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  Sawyer lowered his voice further and appeared to soften. “I met Kathleen when I pitched in to help set up an art show. I told her I was in the process of adopting a baby girl, and that’s how she came to tell me she has a little girl herself. I asked her about some of her pictures for the baby’s room. I’m not even a big fan of artsy-fartsy—it surprised the hell out of me to find out how much the stuff would set me back. She gave me a gift.”

  “A gift of—” Shel made rough tally. “What? Sixty grand in art just for helping her shuffle a few paintings.” She made it sound less like a question and more like an insinuation. She hiked an eyebrow and asked, “You sure that was the only thing you got from her?”

  “She gave me just the one.” He sounded earnest. “Then I heard she disappeared. Then a few days ago these pictures show up at my office. I figured I’d heard wrong about her going missing.”

  “Did you tell anyone about this mysterious donation?” She didn’t drop her intense gaze.

  “No.”

  “And you figured Kathleen was at home with her husband.”

  “Where else would she be?”

  “Did you send her a thank-you note?”

  He looked caught off guard by her rapid-fire questions. “No.”

  “Why not?” She smiled, her point practically making itself.

  “I didn’t think to.”

  “You didn’t think to send a card or flowers or anything to someone who gifted you this much art?” She leaned forward and went quiet. “I think the reason you didn’t send anything to her house was because you knew she wouldn’t be there to get it. And had you sent something, the cops would be all over your ass following up on it.”

  He blinked. “Looks like you are.”

  “Looks like it,” she confirmed. She stood to go, but stopped at the door and tried one last bluff. “You want to make any changes to that story before I get a warrant to haul you in? Seeing as you’re one of the last ones she had contact with.”

  He swung into a defensive, businesslike mode. “Haul me in. I’ve got a lawyer.” He sat back again. For such a meaty fellow, he primly folded his arms across his Wolfpack T-shirt. “Until then, we’re finished here.”

  “A coach with his own attorney. You gotta love that.” She chuckled as she turned the doorknob. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Five

  O’Boyle’s was becoming Shel’s headquarters of late. Seated at the bar, she reviewed her scanty notes.

  Coach, possible lover. Wife, possible skank. Her mini-interrogation of Sawyer hadn’t earned her much to go on.

  She finished her drink and ordered another. In moments, the bartender—a woman with springy, dyed-blond hair with two inches of black roots showing—set the glass in front of her. When she offered a couple of bills, the woman refused to take her cash.

  Puzzled, Shel looked at her money on the bar top. “Am I still in New Orleans?”

  “You look like you could use it,” the woman said. “I’m Jess.”

  “Shel,” she introduced herself and raised her glass. “Thanks, Jess. Salute.” She downed half the glass in one gulp and wiped her damp lips on the back of her hand.

  Jess didn’t go away. She aimed striking green eyes at the open notebook. “What you working on there?”

  “Notes. I’m looking into a runaway case.”

  “Of course you are.” Jess laughed, leaned on the bar, and clasped her hands together. The blond curls bounced right along with her personality. “Everybody’s running from something, right?”

  “Yeah?” Shel asked, amused. She decided she was happy for the distraction and closed her notebook. “Tell me about it.”

  Jess tapped Shel’s hand and pointed down the bar at a haggard-looking woman hunched over a drink. She quietly said, “That one’s running from the law.” Her gaze went to a burly, bald biker with a thick, gray beard. “The wife.” She nodded at the only other bartender, a nerdy-looking fellow with twitching eyes, and whispered, “The State of Georgia—all of it, from what he says.”

  Shel shared a chuckle with Jess and asked, “You?”

  Jess shrugged. “Future in-laws who act more like outlaws.” She pretended to wipe sweat off her forehead. “Dodged that bullet.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Minnesota. I’m a cold-weather girl. I can hardly take the heat down here.”

  “Okay, Minnesota,” Shel said, pronouncing the end like soda, just as Jess had. “Then why’d you come so far south?”

  “I figure in this heat, it’s the last place they’d expect to find me. Still, New Orleans reminds me of my nutty hometown. Lake, river—it’s all water. No matter how far you go, you crave your creature comforts.” Jess shot her a wink and patted the scarred bar top. “Let me know if you need another.”

  Shel waited for Jess to leave and once again looked over her sparse notes. Moments later, she tucked the book into the pocket of her oversized plaid shirt, and assessed what she knew so far.

  Coach Sawyer might know something about Kathleen, but she figured she wouldn’t get it out of the man without hauling him into a more official arena, something she couldn’t do even if she wanted to. Guys like him, dumb or not, weren’t easily intimidated by a fake badge or her smart mouth.

  Mr. Fortier believed his wife had left of her own accord. But where would Kathleen go? She had no relatives and her parents were dead.

  Shel tapped her pen on the bar top. Somebody put Better Than Ezra on the jukebox. Drink number two had been a bit stronger, and she was beginning to feel comfortably anonymous, a mood only slightly interrupted when her glance absently went to Jess. The woman smiled at her from across the bar. She smiled back. A breath of fresh air like that woman wouldn’t last long in this dark place.

  I figure it’s the last place they’d expect to find me.

  Jess’s words rolled through her brain on the tail end of a thought that included Richard Fortier telling her his wife abhorred water.

  Shel stood, stretched, and headed for the bathroom. A yellowed and peeling map of the United States was posted in the narrow hallway between the bathroom doors. She examined dozens of colorful pins that dotted it, hardly believing anyone would bother to leave an indication of their origin.

  Jess’s presumption that most of the bar’s patrons were actually on the lam probably wasn’t far from the truth. She studied the map and wondered about Kathleen Fortier. Did she want to be found, like some kind of game? Did she plan to extort money from her husband in exchange for the child? Did she just want people to leave her alone? Shel certainly understood the last one, but sadly figured there probably was a money angle at play. Had she not been kidnapped, where would a woman like that go to simply lay low?

  She squinted at the map in the dim light cast by a bare overhead yellow bulb, swaying in the fan breeze. Within seconds, she found herself ruling out Mississippi and Alabama, states that weren’t far enough away from Louisiana to qualify as actually running away unless you had money limitations. Having seen the Fortier mansion and given Kathleen’s alleged penchant for scamming others, Shel figured it was safe to assume the woman had dough. Her eyes went to the coastal states, Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida, for starters. She figured real Southern girls tended not to venture north of Virginia. The Midwest was landlocked, and the West Coast and its new age trappings also seemed out of the question. If Kathleen were the pampered, uppity woman Fortier portrayed, she’d need familiarity, a southern brand of comfort. Judging by her very nice lifestyle, she’d want a place where people threw around a lot of money. It made sense she’d need a place where she could make a nice living selling her art. It was still a factor to consider. If the woman didn’t have a baby blackmail plan, whatever money she’d squirreled from Fortier or her alleged scam victims wouldn’t last forever. Shel had to consider all possibilities.

  Kathleen Fortier was a lifelong resident of New Orleans. If Shel knew only one thing about this particular city it was that once it got in someone’s bloo
d, nothing short of a transfusion would take it out. Though no city could be a doppelganger for the Big Easy, Shel squinted and tried to focus in on other southern cities that might be good candidates. Her slight buzz and the dim light weren’t helping her eyesight any, and after a moment she gave up and pushed through the grungy restroom door.

  The same song had restarted when she returned to her barstool to find a fresh drink was waiting for her. She looked around and nodded her thanks to Jess, grateful that this round was in a plastic cup. She waited until Jess’s attention was elsewhere—a man with an eye patch trying to get a rise out of her, and Jess was equally busy fending him off—then scooted off the stool and slipped out the door. She felt a minor twinge of guilt for making the escape, especially leaving young Jess in the questionable hands of a pirate.

  Safely on the sidewalk, she juggled her drink while she fished Fortier’s cell phone out of her jeans pocket and made a brief, cryptic call.

  In minutes, and just barely in front of another ghost tour, she stood on the mansion’s doorstep. With a few drinks under her belt and a head full of fresh notions concerning Mrs. Fortier’s whereabouts, she impatiently pressed the doorbell on the outer iron gate half a dozen times. Finally Richard Fortier himself answered the door, looking puzzled. He quickly let her inside and paraded her through the mansion until they arrived at a locked door on the third floor, between the child’s nursery and what she could assume was the master bedroom.

  “Kathleen’s things have been packed and stored in here,” he explained in response to her phone call as he unlocked the door. It swung open to reveal a tiny room that had been converted to a temporary closet, crammed to capacity with neatly stacked plastic boxes. Shel felt instantly annoyed. “Your wife’s been gone only a month. Isn’t there some appropriate mourning period before you pack her off for good? Just saying.”

  He stared at her, unwavering. “My wife and I have known where we stood with each other for many years. Taking Harper away from me was the last straw. If you had children, Ms. Carson, you would understand that nobody comes between a parent and his child.”

  She rolled her eyes at his dramatic statement. “Yeah, okay. Let’s say you clear out of here and let me earn some of your dough, huh?” He’d started out of the room when she added, “Have your man-maid bring me a drink, would you? Not scotch.”

  “What’s your preference?” he inquired. “I have a full bar with pretty much anything.”

  “Anything…” Basically desiring only to send him on a wild goose chase to ensure her privacy, she said, “You know, make it absinthe. I’ve always been curious.”

  Fortier winced, presumably at her cheap taste.

  “And get me those names we talked about,” she added before he could leave the room. When he looked momentarily befuddled, she impatiently clarified her request. “The jilted lovers, their contact info—all that jazz.”

  He left her alone.

  Within minutes, the same stodgy butler as before delivered to her a bucket of ice, a bottle of green-tinted liquor, several sugar cubes, and a glass tumbler. The speed of the delivery, and that the bottle looked like an antique, told her he’d not been sent on an errand to purchase her request. So much for enjoying a peaceful search. She skipped the ice, poured a few fingers of the green liquor into a glass, and prepared to down the drink right in front of him in a move designed to disgust.

  Proving he wasn’t as slow as he was old, the butler swiped out his hand, grabbed her forearm, and stopped her. The green liquid lopped over the edge of the glass and dripped on the Persian rug.

  “Absinthe, madam,” he sternly warned her, emphasizing “madam” as though he were repulsed about having no other choice of title for her. He forcibly took the glass out of her grip, and added two sugar cubes, a bit of ice, and a liberal dose of tonic water. He glared at her when he returned the drink. “I doubt even those helps will make this drink palatable.”

  He turned on his heel and made a hasty exit from the small room.

  Happy for the solitude, Shel downed the diluted absinthe with much aplomb, actually disappointed at her lack of audience. She grimaced, almost dropped the glass, put one hand to her burning throat, and clutched her sickly stomach with the other.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she muttered with an exaggerated rasp. She quickly picked up the decanter and held it toward the light, giving it a gentle swirl. It was bitter and god-awful—the worst thing she’d ever tried. Potent, too. Looking at the green bottle, she wondered how much of her shitty life she could forget with a few more shots. She shivered, her head still spinning, and whispered an exasperated, “Fuck me.”

  Feeling dangerous, she utilized caution and mimicked the butler’s scientific preparation—sugar, ice, a drop of liquor, and tonic water. She sniffed the drink, but set it aside and dove into her task at hand.

  An hour later, she’d destroyed the room. What began as a careful sifting through stacks of boxes had turned into a fully-fledged rampage that quite possibly coincided with her increasing level of intoxication. She’d take a little sip of absinthe, turn another carton on its side, and open another storage container. She figured the butler would play hell putting the room back together, but didn’t concern herself. After a while, she’d unearthed enough photographic memorabilia to form a loose composite of Kathleen.

  As a young person, Kathleen Fortier had probably been spoiled to beat all, judging from photographs of teenage Kathleen socializing with fancily dressed blue bloods at highfalutin galas. Shel found only a scattered handful of other photos, primarily a twenty-something Kathleen as a Tulane grad, and no more than a measly six pictures of the woman standing next to her husband while wearing an expression that seemed nothing short of dour.

  “Pleasant little thing, this one,” she said under her breath. But in truth, no matter what scowl or other unsmiling expressions Kathleen wore, not even her most unflattering photographs made her appear anything short of stunning.

  Shel figured this boxed collection were photographs Mr. Fortier had selected for his wife to keep, and of course they would be the gloomy ones. She remembered getting a single crate from her ex filled to the brim with leftovers of their life together. Shel had promptly tossed it into the garbage. The memory of it had her mumbling, “Probably kept the good shit for himself. That’s an ex for you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a glimmer. It was a bracelet bearing two charms: a well-worn pewter palm tree and a tiny framed picture of a child. She recognized that mistrustful look; it was Harper Fortier.

  “Kids don’t deserve to be that wary,” she whispered.

  Shel sighed as she stood and made a slow circle in the center of the room, surveying the destruction she’d created. She’d significantly shortened the stacks of boxes lining the perimeter. For the first time, she was able to get a good look at the actual walls.

  Framed cases containing war relics adorned nearly every square inch of vertical space. She stepped high over piles and toward a particular hanging case for a closer look: a display of two Bowie knives that, according to the bronze plaques in the encasement, were authentic weapons dating back to the early 1800s. Other framed boxes boasted a variety of revolvers and shotguns. She supposed each was equally old and valuable. The room held a veritable cache of antiques. She wondered if the collection was for art’s sake, sentimental value, or a purely juvenile interest in weapons.

  Past an adjoining set of fancy wooden folding doors, a narrow closet had been constructed from what appeared to have once been a hallway. A door probably led to the master, and she didn’t bother with it. Clearly, the man had packed his estranged wife’s things to rid his room of the memories.

  The hallway-style closet ran deep enough that she couldn’t see the far wall. A search for a light switch yielded nothing. Using only the bit of light cast from the adjoining room, she rummaged through the closest end of the closet. Hundreds of pieces of clothing were wedged so tightly together it was a chore to pull out a single one wi
thout taking several other pieces along with it. She pinched the shoulder of a particular sheath dress and attempted to tug it out for a better look. She whistled.

  “Hello, Versace—even I’d recognize you,” she said. For a split second, she envisioned Kathleen Fortier wearing it and figured she’d proven the dress to be well worth what was surely a big price tag. Shel crammed the dress back into the solid, long line of clothing.

  A rustling sound from the farthest, darkest end of the narrow closet caused her to cease all movement. She stood there, still and quiet, before softly calling, “Hello?”

  A shifting sound came from the far end. Shel touched her shirttail and felt her gun belt beneath. She flicked the leather strap back in a practiced move, and prepared to draw her weapon. Nothing.

  She turned to go when she heard the rustling again. She spun around to see two orbs—no, eyes—too red to be human. When the eyes began to move toward her, Shel lunged backward and felt the wall a second time, hoping to find the elusive light switch. She waved her hand above her head on the chance there might be a bulb there, but came up empty. Her mouth went dry as sand. She drew her gun and backed toward the lighted room.

  The eyes smoothly continued toward her. Then she stumbled over her own feet and crashed into the wall. With booze-addled reflexes and an extreme case of nerves she reached the doorway.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  Fortier, wearing a horrified expression, was standing in the middle of the small room.

  Disheveled, freaked out, and now sweating, she hurriedly re-entered the larger room, nearly tripping over the very low threshold in the process. She glanced back in the direction of the closet, and realized with some embarrassment that she was still holding her gun out before her. She quickly lowered and holstered it.

  “There’s something in that closet.”

  “It’s probably a rat. The Quarter’s full of them.” Fortier never altered his look of disbelief. His expression and tone both clearly hinted his worry that the woman he’d hired to find his child might possibly be trigger happy, if not slightly unstable. He blinked, shook his head. “Were you going to open fire on the creature? In my house?”