent Kossak. Her heart beat a little faster as she watched him. Not for the first time, Anne wondered how an innocent kiss under the mistletoe on New Year’s Eve with her sister’s partner had turned into a steamy, curl-your-toes kiss that had sent her hormones into overdrive. Oh, there had always been a little spark there. She’d been intrigued by him. With a nine-year difference in their ages, he was older than most of the men she’d dated, more mature, more serious. There was a confidence about him that she’d found attractive. But he’d never given the slightest indication that he was even remotely interested in her. Until New Year’s Eve. That night when she’d seen him standing under the mistletoe looking as if he’d rather be anyplace else than at that party, she had acted on impulse. She’d grabbed him by the tie, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. And he had kissed her back. But there had been nothing sisterly or playful about that kiss. It had been a no-holds-barred, open-mouthed, hungry kiss. And ever since that night a month ago, she hadn’t been able to get Vince Kossak out of her head. The gate opened and her sister marched out to the sidewalk with a scowl on her face and a look in her eyes that said “back off.” As the youngest of three girls, Anne had had her share of run-ins with her two older siblings when the three of them had been living under the same roof and sharing one bathroom. With six years between her and Charlie and two years between her and Emily, her sisters had had a treasure trove of grown-up girlie stuff that she couldn’t wait to get into. And she had never allowed a little thing like Charlie threatening to toss her out the window to keep her from those treasures. Some things were simply worth the risk. Like Detective Vincent Kossak. Or a hot story. And her journalist’s antenna sensed a hot story now. She had no intention of allowing a little thing like Charlie’s angry expression to keep her from that story. “Detective, does your presence here have anything to do with J. P. Stratton’s wedding being canceled this evening?” she asked and aimed the microphone at her sister. “Unless you want to eat that thing, I’d suggest you get it out of my face,” Charlie hissed. “Was that a yes, Detective?” Her sister practically snarled and brushed past her. Unfazed, Anne pointed the microphone at Vince. “What about you, Detective Kossak? Can you tell us why you’re here?” He looked right at her, dropping his gaze to her mouth. For a moment, Anne felt that zap of awareness stretch between them like an electrical wire dangling in a storm. But when he lifted his gaze to meet hers, his eyes were calm, distant. “No comment.” Shaking off the impact of that initial look, Anne hurried after them. “Keep the camera running,” she told Kevin and followed them down the street as quickly as she could in the three-inch heels that matched her suit. She caught up with them at the corner. “Detective Le Blanc, can you tell us why you were at the home of J. P. Stratton?” Charlie glared at her and Anne was sure her sister would have given her an earful, were it not for her cell phone ringing. “Le Blanc.” She covered one ear with her hand. “What? I can’t hear you,” she told the party on the other end of the line. “Hang on a second.” Holding the phone to her chest a moment, she said to Vince, “I’m going to see if I can get a better connection. You can get rid of her.” When her sister walked away, Anne once again shifted the microphone in Vince’s direction. She gave him a challenging look. “If you want to get rid of me, Detective Kossak, all you have to do is tell me why you were at the Stratton home.” “No comment,” he repeated. She decided to try another tack. “Are you and Detective Le Blanc working on a homicide case?” “No comment.” “Is your case somehow connected to J. P. Stratton?” “No comment,” he told her and kept his eyes focused in the direction her sister had gone. Disappointed, Anne knew she wouldn’t get anything more. The man was every bit as stubborn as her sister. Turning to Kevin, she made a slicing motion across her throat, indicating he should shut down the camera. “I’ll meet you back at the truck,” she told him. He nodded and walked back down the street to where the TV van was parked. Once he was gone, she turned back to Vince. At six feet, he had nearly eight inches on her own five-foot-four-and-a-half-inch frame. So she was glad she had the extra three inches her heels provided. His dark brown hair was thick, his eyes the color of coffee. The sharp cheekbones and square jaw spoke of his Russian ancestry. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, but he was a man that a woman would notice. She’d noticed. And judging by the way he’d kissed her back, he had noticed her, too. So why hadn’t he done what most red-blooded males did after a kiss that registered on the Richter scale? Why hadn’t he followed through? For a second, she considered the possibility that she had been wrong, that maybe she had only imagined that Vince had felt something, too. No, she hadn’t been wrong. She’d been on the other end of that kiss. And Vincent Kossak had wanted her. “You’re wasting your time, Anne. Your sister isn’t going to comment on an investigation and neither am I.” “So there is an investigation,” she said, her journalistic instincts kicking in again. “No comment.” A canceled wedding and homicide detectives at the home of the prospective groom. A coincidence? She didn’t think so. In fact, she’d stake her new Louis Vuitton purse on it. “What about off the record? If I promise not to report anything, will you tell me what’s going on?” He chuckled. “Not a chance.” “Fine. Since you refuse to discuss police business with me, what about personal business?” He eyed her warily. “What personal business?” “Oh, we could start with you explaining why you’ve been avoiding me since New Year’s? Is it because we kissed?” “No. And I haven’t been avoiding you.” “Then how come every time I’ve set foot inside the police station during the past two months, you disappear?” “I’ve been busy.” “Careful, Vince, you keep telling fibs and your nose is going to grow.” She edged a little closer, just enough to get into his personal space. He moved back a step and Anne thought she detected a tinge of red in his cheeks. “Listen, about that night. I was out of line kissing you and I should have called to apol—” “Don’t,” she all but growled. “So help me, Vincent Kossak, if you apologize for kissing me, I swear I’ll…I’ll punch you in the nose.” “All right. I won’t apologize,” he said. “But that kiss should never have happened.” “Why not?” “Because I’m your sister’s partner.” “So?” “So you and me, us…it’s not a good idea,” he said firmly. “Says who?” “Says me.” He sighed. “Come on, Anne. I’m almost ten years older than you. I’ve been married and divorced while you’re just getting started with your life. You’re just a kid and I’m practically an old man.” “I assure you, Detective Kossak, I am not a kid. I am a grown woman and—” “Kossak, we’ve got to roll,” Charlie called out as she ran back to the car. “No time to talk,” he told her. And with a swiftness that made her blink, Anne stared dumbfounded as Vince shifted gears, seeming to forget that they were in the midst of a serious discussion, seeming to forget her. Suddenly he was all business. His body tensed, poised for action. And without another word to her, he yanked open the car door and focused all of his attention on his job. “What have we got?” he asked Charlie. “Not what, who,” Charlie told him as she pulled open the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. “We hit pay dirt with the security discs from the apartment building and—” Vince pulled his door shut. But she’d heard enough, Anne thought as she watched the car with Vince and her sister speed off. She raced back to the TV truck. “Let’s go,” she told Kevin. “We following them?” he asked as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “No. We’re going to the Mill House Apartments,” she told him. And with a little luck she was going to be breaking a big story on the evening news. Four While she and Vince waited for the electronics tech to key up the security tapes from the Mill House Apartments, Charlie scanned the visitors’ log. Noting the number of people who had visited Francesca Hill on the day she was killed, she nearly groaned. It would take days to interview them all. “I’m surprised she didn’t install a revolving door.” “According to the kid at the front desk, our vic was very popular,” Vince said. “I’ll say. Wait until you see the tape,” the whiz-kid tech named Rich replied. “We are waiting,” Charlie pointed out. They had been racing from Stratton’s home to the station when the call came saying someone of interest had popped up on the security tapes. She had spent years searching for a lead on Emily’s killer and at last she had one—even if it had come through another tragedy. And she wanted to move on that lead now. “Here we go,” Rich said as a view of the elevator door and hallway to Francesca Hill’s apartment came onto the screen. A tall blonde in a black leather skirt, sweater and thigh-high boots exited the elevator carrying a gift bag with a frilly ribbon. “That must be the hot chick the kid at the desk told me about before the manager showed up and put a muzzle on him,” Vince remarked as the woman strutted toward the apartment. “The kid said her name’s Danielle. She’s a dealer at the casino where our vic worked before she hit the engagement lottery.” Danielle Marceau, Charlie noted, locating the name in the guest log. On screen Francesca peeked inside the gift bag, then ushered the woman inside her apartment. After several moments spent staring at the closed door, Charlie asked, “Can you speed it up?” “Your wish is my command, Detective.” She rolled her eyes. The boy wonder with peach fuzz on his chin had joined the department six months ago. Despite his weird sense of humor and even weirder fashion style, he was a walking, talking, electronics genius. He could make anything electronic sing. A few taps of his fingers and Danielle zipped down the hall in fast-forward motion. The time lapsed on the tape was thirty minutes. “And here’s our next guest,” Rich said as he slowed the tape again. “The intended bridegroom,” Charlie remarked when J. P. Stratton stepped out of the elevator. He was greeted at the door with a kiss, before disappearing into the apartment. Fast-forwarding had him leaving again less than twenty minutes later. “I guess he’s not big on foreplay,” Rich joked. “Skip the commentary and just run the film,” Charlie said dryly. Aaron Stratton arrived next, carrying a briefcase, and stayed for fifteen minutes. “You remember sonny boy mentioning a visit to his stepmother-to-be?” Vince asked. “No,” Charlie replied and made a note to question Aaron Stratton about his visit. The film was fast-forwarded and when it was slowed again, an older gentleman wearing a gray overcoat, hat and carrying a bible went to the apartment. “Reverend Homer Lawrence,” she read the name in the visitors’ log. “I wonder what the minister wanted at that time of night?” “I’ll get Mackenzie to find out what church he’s affiliated with and we’ll ask him,” Vince said as he scribbled in his notepad. “Wait! Slow it down,” Charlie instructed. She sat forward, studying the newest arrival. The man was tall, probably six foot three or better, two hundred pounds, early to mid-thirties, she guessed. He had an arresting face with a strong jawline, a sensual mouth and cheekbones sharp enough to cut ice. His hair was thick, straight and looked in need of a trim. Dark brows rested above knowing eyes that stared directly into the camera. Despite the grainy film, the man made an impact. “He looks familiar.” “He should. He’s Cole Stratton, the owner of CS Securities, one of the fastest-growing companies in the South. The Times-Picayune ran a profile on him in the paper’s business section a few months ago.” “What’s his relationship to J.P. Stratton?” she asked. “His firstborn, courtesy of the first Mrs. Stratton. The story is that she was some kind of heiress and it was her money and connections that J.P. used to get started.” “Divorced?” she asked. “Dead. Cancer,” Vince explained. “Apparently J.P. did a real number on her before she died. Cole Stratton was just a kid at the time, but word is he never forgave the old man and as soon as he was old enough, he walked out. Turned his back on a virtual fortune and struck out on his own. According to the grapevine, lots of bad blood there.” “With all that bad blood, one has to wonder why he was visiting his father’s fianc?e,” Charlie pointed out and decided to find out what she could about Cole Stratton. They sped through more surveillance tape and watched as a young woman approached the apartment. Judging by her clothes and the long, straight hair, Charlie pegged her to be in her early to mid-twenties. She didn’t stay long and when she left, she was swiping at her eyes as though crying. Charlie checked the visitors’ book, but there were no further guest entries to the Hill apartment. “Whoever she is, she didn’t sign in.” “I’ll take another shot at the desk clerk to see if he recognizes her and find out why she didn’t sign in,” Vince offered. Rich fast-forwarded through more film and when the light glowed on the elevator, he slowed to real time again. A man wearing sunglasses and a hat with a brim exited. The collar of his jacket was turned up, shielding the lower half of his face, which he kept angled away from the camera. “Hold it there,” Charlie instructed and glanced at Vince. “Do you think wearing sunglasses indoors at night is some kind of new fashion trend? Or do you get the feeling our visitor knew about the security camera and didn’t want to be identified?” “My guess is number two,” he said. “Can you get a close-up of our shy guy?” “Give me a sec.” Rich tapped at the keys, formed a frame around the face, then magnified it. “That’s about the best I can do,” he said after several attempts at enlarging the image failed to yield a clearer view. “I’ll see if I can get a better angle of him leaving.” But that view proved no better. Disappointed and frustrated, Charlie clenched the pen in her hand. “What about the cameras in the lobby? Maybe there’s a better shot of him on those tapes? And check the camera at the delivery entrance, too, just in case he didn’t come through the front door.” “I’ll check them,” Rich said. “Call us if something pops,” Charlie said and started to push away from the table. They had a lot of territory to cover and with each hour that passed the trail grew colder. “Hang on a second. Don’t you want to see what else I found?” Rich asked. Charlie eased back down and waited while the whiz kid tapped the computer keys. He fast-forwarded, then slowed it to real time. One second, two seconds, three seconds ticked by showing only the same scene of the elevator door and the empty hall leading to the Hill apartment. Then she saw it—a blip in the film. The blip was so quick, it was almost indiscernible. The empty hall scene remained the same, but the time on the film had jumped forward by nearly two hours. “Wait. Back it up a few seconds, then run it.” Rich did as he was told. And there it was again—a break in the surveillance tape. It lasted no longer than the blink of an eye, but according to tape, nearly two hours had passed. “Somebody monkeyed with the surveillance camera,” she said aloud. “Someone who obviously knew his or her way around the security system,” Vince pointed out. “Good job, kid,” she told the tech as she stood and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair. “Let us know if you come up with anything else on our mystery guy.” Vince followed her to the door. “Who do you want to start with?” They’d already interviewed J.P. Stratton and his son Aaron once. “Why don’t we start with the other son, Cole Stratton. Since he owns a security company, chances are he knows how to get around one.” * * * Sitting alone in the dark, he turned on the television and tuned in to Channel 4, knowing they would be the first tobreak the news story. He sipped his scotch and waited patiently for the beer commercial to finish. “Good evening. This is Bill Capo filling in for Eric Paulsen,” the veteran investigative reporter began in that deep, sincere voice that made him a favorite among the locals. “Today in Washington…” He listened to the reporter give a rundown on the national news front, the budget deficit, the rising cost of health care and the use of steroids in professional sports before he shifted to news on the local front. After a station break, Capo’s face returned to the screen. “In other local news, the much-talked-about wedding of businessman J. P. Stratton to Francesca Hill that was scheduled to take place this evening has been canceled,” Bill announced. “Live on the scene with more on that story is Anne Le Blanc.” The TV screen switched to the perky blond reporter standing at the entrance to the museum with the wind whipping her hair around her face. “Bill, I’m here at the New Orleans Museum of Art, where less than an hour from now J. P. Stratton, the founder of Stratton Hotels, was scheduled to take Francesca Hill as his bride. Inside,” she continued, extending her arm toward the structure, “thousands of red roses were flown in for the event and food was prepared by some of the top chefs in the city for the guest list of five hundred. But I’m told, a short time ago the guests began receiving calls from Mr. Stratton’s staff, advising them that the wedding had been canceled.” “Anne, has any reason been given for the cancellation?” Bill asked. “Not yet, Bill. And so far, our calls to both Mr. Stratton and Ms. Hill have not been returned. But as you can see from the cars arriving, not all of the guests received the news in time.” She walked down to the street and knocked on the window of a sleek black limo. When the window slid down, she asked, “Sir, you’re live on Channel 4 News. Are you here for theStratton/Hill wedding?” She pointed the microphone at him. “Yes, I am.” “No one contacted you to tell you the wedding had been canceled?” she asked, and angled the microphone at him. “My secretary reached me on my cell phone just as I arrived and gave me the news.” “Were you told the reason for the cancellation?” Anne asked. “No. Just that it was canceled and that Mr. Stratton extended his apologies.” “Any guess as to why it was canceled?” she asked. He paused. “Maybe J.P. got cold feet.” “Thank you,” she said and walked away from the car. “It appears that for now the reason for cancellation of the fairy-tale event remains a mystery. However, a source, who has asked not to be identified, told this reporter that the police were seen at Mr. Stratton’s home this afternoon.” “Anne, do we know why the police were at the Stratton home?” Bill asked. “No, Bill, we don’t. But I’m sure many of the guests who were invited are wondering just as we are if the reason for the cancellation of the wedding is something much more serious than cold feet.” “Thank you, Anne.” “Thank you, Bill. This is Anne Le Blanc reporting live for Channel 4 Eyewitness News.” “I’m sure we’ll be hearing a lot more on this story as the details become available,” Capo said. They would be hearing so much more, he thought, disappointed that they hadn’t released the real story. He’d hopedto see the photos, hear some of the grim details and relive his triumph. He’d also wanted to get another look at the pretty detective. Using the remote, he turned off the television. No matter, he decided. It would happen soon enough. After setting down his glass, he picked up the black silk stocking that he had taken from his treasure chest. His heart beat a little faster as he looked at it, sliding it along his fingers. There was nothing like the feel of silk. Sensuous. Seductive. Secretive. Just like the woman he’d killed. Lifting the stocking to his face, he breathed in her scent. He could feel his blood beginning to heat. A throbbing ache started in his loins and spread through his body like fire. It clawed at him, a ravenous beast demanding to be fed. He freed himself from his pants. Closing his eyes, he pressed the stocking to his mouth so he could taste her while he closed his fist around his hard flesh and began the up-and-down motion. Up and down. Up and down. Fast. Faster. Faster still. He held the stocking in his fist, used the scent of her to bring back the memory. And then she was there. So beautiful. So wanton. So wicked. Increasing the tempo, he could feel his breathing grow labored. Sweat began to trickle down his brow. Suddenly he was back in the bedroom with her. Once again, he could see the lust in her eyes turn to alarm. See the fear begin to take root as she struggled to free her bound wrists. Watch that fear turn to panic when she realized they were no longer playing a game. Best of all, he could see the terror come into her green eyes when she realized he was going to kill her. And as he recalled the feel of her body bucking beneath him and her life slipping away, he shouted as his own release came. Later, when his breathing had returned to normal and he’drighted himself, he retrieved the black silk stocking and returned it to the envelope marked Francesca. Opening the black box, he placed it inside behind the envelope marked Emily. “Kossak! Le Blanc!” Charlie’s head came up, as did those of half of the squad room. All eyes went to Captain Edward Warren who stood at his office door with a scowl on his face. “Get your carcasses in here! Now!” Quickly Charlie hung up the telephone, not bothering to finish dialing the number. She darted a glance over at her partner and mouthed the words What’s up? Vince shrugged in response while he attempted to finish his phone call. Pushing away from her desk, Charlie grabbed her black jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on. “I’ll get back to you,” Vince told the person on the other end of the phone line and ended the call. “What gives?” he asked her as the two of them started toward the captain’s office. “Beats me,” she said. Together they entered the office. Big, black and bald, Captain Warren was a cop’s cop who had worked his way up the ranks. He was a tough taskmaster but a fair man who didn’t let politics get in the way of the job. And in a sue-the-police-force mentality that had begun to permeate society, the captain always went to bat for his officers. She respected him for that. She also was grateful to him for believing in her and giving her a chance to be a real homicide detective and not a token female with the title who was stuck behind a desk shuffling papers in order to meet some minority quota. She and Vince waited in front of his desk. “You wanted to see us, sir.” “Shut the door,” he ordered, then pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. He retrieved a bottle of antacid tablets. He dumped out a handful of the chalky-looking tablets and shoved them all into his mouth. Whatever it was, it was bad, Charlie realized. Everyone in the department knew that the way to gauge the captain’s mood was by the number of antacids he took. Three tablets meant he wasn’t happy. Four meant he was angry and five meant you were in real trouble. But never, ever, in the three years since she was assigned to Homicide had she seen the man take an entire fistful of the things all at once. Whatever had riled the captain was major. She glanced over at Vince and saw from his expression that he knew it, too. When the captain finished the tablets and returned his attention to them, he looked mad enough to chew nails. “Did I or did I not instruct you to use discretion in the Hill murder investigation?” “You did, sir,” Vince informed him. When he looked at Charlie, she said, “Yes, sir, you did.” “And weren’t you told that there were no statements to be given to the press until I authorized it personally?” “Yes, sir,” they said in unison. Charlie got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and she hoped that she was wrong, that her sister Anne hadn’t done something stupid and landed both Vince and her in hot water. But when the captain shifted his gaze from Vince and trained it on her, Charlie knew she didn’t have a prayer. “Then how do you explain the five o’clock newscast?” he demanded. “Sir, I’m afraid we haven’t seen it,” she told him. “We’ve been working the case.” “Then allow me to show you what you missed,” he said dryly and hit the remote button for the portable TV set in the corner of the room. The set was tuned to the channel where the WWL-TV station reran the news broadcasts throughout the day. And there in living color was Anne in front of the New Orleans Museum of Art with a microphone in her hand. “It appears that for now the reason for cancellation of the fairy-tale event remains a mystery,” Anne announced. “However, a source, who has asked not to be identified, told this reporter that the police were seen at Mr. Stratton’s home this afternoon.” “Anne, do we know why the police were at the Stratton home?” Bill Capo asked. “No, Bill, we don’t. But I’m sure many of the guests who were invited are wondering just as we are if the reason for the cancellation of the wedding is something much more serious than cold feet.” “Thank you, Anne.” “Thank you, Bill. This is Anne Le Blanc reporting live for Channel 4 Eyewitness News.” The captain turned off the TV set. When he turned his attention back to the two of them, Charlie feared the veins in his neck would burst. “Sir, I don’t know who my sister’s source was,” she told him. “But it wasn’t me or Detective Kossak.” He leaned forward, dropped his voice to a deep growl and asked, “Then who in the hell was it, Detective? Because let me tell you, I’d like to know who is responsible for me spending the last twenty minutes on the phone with the superintendent of police ripping me a new one because my detectives ignored a direct order from the chief himself that there was to be no information on the Hill homicide given to the press.” Charlie checked the urge to flinch. She met the captain’s angry gaze. “Sir, you have my word, I did not tell my sister anything about the case.” “Then how do you explain your sister breaking the story, Le Blanc?” “I can’t, sir. But I can tell you that my sister arrived at the Stratton home as we were leaving. I refused to comment on our reason for being there.” “She’s telling the truth, sir. I can attest to that,” Vince said. “Detective Le Blanc made it…um…clear to her sister that she had nothing to say.” “Evidently she didn’t make it clear enough,” the captain remarked. “If I might point out, sir, my sister Anne isn’t stupid. She knows I’m a homicide cop and she saw me leaving the Stratton residence. My guess is she put two and two together when the wedding was canceled.” He seemed to consider that. “Then how do you explain your sister showing up there in the first place?” “I can’t, sir,” Charlie told him. “If I might speculate, Captain?” Vince asked. “I’m listening.” “Anne…Detective Le Blanc’s sister is a good reporter and like any good reporter, she has a nose for news,” he began. Charlie looked up at her partner. She knew her sister was a good reporter and she knew Anne had the instincts of a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out a story. But she hadn’t realized that Vince knew it or that he had paid enough attention to Anne to discover that fact. Charlie frowned, recalling now that during the last month Vince had been commenting on her sister’s reports, asking about her family. Damn, she thought. Did her partner have a thing for her kid sister? “…and she mentioned to me last week that she would be covering the wedding for the TV station. It’s possible she was there to interview Stratton before the ceremony as part of her story. That would explain her being at the house.” “And I’m supposed to believe that it was just a coincidence, her being there at the same time you were?” the captain asked skeptically. “I’m not a big believer in coincidences either, sir. But every now and then, they happen. And I think that’s what happened.” “What about you, Le Blanc?” the captain asked. “What’s your theory?” “I don’t have one, sir. But what Detective Kossak said makes sense, with respect to my sister’s reason for being at the Stratton house. If you want me to, sir, I could ask her.” He waited a long moment and then said, “Don’t bother. I’ll see what I can do to smooth things over with the chief. But I’m warning both of you, any more leaks to the press and all the slick talking in the world isn’t going to save any of our asses. Understood?” “Understood, sir,” Vince told him. “Understood, Captain,” she replied. He nodded. “Now tell me what you’ve got so far.” They brought him up to speed on the investigation, starting with the fact that the theory of robbery as the motive seemed unlikely. “No thief with half a brain would have left that rock behind,” Vince told the captain, referring to Francesca’s engagement ring. “He’s right, Captain,” Charlie added. “I’m not sure what to make of the cash, credit cards and other jewelry that’s missing. But robbery is not what’s behind the Hill woman’s murder.” “Damn! This is not going to play well with the press or with Stratton,” the captain informed them. “Any leads?” Charlie told him about the people on the surveillance video at the apartment, as well as about the gap on the tape. “We’ve spoken to the staff at the apartment building, to some of the neighbors, to Mr. Stratton and one of his sons. We’ve got someone running down addresses on the minister and girlfriend who visited her that night, as well as Cole Stratton. And we’re trying to locate the ex-boyfriend, Schwitzer, and bring him in for questioning. We’re also still trying to identify the other woman on the tape and the mystery guy with the shades.” “What about the victim’s family?” the captain asked. “Any help there?” “Not so far. There’s a mother in Arkansas. We’re still trying to locate her,” Charlie responded. “Forensics is going over the sheets, clothing and glasses from the crime scene to see if we can get a hit on any of the prints. I’m going to have the new kid Mackenzie try to run down the manufacturer on the stocking we found at the scene. It’s a long shot, but there’s a chance we’ll get lucky and be able to trace it back to the buyer.” “Anything from the M.E. yet?” the captain asked. “No, but we’ve asked for a rush and we’re on the hook to her for a dinner at Commander’s Palace,” Vince told him. “What about cause of death?” he asked. “The preliminary exam indicates death was due to strangulation,” Vince told him. Charlie released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when Vince made no mention of the stocking’s possible connection to her sister’s murder. She’d hated taking advantage of their friendship. And she felt guilty asking him to remain silent or to do anything that might jeopardize his career. But the need to find Emily’s killer had outweighed her guilt. If it fell apart, she would make sure that Vince didn’t take the fall with her. It was she who had made the decision to withhold the information about her sister’s murder. She’d swear on a stack of bibles if need be that Vince knew nothing and that she’d done it on her own. But she prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Lying wasn’t something she did often and she didn’t do it well. But if it was the only way she could stay on the case and try to find Emily’s killer, then she would do it. “Any suspects?” the captain asked. “The ex-boyfriend is at the top of the list. And word is the victim didn’t get along with Stratton’s daughter. There was some kind of incident at the restaurant where they had the rehearsal dinner last night. Mackenzie is checking into it and getting statements about what went down,” Vince said. “And depending on how J. P. Stratton’s will is structured, I say we look at each of his kids since a new stepmother could impact their inheritance. My guess is that Stratton isn’t going to like us questioning them.” “Anything else?” the captain asked. “It’d help if we weren’t being asked to walk on eggshells while we do our job.” “Point taken, Detective.” He steepled his fingers, saying nothing for a moment. “I’ll handle the chief and Stratton. You do your jobs and find me the killer.” After exiting the captain’s office, Charlie said, “Thanks for backing me up in there and for not saying anything about the stocking and my sister’s case.” “I told the truth—just not all of it.” “You did more than that, Kossak. And I won’t forget it,” she promised as they approached their desks. For the next hour, they worked the phones and attempted to track down Francesca Hill’s neighbor who had reportedly been out of town on vacation for the past week. They also tried to located Cole Stratton, the minister and the ex-boyfriend, Marcus Schwitzer. Charlie placed a call to Aaron Stratton and pressed him for the names of the dinner guests. She came away with several names to check out. In addition to Aaron Stratton, Jason and Phillip Stratton, J.P.’s twin sons from his fourth marriage, had attended the dinner party. Also present was Reverend Lawrence, Danielle Marceau and Judge William Findlay who was to serve as best man. Vince stood and stretched. “I’m going to head over to Forensics and see if I can sweet-talk Pam into pushing our stuff up the line.” “Who’s Pam?” Charlie asked, looking up from her notes. “I swear, Le Blanc, sometimes I think you live in a cave. Pam is the brunette that came on board almost a year ago.” “The one with the tattoo?” “That’s the one,” Vince responded. “She works the late shift.” Mention of the late shift made her glance at her watch. It was almost seven—which meant she was going to be even later getting to her parents’ house than she’d originally thought. She also had hoped to grab Anne before she headed to their folks’ and demand an explanation from her. Realizing that she’d have to wait only served to annoy her more. “I gotta go,” she said and began shoving papers and files into her bag to review at home. “Got a hot date?” he teased. “Hardly.” The truth was it had been more than two months since she’d been on a date. And that one had been a fiasco. Not that it was the guy’s fault. It wasn’t. She doubted if many guys would like being left in a five-star restaurant with two pricey entr?es on the table because his blind date had been called to a murder scene. “So what’s the big hurry?” “I’m having dinner with my folks. And then I’m going to toss my sister Anne off a bridge.” Five Anne looked up from the sink in her parents’ kitchen as Charlie came through the door, carrying the plates following dinner. She plopped them on the counter next to the sink. “You rinse and I’ll load the dishwasher,” she said in that same brusque tone she’d used with her all evening. Anne started to argue, but decided against it. “Fine. But I set the table and did the salad because you were late, so you rinse and load the dessert dishes by yourself.” “Girls, quit fussing and finish the dishes. Your father’s already setting up for the bananas Foster,” her mother called from the next room. But not even the prospect of bananas Foster—one of her favorites—did anything to lighten her mood. And it was all Charlie’s fault. Fuming silently, Anne scraped the remains from the plates into the disposal. She’d known Charlie was angry with her the minute she’d come through the front door. Her sister had trained those blue eyes on her and looked as though she’d wanted to strangle her. Then she had barely said ten words to her all evening. And when she’d mentioned her coup—being the first reporter to break the news about the cancellation of the Stratton/Hill wedding—Charlie had ruined the moment by cutting her off. Since Charlie was working a case that involved Stratton, she couldn’t discuss or listen to any of the society drivel that she reported if it involved J. P. Stratton. Society drivel, my fanny, Anne thought, her irritation growing. Just because Charlie was a police detective and she was a TV reporter didn’t mean her job was a piece of cake. Maybe she didn’t put the bad guys in jail, but she worked her rear end off just the same. Besides not all of her stories were fluff. More than a few of them had resulted in improved conditions for people caught up in the red tape of bureaucracy or forgotten by the system. Why, she even had a file folder thick with thank-you letters from people whose lives had been changed for the better as a result of her investigative reports. Continuing to stew over her sister’s unfair attitude toward her, she attacked the next plate with a sponge and dishwashing liquid. When Charlie returned with the serving dishes, Anne practically growled as she said, “I don’t know why we bother with the dishwasher at all if we have to wash everything first.” “Because that’s the way Mom wants it done.” Anne shoved the washed plate at her sister for loading in the dishwasher. “Well if you ask me, it’s dumb.” “Nobody asked you.” Anne threw the sponge in the sink, sending suds flying. “What is your problem?” she demanded. “As if you don’t know.” “I don’t,” Anne insisted. “Fine. Play innocent. We’ll discuss it later. Dad’s waiting to do the flaming dessert thing.” “I want to discuss it now.” “Will you keep your voice down?” Charlie chided with a glance toward the door. “You know how upset Mom gets when we argue. And it’s been a tough enough day for them as it is.” Charlie was right. Today had been tough for their parents. Although they had moved past the grief that had paralyzed them following Emily’s death, some days—like Emily’s birthday—were more difficult for them than others. It wasn’t all that easy for her either, Anne admitted. Even though it had been six years since Emily’s murder, sometimes she still walked into the kitchen and expected to see her there. Maybe because there had been many a spat waged among the three of them over kitchen cleanups. She’d lost count of the times Emily had weaseled out of her turn to do the dishes by giving her a lipstick that she’d wanted or offering to lend her a blouse she’d admired. It had infuriated Charlie and she’d taken Emily to task for it more than once. Anne shifted her gaze over to the breakfast nook where the same yellow and white curtains were draped across the bay window, where the garden was once again abloom with pansies in bright yellows, purples and white and camellia bushes and early blooming azaleas were bursting with red and pink flowers. The same porcelain vase was filled with fresh-cut roses and sat in the center of the table that smelled of the lemon oil her mother had used to polish it. For a moment, Anne could almost see the three of them seated at that table again as they had done so often while growing up. She could almost see them that last year before Charlie went off to college with Emily eating her egg-white omelet and lecturing Charlie on her diet. With Charlie ignoring Emily while she scraped the burnt parts off of her toast and washed it down with coffee. With her loading sugar on her cereal and following Charlie’s lead by tuning Emily out. God, but she missed Emily. And she missed being one of three. “You going to wash that plate or just stare at it?” At Charlie’s sharp comment, Anne shut off the memories. Picking up the sponge, she began washing the plate. And as she washed, she wondered what she could have possibly done to make her sister so angry with her. Before running into her and Vince at the Stratton house, she hadn’t even seen Charlie for days. And hadn’t she backed off when Charlie had refused to comment? Anyone else would have dogged her heels for answers. Why, she had even undercut her own news scoop by not revealing that it had been homicide detectives seen leaving the Stratton home. So where did Charlie get off being angry with her? She was the one who should be angry with Charlie for the way she had spoken to her. Right? Right! Feeling indignant, Anne slapped the sponge against the next plate, then shoved it at Charlie. “There’s still gravy on the corner. Wash it again,” Charlie said and shoved the plate back at her. That tore it. Turning to face her sister, she snapped, “You want it washed again? You wash it.” And without stopping to reconsider, she threw the sponge at Charlie. The soapy square of foam caught her right between the boobs before falling to the floor with a plop. Anne felt a moment of immense satisfaction at her sister’s stunned expression—until Charlie scooped up the sponge with astonishing speed. “Why, you little witch,” Charlie began, brandishing the sponge like a weapon in her fist. “I should make you eat this.” “You can try.” “Don’t tempt me, Annie. That stunt you pulled on the news this evening was bad enough—” “What stunt?” “—And now you’ve ruined my blouse.” “Your blouse isn’t ruined and you know it. And what are you talking about? What stunt?” “Don’t play the innocent,” Charlie told her. “You announced to a half-million people on live TV that the Stratton wedding was called off and intimated that your unnamed source told you it was because of Francesca Hill’s murder.” Francesca Hill was dead? Shocked, Anne held on to the sink. She couldn’t believe it. Oh, she’d known something was wrong, even suspected that someone close to the Strattons had gotten tangled up in something bad and had died. But she’d never dreamed it was Francesca Hill or that the woman had been murdered. “I guess it doesn’t matter to you whether or not you compromise an investigation—just as long as you get your story.” Both stunned and hurt, she said, “My God, Charlie. Do you honestly believe I’d do that?” Charlie hesitated, eyed her closely. “You saw me and Vince leaving the Stratton house. Then you go and do that report. What was I supposed to think?” “That I would never do that to you. Or anyone.” Charlie looked away for a moment, then tossed the sponge in the sink. “Maybe I should have,” she said. Grabbing a dish-towel from the counter, she dried her hands, then dabbed at the wet spot on her blouse. “But you made that crack about an unnamed source. The captain and everyone else thought you were referring to me.” “Well I wasn’t. For your information, my unnamed source was a doormen at the Mill House Apartments. He said that when he came on duty, he’d heard that the police had been all over the place and in Mr. Stratton’s lady friend’s apartment and that they carried someone out in a body bag. I thought it was Holly Stratton.” “J. P. Stratton’s daughter?” Anne nodded. “Everyone knows that she and Francesca didn’t get along. She moved out of the Mill House when her father moved Francesca in and she wasn’t at all happy about the wedding. Besides I’d heard Holly has emotional problems and even attempted suicide. When I heard someone had died, I thought she tried again and succeeded this time. I also thought she’d done it where she knew her father would find her.” Charlie sighed. “I’m sorry, Annie. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” “No, you shouldn’t have,” she said firmly. But she had never been one to stay mad for long. She couldn’t do so now. More softly, she asked, “Did you really get in trouble?” She nodded. “So did Vince. Apparently, the chief came down on the captain and he came down on us. Everyone assumed I was your source.” “Well first thing tomorrow morning, I’m marching down to the police station and telling your Captain he was wrong, that you didn’t tell me a thing.” “Thanks, but you don’t need to do that. I told the captain it wasn’t me and Vince backed me up.” “I should hope so,” she said. “The truth is, I think Vince is the one who convinced him. He told the captain that you were smart and a good reporter, and that after you’d seen us at Stratton’s house and found out the wedding had been cancelled, you put two and two together.” “He was right,” she told her as a trill of pleasure went through her. “DidVince really say that I was smart and a good reporter?” “Yes, he did,” Charlie said dryly. She eyed her closely. “You want to tell me what’s going on between you two?” Anne blinked, felt color rush to her cheeks. “Nothing. Why?” “Because you both get this sea-sick look when I mention one of you to the other.” “Girls,” their mother said as she came through the kitchen doors. “What on earth is taking you so long? And why is there water on the floor?” “I dropped the sponge,” Anne fibbed. “Don’t worry, we’re almost done.” But as she tackled the remaining dishes, Anne’s thoughts were on Detective Vincent Kossak. “I still can’t believe Francesca’s dead.” “It’s true,” Cole told his sister Holly as he set her bag down inside of her apartment. After learning from Aaron about Francesca’s murder, he’d driven to the casino resort on the Gulf Coast where he’d sent Holly the previous night. He had thought that getting Holly out of New Orleans would be the best way to ensure his sister didn’t do something foolish—like crashing J.P.’s wedding—and making matters worse for herself. But once he’d learned of Francesca’s death, he’d known he had to act quickly. Holly had always been fragile emotionally and he hadn’t wanted her to hear the news over the phone. Nor did he want her to learn about it from the media. He’d wanted to break the news to her in person. After the initial shock, she’d grown quiet. She’d remained quiet while she packed her bags and checked out of the resort hotel. And she had barely said ten words during the ninety-minute drive back to New Orleans. He eyed her carefully as she stood staring out of the picture window that offered a view of the Mississippi River and the night sky. Unsure whether to be relieved or concerned by his sister’s silence, Cole took off his leather jacket and laid it on the chair beside Holly’s. He wasn’t blind to his sister’s faults, he admitted. Holly was spoiled, often unpredictable and gullible. Her emotions ran high—be they happy or sad. She also had the most tender, generous heart of anyone he knew. And despite the angry scene with Francesca the previous night, he didn’t doubt for a moment that she was already regretting the ugly words that had passed between them. She was probably also feeling a loss. After all, she and Francesca had been good friends at one time. Until J.P. had come along. The selfish bastard. He had ruined the friendship between his own daughter and her friend simply to satisfy his own twisted ego. He hadn’t been concerned about how his actions would affect Holly or anyone else. But then, J.P. Stratton had never cared about anyone other than himself. He’d learned that lesson firsthand a long time ago. What he didn’t understand and never would was why Holly continued to love J.P. after everything he had put her through. But then, he’d never understood why his mother had continued to love the man who’d used and abandoned her, either. Maybe he hadn’t been able to help his mother all those years ago, but he could help his sister now. Walking over to the window, he stood beside Holly and stared out into the night. The rain that had come through earlier in the day had washed away the clouds. Stars glistened against a black velvet sky with a crescent-shaped moon that looked as though it was suspended above the river. It was a quiet, peaceful scene, but he knew the woman beside him was not at peace. “You want to talk about it?” “No.” Turning around she said, “What I want is a drink.” When she started toward the bar, Cole blocked her path. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he told her firmly, knowing his sister had used alcohol as a crutch in the past and worried at her dependence on the stuff. “Well, I think it’s a great idea,” she argued. “My nerves are shot. I need it to calm me down.” “No, you don’t,” he insisted and caught her hands in his. “The booze is a crutch and you don’t need a crutch. You’re stronger than that.” “No, I’m not,” she countered and tried to pull her hands free. “Ask anyone. They’ll tell you I’m just a spoiled little rich girl who gets herself into one mess after another and has to have her daddy or big brother bail her out,” she said, her self-loathing evident. “You are so much more than that, Holly. Why can’t you see that?” he asked, pained to see his sister in such distress. “Because I can’t see what isn’t there. I’m not like you, Cole. I’m weak. I always have been. You’re the one who can’t see it.” He tipped up her chin with his fingers. “What I see is a brave, beautiful and compassionate woman who is a lot stronger than she thinks.” “I certainly don’t feel brave or strong.” “That’s because you’ve been dealt some hard blows in the past few days. Why don’t you come sit down and try to relax. I’ll get us both some tea.” “I don’t have any tea,” she said as she took a seat on the couch. “What about coffee?” “I have some instant.” He hated instant coffee, had never understood how people could drink the stuff. But if it would help Holly, he’d drink dishwater. “Instant’s fine. You relax and I’ll go fix us each a cup.” “It’s in the kitchen cabinet beside the stove.” “I’ll find it,” he assured her. He found it. Fifteen minutes later, neither one of them had taken more than a few sips of the horrible-tasting brew. But his sister had been able to listen without falling apart as he tried to prepare her for what would be coming. He’d had several messages already from a Detective Le Blanc, wanting to question him. It wouldn’t be long before they made their way to Holly. “The news about the wedding being cancelled has already made it on the local TV stations. By morning the news of Francesca’s murder will probably be out, too. I’m guessing word about your run-in with Francesca at the rehearsal dinner last night has already reached the police.” And he didn’t doubt that his sister violating the restraining order by showing up at the dinner and throwing a glass of wine in Francesca’s face would make her a prime suspect. Needing to prepare her, he said, “They’re probably going to want to question you.” “What am I going to tell them?” “The truth. That you were unhappy about the wedding and the two of you had an argument, but that you didn’t kill her.” “It’s true, Cole. I didn’t,” she said. “I know, kiddo. And you have nothing to worry about. You were nearly a hundred miles from here when she was killed and can prove it.” At least that was in her favor, he reasoned. Also in her favor was the fact that he had waited until Holly had called to say she was at the resort before going to see Francesca and the woman had still been alive when he’d gone to see her. “Once the police check with the resort and confirm you were there, you’ll be in the clear.” “What if they don’t remember me or know exactly when I arrived?” He smiled. “Trust me. They’ll remember a beautiful redhead and the time you checked in will be on your receipt and in the reservation system.” “But I didn’t check in right away,” she told him. “I mean, there was a line at the desk, so I played the slot machines for a while.” “That’s okay. They’ll just check the surveillance tapes. CS Securities installed the system there. There are cameras capturing every angle of the casino and recording the dates and times. The tapes will put you in the clear,” he explained. “No they won’t,” she said and her eyes filled with tears. “Why not?” he asked, a sinking feeling in his gut. “Because I wasn’t at the casino when I called you last night. I called and said I was because I didn’t want you to worry. But I didn’t get there until later that night.” “Then where were you?” “In New Orleans. I was more than half-way to Biloxi when I turned around and came back. I went to see Francesca, to apologize and try to convince her not to file the charges.” “What time did you go see her?” he demanded. “I don’t know. Late. She told me that you’d already been there, pleading my case and that she’d turned you down. Then she said she wasn’t going to wait until morning, that she was calling the police now and telling them I’d violated the restraining order twice that night. When she picked up the phone, I rushed out, got in my car and went to the resort. I’m so sorry, Cole. I’ve made a mess of everything, haven’t I?” “We’ll work it out,” he said, but he was worried. He didn’t believe for a second that Holly had killed Francesca. But she had motive and no alibi—something that the police would latch on to quickly. “How? What are we going to do?” “The first thing I’m going to do is call Margee Jardine and let her know what’s happened. Then I’m going to find out who else visited Francesca last night.” He’d seen the bottle of champagne chilling and two glasses when he’d gone to see her. So he knew she’d been expecting someone. “What can I do?” “You can stay calm and trust me to take care of this.” “I do trust you, Cole,” she said, her expression somber. “Whenever I’ve needed someone, you’ve always been there for me. You’re the one person who’s never let me down.” Only Holly was wrong. He hadn’t always been there when she’d needed him, Cole thought as he hugged her close. Eight years ago when she’d been a pregnant sixteen-year-old and J.P. had forced her to have an abortion, he had been thousands of miles away. She’d gone through that nightmare all alone because he’d been on a Special Ops assignment, because he had chosen to re-up for another tour of duty instead of coming home where he was needed. While he hated J.P. for putting Holly through that, he hated himself more for not being there to protect her. He intended to protect her now. He looked up at the television as the crime show in progress was interrupted by the sound of a breaking news report. At last, he thought and set aside the papers he had stopped by his office to pick up. He’d been disappointed when the media had failed to report Francesca’s murder on the six o’clock evening news. Although phone calls had been made and favors called in by the Stratton family to handle the situation with discretion, he’d hated that no one was acknowledging his work. Instead, everyone seemed to have focused on the cancelled wedding—which didn’t deserve even the fifteen minutes of attention it had already garnered. No, the real story was him and what he had done. “Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program to bring you this breaking news story,” Bill Capo, the WWL-TV Channel 4 News anchor and reporter began. “Francesca Hill, thefianc?e of real estate mogul J. P. Stratton, is dead, the victim of a robbery turned homicide. As reported early today, guests who were invited to the wedding of the former casino hostess and the multimillionaire began receiving phone calls shortly before the scheduled ceremony, notifying them that the wedding had been cancelled. At the home of J. P. Stratton, here is Anne Le Blanc with more on the story.” The television screen switched to a view in front of the Stratton home where a flock of reporters and news truckswere gathered outside the wrought iron gates. Although it was nearly nine o’clock at night, the area was lit up like a Christmas tree thanks to the news crews. And standing there bundled in a fitted red leather coat that tied at the waist and fell just above the knee was the perky blond reporter who had been the first to report the cancellation of the wedding. He’d recognized the name, of course, and had found it amusing to have Emily Le Blanc’s baby sister reporting on his latest accomplishment. But the one who had truly intrigued him was the older sister—Charlotte Le Blanc. In the few weeks he’d known Emily, he’d heard all about her two sisters—especially about Charlotte, the smart and serious one who was studying to be a lawyer. He hadn’t realized that she’d abandoned her plans to become a lawyer and become a cop instead. Smiling, he couldn’t help wondering if he had been the one to influence her change of career. He also wondered if she would put up more of a fight than Emily had. She would, he decided and found himself growing excited by the idea. “Anne, what can you tell us?” Bill asked. Holding the microphone in front of her, she touched her earpiece and stared directly into the camera. “Bill, I’m standing outside the palatial home of J.P. Stratton, who as you know, was scheduled to be married this afternoon and whose wedding was abruptly cancelled without explanation. Although we have not been able to speak with Mr. Stratton, his publicist and a member of the immediate family has confirmed that Ms. Hill is dead. Her body was found early today by the maid who had come to help her prepare for her wedding.” “Anne, do we know how she was killed?” Bill asked as the screen split in two, giving views of the TV studio and of the reporter outside the mansion. “Bill, the police have not released any details about how Ms. Hill died. But what we have been told is that cash and jewelry were missing from Ms. Hill’s apartment. And the case is being treated as a robbery turned homicide.” Robbery turned homicide his ass, he thought, irritated. He didn’t know who the prick was that had stolen Francesca’s wallet and jewelry, but he had been the one who’d killed her. And the damn police better not screw up his plans. They should be looking for a murderer—not some petty thief. Charlotte Le Blanc would be looking for a murderer, he told himself, growing calmer. “Anne, do the police have any suspects?” Capo asked. “None that they’ve reported.” But they soon would, he thought and Detective Charlotte Le Blanc would uncover them all. He was sure of it. Smiling again, he turned off the set and gathered up the file he needed. Karma had brought her to him for a reason, he decided. And once she had served her purpose, he would kill her. Six “This is Stratton. Leave a message and I’ll get back—” “I’ve already left three messages,” Charlie said and slammed down the telephone without waiting for the rest of the recording. Dinner with her parents had been lovely but after Anne had gotten the call from the TV station ordering her to report on location for a story, she’d had to forgo dessert. So Charlie had skipped the bananas Foster as well and left their parents’ home. Too wired to relax, she’d known going home was pointless. So she did what she often did when a case was nagging at her, she headed back to the station. It was after eight o’clock when she’d arrived. And as was usually the case for a Saturday night during carnival season, business at the station was brisk. Most uniformed officers were pulling double shifts to handle the crowds and the problems generated by the party fever that engulfed the city for two weeks each year. When she made her way back to the Homicide Department, she hadn’t expected to find Vince there working. But then she hadn’t been surprised to find him, either. With the murder rate quickly approaching triple digits, there was always work that needed to be done, leads that needed to be followed up on, paperwork to be processed. They had other open cases that required attention. But the word had come down from the top that the Hill case was priority. That was fine with her, Charlie admitted, because from the moment she had seen that black silk stocking, the case hadn’t been out of her thoughts. She went back to the list of people who had visited Francesca Hill the previous night. The odds were one of them was the killer or had seen the killer. She ran her finger down the list. J.P. Stratton. Aaron Stratton. Danielle Marceau. The Reverend Homer Lawrence. Cole Stratton. Plus the two mystery guests—the crying female and the camera-shy guy with the shades. She made a question mark, knowing it was possible that whoever had monkeyed with the surveillance tape was none of the above. But for now, she had to work with what she had and what she had were a lot of people visiting Francesca Hill on the eve of her wedding. She needed to find out why. Going back to the top of the list, she skipped past J. P. Stratton and Aaron Stratton. She had spoken to them once already and doubted she would learn much more from them tonight. Danielle Marceau hadn’t been at home or at work, so she tried again and once again left a message. Next on the list was the reverend. Given the lateness of the hour, she decided to wait until tomorrow to pay him a call. Since they had yet to identify the mystery lady and the guy with the shades, that left Cole Stratton—who obviously wasn’t returning her calls. Deciding to try his home number again, she had just punched in the first three digits when she heard a whoop of excitement from Vince’s desk across the aisle from her. She put down the phone. “Got it! Thanks, pal. I owe you one.” He hung up the phone and swung around in his chair to face her. Holding up a slip of paper, he said, “Guess what I’ve got here?” “A hot stock tip?” “Funny,” he said dryly. “It’s the name of our mystery girl on the surveillance tape. I’ll give you three guesses.” “Kossak.” She growled out the word. “Holly Stratton. I had the new kid, Mackenzie, take a copy of the photo we had printed from the tape over to the Mill House Apartments and show it around. The desk clerk identified her.” “Another ex-wife?” Charlie asked. “Daughter. According to the clerk, she and the vic used to be friends. But they had a falling-out when Hill took up with the father.” “I can’t say that I blame her,” Charlie responded, empathizing with Holly Stratton. Having your father marry a woman who couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than you would have been tough for anyone to swallow. But having him marry one of your friends had to be ten times worse. “It gets better,” Vince continued. “Hill took out a restraining order against Holly Stratton a couple of weeks ago. She showed up at last night’s rehearsal dinner and she and the vic had words. Ms. Stratton ended up throwing a glass of wine in her soon-to-be stepmother’s face. Apparently all hell broke loose and Hill threatened to have her arrested for violating the restraining order.” “I bet that went over real big with daddy.” “Sensitive guy that he is, daddy had hotel security escort his daughter off the premises.” Charlie flinched inwardly for Holly Stratton. She could only imagine the other woman’s humiliation. “If you ask me, she should have thrown the wine in his face.” “She might have if the security guards hadn’t hauled her out when they did. According to the waiter, Ms. Stratton didn’t go quietly. She told the Hill woman she was going to regret what she’d done.” Charlie sobered at once. “Then what was she doing at the victim’s apartment last night?” “I was wondering the same thing,” Vince said. “Why don’t we go ask her?” When they pulled up in front of Holly Stratton’s apartment building, Vince let out a whistle. Charlie understood her partner’s reaction. The address itself was a calling card that read, For Rich People Only. She’d seen advertisements for the luxury apartments located on Saint Charles Avenue when they’d first come on the market. They had started at a half-million dollars. And that had been several years ago before property values had skyrocketed. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/metsy-hingle/black-silk-39774245/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.