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  Shel took another look at the mother and baby photograph, noticing what could be described as a dubious expression on the woman’s face. She realized Fortier was already tainting her feelings about a woman she’d never even met. In recent years, maintaining her objectivity hadn’t been important. Getting information, serving papers—it was brain dead work. Retrieving jewelry or snapping photographs from behind a bush required more tricks than moral decision weighing. If a woman was stupid enough to cheat, a dude dumb enough to skip out on a bookie—whatever the case, they got what they deserved as far as Shel was concerned. She could perform that work on autopilot. Certainly none of it involved kids.

  Shel blinked hard, trying to purge the thoughts from her head. She wasn’t taking the case.

  She found herself studying the paintings on the child’s pink walls, sweetly warped clapboard houses with funny-faced moons hanging in blue skies. This collection was brighter, prettier—a marked departure from the art throughout the rest of the mansion. “Nice,” she absently remarked in an effort to change the subject and preempt any chance of igniting Fortier’s waterworks.

  “Kathleen painted those. She’s always dabbled in kitschy little watercolors.” He tipped his head to one side, studying the one directly in front of them. “I suppose they have a certain charm.”

  Shel stepped closer and studied the quaint paintings, noting the “Kathleen” signature with its curling K buried near the bottom right corner of each canvas. She nodded. “Her interest in art must have been helpful for the family business.”

  “Kathleen was never interested in anything dealing with family.” His tone turned suddenly cold as did his eyes when he angrily whispered, “She’s ruined everything for us.”

  Shel quickly worked right back the subject. She nodded toward the paintings. “She self-taught?”

  He softened, appearing too tired to work up anger. “Kathleen originally studied at Tulane. More recently, she took a few classes at Loyola.” He captured her gaze and took a closer step. In moments, Shel felt the envelope against her open palm. He went on, “Please, find my child, Ms. Carson.”

  Without removing her gaze from his, she felt the envelope and the bulge of what had to be an outrageous sum of cash. Her resolution wavered. It wasn’t like he’d asked her to kidnap the child herself…

  “Think it over,” he said, as if he read her mind. “Sleep on it. Take the money and the card. Find her and there will be more to follow. Your terms.”

  She looked down at the envelope he pressed into her hand.

  He continued, “This is a jumping off point. I’ll give you ten times this amount if you find my daughter.”

  She stared at him a moment longer. “And if I decide not to take the job?”

  “You keep the down payment and I cancel the card and the phone,” Fortier informed her. He shook his head and looked around his daughter’s room. He reeked of abject despair as he concluded his plea. “If you decide against helping me, we’ll never see each other again.”

  “I still need more than your word and a few pieces of paper.”

  “What do you want? Name it and you’ll have it,” he said, clearly trying not to show too much optimism, and already Shel was regretting having provided him even a glimmer of hope. “What can I do to convince you to do this?”

  Shel stared at him. “I’ll need the names of those people she fucked over—all of them—don’t hold back a single one.”

  “Done.”

  “I’ll also want any paperwork in connection to those monies you settled with them. I need to know the price and conditions of their silence. You’re a businessman, I know you kept track and I’m sure every bit of it’s in writing.”

  “That’s confidential…” He’d started to offer an excuse, but upon seeing her shake her head, Fortier heartily nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t see about it, do it.”

  He nodded again. Shel took a deep breath. At last, she clasped the heavy envelope and shoved it inside her jacket. Feeling almost lightheaded, she turned and fled the pink and frilly room, along with the saddest man she’d ever met.

  For reasons wholly unknown to her, she was breathing hard when she paused on the front doorstep of the house. She addressed him without as much as a last look. “I’ll be in touch, maybe. This is just me thinking about it.”

  Shel heard him call his thanks, but didn’t dare turn around or otherwise acknowledge his words. She easily disappeared into a group of tourists on Governor Nicholls Street. Their ringleader, carrying a scepter and wearing a stovepipe hat and cape, had clearly captured the imagination of his eager flock. They were so enthralled by his every word, they didn’t seem to notice as she pushed through to the back of the group and hurried down the street.

  It was a block to Bourbon Street and about a quarter mile to party central. Instead she went two blocks in the opposite direction, turned on Decatur Street, and strolled past the darkened French Market and the Mint. It had been at least a dozen years since she’d last visited New Orleans, but she was rapidly orienting herself to her surroundings with each block. She weaved through throngs of partiers headed toward the Moonwalk for a better look at the lunar spectacle cradled in a band of clouds hanging low over the black Mississippi. She craved anonymity and familiarity at the same time. She cut right onto St. Philip Street to see if O’Boyle’s bar was still in business post-Katrina. To her relief, it was open. She passed through one of the arched entryways that were always wide open.

  The smell of blackened crawfish hung thick in the air, having wafted over from the next-door restaurant, and regulars sharpened their pool cues and swigged beers between shots on a warped pool table. Despite the crumbling appearance of the brick building, she was pleased to discover the offbeat atmosphere remained solidly intact. She sidled up to the bar and double-checked her jacket, nervous about carrying around such a large amount of cash, especially in a place like this. The bartender approached her.

  “Double vodka tonic.” So much for notions of pink hurricanes.

  She accepted the drink, dropped a ten on the bar top, and began her pursuit of a reasonable buzz. She didn’t want to think, and she certainly didn’t want to think about a missing kid. She planned to forget all about it until tomorrow, whereupon she would awaken with a fuzzy head and leave a regretful sounding voice mail declining Fortier’s job offer. Yet no matter how she tried to avoid it, she pondered her strange, brief encounter with Richard Fortier. How pained he’d looked surrounded by the sea of pink frou-frou in his beloved daughter’s bedroom.

  Something nudged her knee, startling her. Shel looked down at a huge brown bulldog staring at her expectantly. He drooled around the sides of a pool ball he had clamped in his enormous jaws as if it were a measly squeaky toy. In total, he was an unnerving sight on three sturdy legs. His obvious handicap caused her to relax some. Even with her bad back she could probably outrun him. Maybe.

  He dropped the heavy ball and picked it up several times, apparently hinting she should either play or at very least pet him. She reached down and scrubbed him between the ears for a few seconds before leaning back against the bar. She ignored him until he moved on.

  She watched him steadily move around the bar, easily interacting with patrons who were probably regulars judging by their greetings for the enormous dog. Shel couldn’t help but admire the animal’s confidence and how he seemed to bring the softer side out of even the toughest-looking characters. There was something pure about animals. Animals and kids…

  Her thoughts immediately went to Fortier’s tale about his wife killing their family pet. It wasn’t something any child should see. Shel wondered if the kid was already ruined beyond repair, not that it would make her less worth rescuing. Not that Shel was the one to perform such a rescue, not that Fortier was asking her to do as much. Find her, period, he’d said. Shel thought about the delicate-appearing woman in the photograph. It was hard to imagine her killing a dog. A psychotic beauty, perhaps? The beautifu
l part, for sure…

  Shel tossed back her last sip, passed her empty glass to the edge of the bar and tapped it. The drink was promptly replaced with another. She slid a twenty across to the bartender. “That’s good for the next one, too.”

  The bristly butterball of a bartender placed an empty shot glass on top of the cash to secure it against the gusts blowing from the old metal fans clanging away in every corner of the joint.

  She studied the other patrons in the bar, an unseemly bunch who seemed to possess an even ratio of tattoos to toothlessness.

  On occasion, what she assumed to be a curious tourist poked his or her head through the tumbledown French doors and promptly pulled it right back out again. She supposed they craved a wilder, louder, brighter locale. An adventurous visitor might stop for a single Abita just to say they’d had a drink with locals, but for the most part, O’Boyle’s lacked the flash to properly welcome the average tourist. The bar’s biggest draws were strong drink, an outdated jukebox with equally outdated music, and a few clanging arcade slots. There wasn’t a string of plastic iridescent beads in sight.

  It had been her intention to throw down at least another twenty in drinks, but when her modest starter tab was gone, she headed for the door, surprising herself with a little stumble-step down St. Philip. Apparently she required more than one little package of gas station doughnuts in her stomach to properly absorb three double vodka tonics, or she was getting old, which could be a real possibility.

  She took the first right onto Chartres and headed back toward Le Richelieu, coming to Fortier’s mansion on the way and stopping in front for a moment. The darkened windows added to the already ominous atmosphere. She could feel the spooky ambiance from across the street. “Fucking creepy,” she muttered.

  Moving on, Shel took the last block and pushed through the front door of Le Richelieu and gave a courteous nod to a front desk girl wearing a black leather dress that fit her like a second skin. The night people of New Orleans were markedly different from the day people. Shel paused long enough to fully appreciate the ample cleavage spilling out of her V-neck.

  The girl noticed her gaze and clearly received it as complimentary. She looked coy, her ponytails bobbing. When she grinned, she flashed fangs where her eyeteeth should have been.

  Surprised, Shel politely returned the girl’s smile before hurriedly stepping aboard the elevator. She pressed the number four a dozen times and refrained from rolling her eyes until she was safely behind the closed steel door.

  The archaic carriage lurched to a stop and the doors parted. She followed the threadbare hallway runner to room 404, digging her key out along the way. She shoved the key into the lock, gave it a jiggle as she’d been instructed, pushed the door open, and hit the light switch inside the door. Nothing. Instantly on her guard, she stepped inside, allowing the door to fall quietly shut behind her.

  Her back pressed against the wall, she inched further into the room, stopping when she heard rustling coming from the general location of the bed. She patted her belt and silently unsnapped the gun holster concealed by her shirt hem.

  Before she could draw her gun, she was blindsided by a heavy mass crashing into the center of her chest, nearly knocking her off her feet.

  Chapter Four

  Shel pushed the weight off and proceeded to crawl in the general direction of the nightstand, huffing and cursing all the way. She blindly knocked everything off the small table until she found the lamp switch and flicked it on.

  She stood on wobbly legs, caught her breath, and gave her attacker—a twenty-five pound cat—an admonishing look. Her voice came out in a low rasp. “Jesus Christ, Newton—you’re going to send me to an early grave, you know that?”

  The fat black and white cat only pressed his face against her pant leg, purring as if he had no clue what could have possibly gone wrong with his welcome back surprise.

  She took a backward step away from the tomcat. “Hell no—I’m mad now. I almost shot your fluffy ass.”

  Shel headed toward the bathroom, reprimanding Newton as she went. “I go and sneak you into a perfectly questionable hotel and that’s how you repay me? You should be happy you even have a roof over your head in the first place.”

  Newton—short for Wayne Newton—was her single win following the big breakup nearly eight years ago. She’d never wanted the animal in the first place and had to dose herself nightly with Benadryl to make their cohabitation possible. But apparently hubby—yes, her ever-loving ex-girlfriend had switched teams—was even more allergic to cats.

  Shel considered it as she squeezed a line of toothpaste on her brush. She’d no more had a vote in the matter of adopting a cat than anything else in that relationship. After dumping the cat on her, her newly betrothed ex had immediately left the state, relocating to Las Vegas, no less, where the pair could go gaga over the real Wayne Newton live and in person to their heart’s content. Though she never considered herself butch—she never considered herself any label—Shel believed herself to be decidedly more masculine than her ex’s new husband. Shel wondered if he, himself, might switch teams one day.

  “Oh, the irony,” she muttered through a mouthful of foamy toothpaste. “Cat, I would have at least picked a respectable name for you.” She spat and rinsed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the animal watching her every move from the doorway.

  “We should have figured her out sooner,” she told Newton, referring to her ex-girlfriend as she often did when speaking to the cat, though she was well over the failed relationship. She dabbed her lips on a towel and dropped it on the countertop. “What self-respecting lesbian goes ape-shit over Wayne Newton, anyway?”

  Back in the room, she spied her jacket and picked it up, draping it over the back of the desk chair. Richard Fortier’s envelope fell on the floor. She stared at it for a moment. All thoughts of her ex flew out of her head. She picked up the envelope, gave it a good squeeze, and at last had the nerve to count the money inside. Ten thousand dollars. She replaced the bills in the envelope and made a low whistle.

  I’ll give you ten times this much if you find my daughter.

  She blinked Fortier’s words away and set the envelope on the desk.

  Since the big split, she’d lived out of a total of five motels, each one a real dive. She had lived hand to mouth off the proceeds of whatever jobs found her. She had no credit, no savings, and no opportunity to save for a bigger place. Not that she’d want a place in Shreveport anyway. No love, no job, nothing left to keep her there, unless she counted the cat and often she didn’t.

  The result of living as a nomad meant life with a hotplate and without refrigeration. Also, she’d developed a routine of thoroughly checking the mattress each week, hunting for signs of bedbugs more than anything else. She did the same at this hotel out of habit, which was ridiculous. La Richelieu was old, but it was neat and clean. Still, old habits die hard. When she felt satisfied with her findings—or lack thereof—she slipped between the sheets and turned out the light.

  After several seconds she patted the space beside her. “Come on, Newton, you nincompoop.”

  The cat promptly leapt on the bed and went about purring, circling, and clawing the comforter, as he did every night. At last he settled down and curled into her side.

  “Spooning with the cat,” she muttered, stroking Newton between his ears. “Oh, the depravity.”

  Shel closed her eyes, but held only a dim hope of rest and proceeded to employ every sleep position known to humankind. By two a.m., the cat sat up and glared at her, disdain evident in his gleaming yellow eyes.

  She sighed and confessed, “Newton, I’m in a pickle.”

  She reached out and scrubbed the cat under his chin, prompting him to settle in and at least give the appearance that he was listening to her—more than she usually got from humans. She launched into a pros and cons narrative.

  “A hundred grand would easily get us clear out of Shreveport. Hell—that would get us clear out of Louisiana. We
could start over for real, not just live in fleabag motels.”

  The cat loudly purred as if in agreement.

  “But it’s a kid and I don’t take kid cases,” she countered. She had to admit that Fortier’s generous down payment had her firm policy on the matter feeling flimsier by the moment. “Then again, he is the kid’s father and he’s got the paperwork. Jesus Christ, I’d probably be doing the cops and courts a favor, right?”

  And now she was grasping.

  Clearly bored with her ramblings, Newton had fallen asleep and was actually snoring.

  “Good talk,” she mumbled.

  The case was eating at her in unexpected ways. She wondered if kids would always remind her of her own sordid past: a shit-life in a dilapidated government apartment with parents who were drunks and druggies.

  In the end, her mother had died too young, the result of a drug and alcohol binge, and her father had split. At barely eight years old, Shel was entered into the system for a life of shoddy care by a series of nameless, faceless adults.

  It was her own rotten childhood that had her jumping at the chance to work undercover Narco. The prospect of never again dealing with children seemed glorious. How wrong she’d been…

  Shel closed her eyes and concentrated on relaxing every muscle, starting with her toes, a trick that worked for her as a kid. When she finished, despite her efforts, she felt more restless than relaxed.

  She wondered if her own childhood was a strike against Fortier or a point in his favor. She knew her time undercover and the fatal error that caused her departure was certainly a strike against. Despite it, she tried to keep an open mind. She sighed loudly.

  Newton stopped snoring, an indication that his owner was again annoying him.

  “I can’t take a kid case.” And like that, it was decided. “I’ll tell him first thing in the morning and give him back his shit.”