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  She stared longingly at the front door only feet away then turned to see Cecelia on the landing above her. She mustered every bit of calm she had within her. “Yes, Cecelia?”

  After brief hesitation, the nanny asked, “You think Mr. Fortier would mind if I stayed out for the night?”

  Kathleen let out the breath she’d drawn in so tight her chest ached. She hoped it didn’t show. “I think what Mr. Fortier doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “Cool.” The girl finally grinned then walked down the stairs and right past them, pausing only long enough to hold the door for Kathleen and the child. She watched the nanny go, then turned and headed the opposite direction.

  The evening light was blinding compared to the dark interior of the mansion. The air was heavy and wet and carrying her load quickly had her weary. To her relief, a cab driver quickly spotted her and pulled curbside before she could trouble to flag him down. He hurried around and opened the door for her, perhaps because she was beautiful; more likely because he recognized her white attire, which hinted at society. She was clearly of means.

  “Warehouse District, madam?”

  “No,” she said, breathless not from having hauled the child or bag, but from having committed multiple acts of deception in only a few short minutes. “Mandeville, please.”

  As the cab pulled away from the curb, she turned in her seat, looking for any sign she was being followed. She buckled the seat belt around the child, then gave the tot what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  The oversized bag was heavy on her feet and Kathleen plunged her hand through the zipper opening, gaining the smallest confidence as she ran her hand along the bound stacks of cash. It was now short two hundred dollars, but buying off the nanny was her first good move. Her next would be even better. She zipped the bag, sat up, and fastened her own seat belt.

  Ten minutes later, the cab was on the causeway headed for the other shore. Only then did she consider the amazing feat she was pulling off. She had the child and she had the money. Between heartbeats, it finally began to feel real. The good life was within reach.

  Chapter Two

  Five hours she’d driven for a hurricane: pink rum punch garnished with an orange slice, frozen or on the rocks, a tasty delight served in an hourglass-shaped souvenir glass stamped with the green Pat O’Brien logo. The bar was a definite first stop for tourists, but Shel Carson rated it stop number two.

  First, there was business to attend to, an interview for a job she was certain she’d turn down, but as she’d already accepted travel money and made the trip through pouring rain in her wobbly, rusting Mustang, she figured she might as well hear the guy out.

  She made her exit off I-10 and almost hydroplaned past her Toulouse turn. She slammed on the brakes hard enough to cause the balding tires to slip, and managed the turn, exhaling with enough breathy irritation to set her errant bangs fluttering. Ten minutes, she promised herself, in and out. Then she’d set about soaking up the New Orleans atmosphere along with its requisite booze.

  She’d booked a room at Le Richelieu, a boutique hotel in the lower quarter, one block over from the Old Ursuline Convent. She’d selected the place. At $160 a night, it was a considerable downgrade from the Ritz, which Richard Fortier had suggested, and he was footing the bill. But Le Richelieu appealed in that it was too old, stale, and allegedly too haunted. Congruent with her mood of late.

  Arriving at the hotel, she checked in, showered, and left in time to arrive on Fortier’s doorstep promptly at seven p.m., per his instructions.

  The measly two-block walk in the smothering post-rain humidity had her dabbing a thin line of sweat off her forehead. She took a backward step off the sidewalk and squinted behind crooked sunglasses at the three-story mansion on the corner of Royal and Governor Nicholls streets.

  The mansion was a looming extravagance, slate gray, with tall, black-shuttered windows in a marked contrast to the delicate, lacy iron balconies. The palatial estate looked more like a hotel than Le Richelieu and Shel had an inkling of its historical significance. Tourists lingered on the sidewalks and streets, snapping pictures, and casting occasional curious glances in Shel’s direction as she stood on the doorstep. She began to wonder if she had the right place. Could someone actually live here?

  She fished around in her pants pocket to retrieve the crumpled memo, but the door opened before she could double-check the address. The sharp-featured man standing on the threshold nearly filled the doorway with his height, but certainly not his frame, which was gaunt at best. He was quite formally attired—a butler, she surmised. His narrow, ferrety eyes appeared to size her up and spit her out simultaneously. When at last he spoke, his tone was as off-putting and as stiff as his appearance.

  “Ms. Carson?” She only nodded. He looked like a corpse. His frozen, blue-tinted lips barely moved when he spoke. “This way, madam.” He turned with a poise that would have easily permitted him to balance a stack of books on top of his elongated skull.

  Shel followed him into the foyer, her damp shoes alternately squeaking and shushing in the butler’s pristine wake as she crossed the marble floor. The heavy door closed behind her, creating a powerful reverberation off narrow hallway walls. She removed her sunglasses and dropped them into her jacket pocket, a move that did little to brighten the dark quarters.

  She followed the old gentleman over Persian rugs, past outlandish gold-plated banisters, and down marbled checkerboard hallways with floor-to-ceiling portraits on either side. She studied the bizarre cacophonies of hooded figures fighting mythic beasts, almost cartoonish scenarios that appeared at odds with their exquisite gold antique frames.

  Shel knew her potential employer had money. His offer hinted at it. Suddenly surrounded by such opulence—and strangeness—she found herself straightening her posture and flipping her hands through the ends of her dark, still damp hair to smooth it.

  The butler pushed through another towering door and stood back, an unspoken invitation for her to enter what appeared to be a library. When he wordlessly left her, she found herself expelling a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding.

  She turned in a slow circle. The oversized room seemed uncharacteristic of the period architecture and she wondered if the space had once been multiple smaller rooms. Still, the physical size of the library could not challenge a smallness created by enormous furnishings and bulging bookcases, just as the elaborate lighting could not combat the darkness created by deep burgundy walls, or the long shadows cast by teetering stacks of books. The room was at war with itself.

  Her curious gaze wandered along volumes of rich, leather-bound books that lined shelves ending just below the soaring hand-painted ceiling. The pièce de résistance was the ornate chandelier dangling from an antique medallion, ending in an elaborate blossom of crystal tears. She craned her neck to study it.

  The heavy whoosh of the door opening nearly caused her whiplash. Embarrassed that she’d been easily spooked, Shel cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks warm. She extended a hand to the broadly grinning, handsome fellow who’d just entered the room, and hoped her voice didn’t rattle. “Mr. Fortier.”

  “Correct,” he said, exposing dimples at each end of his reflexive smile. His blue eyes were engaging and he owned the firm handshake of a businessman used to getting his way.

  Shel glanced down at their joined hands and noticed the stark contrast between her pale, spotted skin and ratty fingernails versus Fortier’s smooth olive skin and perfect manicure. She quickly pulled out of his clutch and discreetly bit her lip. She figured he was used to such reactions from women, though she doubted from women like her.

  She raised her chin slightly, resolved not to advance him the upper hand in a game she’d not yet determined. He motioned toward a wingback chair and seated himself in another chair facing her.

  For the next few minutes, he made small talk about the weather while she internally took back the power her nerves had almost caused her to give up. She made a sile
nt inventory of the man: white designer shirt cuffed at the elbows, crisp despite the humidity that had enveloped the city; pressed tan linen pants; Rolex; and shiny, cordovan shoes. With his sculpted chin, high cheekbones and enough copper-kissed blond hair to rival Redford, she concluded Richard Fortier would look patrician even without the benefit of his expensive threads.

  She realized he was studying her right back.

  At that moment, he concluded his introductory small talk. “Welcome to the fair city of New Orleans, Ms. Carson. What can I get you to drink?” He said “N’awlins” and his Rs sounded like ahs. She pegged him for a lifer.

  “Nothing,” she said, almost surprised by her brusque tone as she moved to advance the appointment. “What did you want to see me about, Mr. Fortier?”

  His grin was crooked and slow growing. She noticed a twinkle of admiration in his bright eyes. “A woman of business. Amen.”

  He stood and made his way to a narrow space between the bookcases and toward a cast-iron fireplace with ribbon ornamentation and a slate top, which served as a dry bar. She watched him plunk two ice cubes into a glass tumbler and pour himself a drink. “I’m a man of business myself, but I find that a little scotch gets things off to a fine start.” He replaced the stopper on the decanter and turned to face her, gently swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Helps loosen the tongue. You sure you won’t change your mind?”

  She shook her head.

  He lifted his glass up in a faux toast before taking a good gulp, and crossed the room to stand in front of her, studying her closely as if deciding whether she was the woman for the job. Her discomfort grew with his obvious scrutiny until his gaze at last locked with hers. He nodded, his decision apparently made, then turned and headed for the door. “Walk with me, Ms. Carson.”

  She followed him down the same narrow length of hallway, which afforded her a second look at the massive paintings. The odd, purplish-gray hues of the work coupled with early evening shadows had turned the general atmosphere of the mansion even darker and more foreboding, the oils boasting swirling black skies and fire among other macabre themes. She found herself slowing to study a particular painting that included a broken, bleeding body of a man. She stifled her desire to wince, but the small, involuntary movement didn’t go unnoticed by her host.

  “Truman Broussard,” he told her.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The artist.” He stopped before a particularly demonic portrait. “Very well liked in these parts.”

  “I’ll run out and get one.”

  “Solid investment.” He took her dig with a grin. “Mr. Broussard was commissioned a few years back to do some of the portraiture for the residence. Not by me, but by a very smart gentleman who realized the value they’d add to this property.”

  The ghoulish works ignited a chill within her. “Do you own this home, Mr. Fortier?” She reconsidered and quietly amended her question. “Is this place a home?”

  He chuckled. “Indeed it is, and yes, I own it.” They walked on. “A little further, if you will.”

  He led her to another room full of black leather and rich burgundy brocade furniture. In truth, she thought the décor looked every bit the part of an old-time whorehouse. The threshold marked an abrupt change from marble to dark hardwood floors. Soon, she altered her opinion from whorehouse to vampire’s den.

  Fortier motioned toward a pair of leather wingback chairs situated across from each other, and she wondered why they’d changed rooms in the first place. Perhaps he was showing off, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine why. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said.

  She doubted that would be possible in such a place. Her brow scrunched up at his elaborate foreplay of sorts, but she sat down anyway. She studied a picture of the St. Louis cemetery under violet skies for several minutes before giving him her attention.

  “You like?” he asked.

  “It’s a bit morbid for my taste,” she replied.

  He chuckled and politely launched into a lengthy narrative about artistic influence, utilizing pretty words and a voice so soothing she nearly nodded off. Perhaps she was worn out from the rainy drive. She sat up straight, resisting an urge to yawn.

  Since clearly he wanted to discuss himself and his home, she appeased him. “What is it you do, Mr. Fortier?”

  “I broker art.”

  “Of course.”

  “I know what’s on the market at all times. If it’s available for purchase, I’ll find it. If it’s not, well, I can be very persuasive.” He smiled.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I also have a small gallery on Julia Street, a showcase of sorts for local artists and a few favorites.”

  While she listened, Shel noted the central figure in the purple painting—a demon—had eyes that seemed to follow her no matter where she leaned to avoid them. She gave up. The time for polite talk was over. She repeated her initial inquiry, “Why did you call me here?”

  “A mutual acquaintance recommended your services to me,” he carefully began, his tone and the conversation taking a sudden serious turn. “He believes you to be properly qualified and I have a high opinion of his word.”

  She couldn’t possibly imagine an acquaintance they’d have in common. She didn’t bother to consider the possibilities. None of them were good. “Who can I thank for the referral?” she dryly asked. “I’ll send a basket.”

  He ignored her sarcasm and her question. “I’ve looked at your background. Impressive undercover work with the Shreveport police, all those service awards, commendations and the like.” He took the last sip of his drink and set it aside.

  On cue, the butler entered the room and took his glass. To Shel, it seemed the meeting had been choreographed down to the smallest detail.

  Fortier seemed to sense her discomfort and waited for the butler to go before continuing. “Then you hit that little snag with the drug problem, which is certainly understandable. I mean, how can one so deeply submerse oneself into the culture without doing a little business to prove a point. Am I right?”

  He’d poked her in her only, albeit very large, sore spot. His smugness disgusted her. She hated schmucks who pulled cheap shots to gain quick leverage. The tactic never worked on her. “Mr. Fortier, your charming southern drawl and smooth voice almost makes a person neglect to notice what a real jackass you may be.” She rose from her seat, already looking for an exit, and added, “Almost.”

  For the first time, Fortier’s cool demeanor showed very real signs of collapse. He all but sprang out of his seat in an effort to prevent her from leaving. “Ms. Carson, wait.”

  “It’s been a pleasure,” she said on her way to the door. “But not really.”

  “I apologize. That was low of me.” His words rang with desperation. He reached out for her arm, but she whisked herself away, cleanly avoiding his touch. He lowered his hand. “Ms. Carson, please hear me out. Just give me five minutes.”

  She paused at the doorway and sighed, and for the sake only of saving him from a possible heart attack, she turned around. “Five minutes.”

  “Sit down? Please?”

  She rolled her eyes, walked back to the chair, and dropped into the seat. “Do you always get your way, Mr. Fortier?”

  “Only when it comes to business.”

  “I’m not so sure about this time,” she muttered.

  “This isn’t business, Ms. Carson. I assure you the matter is very personal.” He swallowed hard. Suddenly, his blue eyes turned milky with emotion. “As I mentioned, my friend tells me you’re the one to go to for delicate issues.”

  True. In the years since she’d quit the Shreveport UC Division (or been fired, depending upon who gave an opinion) she’d undertaken a variety of freelance undercover work. Without ever renting an office or hanging a shingle, business seemed to just…find her. She’d run the gamut, everything from trickily served process papers for shady characters, to snapping shots of rich wives playing porn star for pool boys.
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  No matter what she’d pulled off for money in the past, she had a hunch—based on the pomp and circumstance of the meeting thus far—that Richard Fortier’s request would top them all. She narrowed her gaze at him.

  He seemed to understand that she was growing impatient with his storytelling. “I’ll get to the point.”

  “Please do,” she encouraged him, not attempting to buffer her impatience.

  The butler returned with a fresh drink. Fortier took it without establishing eye contact with the man, who left the room right away. Still, Fortier lowered his voice. “My wife left me.”

  “Well, I can’t make her come back if she doesn’t want to.” Shel scooted to the edge of her seat, preparing once again to leave. She added, “And before this goes to an even stranger place, I don’t do hits.”

  “I don’t want my wife dead.”

  “She take a big old ring with her or something?” She constantly retrieved rings from ex-wives and ex-mistresses, the gemstones usually far bigger than the brains of the men who’d purchased them.

  “I’m afraid it’s something more precious than that.” Fortier’s intense gaze effectively trapped her in place. He blinked, appeared at a loss for words. At last he mumbled, “She has taken my daughter.”

  Chapter Three

  Shel stared at Fortier for several long seconds. She quickly rolled through a gamut of emotions from relief at knowing she would quickly reject the case, to sadness for him and the obviously painful loss of his daughter, and finally to disappointment at losing what would surely be a good payday.

  She softened her tone when she finally spoke. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Fortier, but I don’t get involved in custody cases. That’s what the courtroom is for. If your wife has kidnapped your child, that’s a felony. I suggest you start by calling the police.”