Authors: Stella Barcelona
She held his gaze. “My father’s tough with everyone, including me. Especially me.”
He shrugged. “I don’t take it personally.”
“I do.” She gave him the slightest half-smile, the kind of expression one gave when attempting to make light of a really, really painful subject. She looked away, stood, and paced a few steps away from the couch. “My father may not be happy when I ask him about this.” She turned back to him. Small worry lines appeared between her brows.
Hell, if he hadn’t realized it before, he knew now.
Stay the hell away from her.
Taylor had father issues, George Bartholomew was widely regarded as a prick of epic proportions, and he didn’t need that kind of drama.
She continued, “The other men, though, they’ll humor me. Besides, I know that you’re going to talk to your mother about this.”
He nodded. Damn right he was. Taylor’s coral lipstick had long since faded. A bit of eye make-up had smudged below her left eye. Her tight ponytail had become loose, and wisps of hair had slipped through the black-rhinestone holder. She looked so freaking kissable that he almost groaned. Instead, he asked, “Tired?”
“Yes. Exhausted. Suddenly.”
Without glancing at his watch, he wouldn’t have known that it was well past midnight. He wasn’t tired. A few hours a night usually got him through the day, and even when sleep didn’t come at all, he could make do without it for several nights in a row. His ability to work through the night had served him well in his legal practice, but his restless energy hadn’t been his friend during turbulent times of his life. Taylor, though, looked like she needed the serious kind of refueling that only came with several sound hours of sleep.
She glanced at the window and shuddered. “There really was someone out there.”
“I believe you.”
“Before that happened,” she said, “the phone call. Was it bad news?”
“My brother, Victor, died.”
She drew a deep breath. “I’m so sorry.”
“We weren’t close, Taylor. As a matter of fact…” he searched for the right words, then abandoned his attempt to describe his relationship with Victor. “The worst part, for me, is I have to tell my mother and my sister.” She studied him, and, for once, she was silent. Smart woman, he thought, because she sensed that questions on this subject wouldn’t provide answers. “This will all be here tomorrow,” he said, glancing around the room.
“Here,” she said, pointing to two boxes that she had pulled to the side. “You might want to take these. They’re baby clothes, wrapped in tissue. They’re folded so neatly.” Her voice broke, and he watched her try to compose herself. “The items are precious.” She swiped a tear away with the tip of her index finger. When she glanced at him, he saw heartbreak in her eyes. He could see in that one glance that she understood how awful Lisa’s death was for her son. She might have all the composure of a beauty queen, but her eyes revealed her real emotions. “Would you let me do something for Lisa?”
She looked so vulnerable at that moment that he’d have agreed to anything. “Of course.”
“Let me help you decorate the nursery.”
Nursery?
Fuck
. He hadn’t even picked out a room for Michael, and God knew that he had enough spare rooms. The space between his shoulder blades and his neck tightened.
This wasn’t how he should have become a father.
Life had thrown him yet another curve ball that he didn’t quite know how to hit.
Taylor continued, “My decorators are good, and Sarah, the female part of the team, has three children. She can assess what Lisa had already acquired and know what you need from there. I can probably persuade them to start this weekend, and they’re fast.” He felt so damned inept that he didn’t know how to respond. Taylor, misunderstanding his silence, blushed. “I’ve overstepped, haven’t I? Never mind.”
“No, no. I hadn’t even thought about this. I’d love your help. Thank you for offering. I accept.” He looked at the boxes that she had pointed out. “I’ll get all the baby stuff delivered to my house tomorrow. Your decorators can work from there. Let’s lock up and go.”
He opened the door, did a quick visual surveillance of the street, then walked Taylor to her car. “I’ll follow you home.”
“That isn’t necessary. I drive straight into a secure garage and the alarm is set.”
He shrugged. “Humor me. You’ve been rattled tonight, for good reason, and part of it is my fault. Let me watch you drive into your garage. Call me on my cell when you’re in and your alarm is armed.”
“Well, thank you.” She gave him a teasing smile, but her tone was one of appreciation.
Damn. With those almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and lush lips — forget that killer body — she was irresistible.
Hell
.
Irresistible?
No
. It had been a long turmoil-driven day. His brain was playing tricks on him, because the one and only woman in his life who had been irresistible had been Amy.
He shrugged off the thought. He turned away from Taylor, followed her in his car, but didn’t wait for her to get home and call him. Instead he dialed her cell once they entered the Garden District, as they neared the huge, Greek revival monster of a home that locals called the Bartholomew mansion. When she answered, he said, “Please tell me that you don’t live in the mansion with your father.”
She laughed and did not slow her car at her father’s three-story home, which dominated the block. The mansion had elegant curves at each corner, spacious balconies, and galleries. Meticulous gardens surrounded the home and a tall, heavy, wrought iron fence separated the lawns from the sidewalk. “I have gained at least enough independence that I do not live there,” she said. “Go two blocks up, take a right, then go three more blocks and take a left. Cross Prytania, then I’m on the first corner.”
“Wow,” he said. “Four whole blocks away from dad. That’s pretty far for a girl with three last names and no first name of her own.”
“I am all three of my names, Brandon, and they’re sufficient for me.” As she spoke, it occurred to him that the Southernness had been schooled out of her voice. She articulated each word with crisp precision. Yet schooling hadn’t stripped away the natural sultriness that came with her low pitch, slightly throaty tones, and breathy catch when she started her sentences.
Damn it.
There was that throb again, as his body reacted to her voice, and she continued, “And my house is five blocks away from my father’s home, not four.”
The Bartholomew mansion was on Saint Charles Avenue, a brightly-lit main street with four lanes of traffic and a center neutral ground through which streetcars travelled. Taylor’s home was on a lesser-travelled, narrow street that didn’t seem to have enough lights. An oak-tree canopy blocked light from the nighttime sky. In the darkness, he saw the outline of a symmetrical, two-story house sprawled across a large yard that, for the most part, lacked a fence. Gas lanterns on the porch revealed white masonry, light-colored shutters, and lacy, wrought iron balconies. Fluted Corinthian columns soared from the base to the second floor ceiling of the balcony. The lines were clean, feminine, and elegant. Leaded-glass front doors sparkled from an interior light. “You live in that big thing by yourself?”
“With Carolyn,” she said. “My friend, personal assistant, housekeeper, surrogate mother, you name it. It was built in the 1890’s. I inherited it a few years ago. It’s huge, I know, but it was my grandfather’s house. I couldn’t let it go.” She hesitated, then said, “And I know that it’s ridiculously opulent and light years away from where we were earlier tonight, in Marvin’s house, where little girls get hugs from a father who is holding an assault weapon.”
The sadness in her voice made his gut twist. “I’m sorry for taking you there. Again.”
“Thank you for that, but I’m not angry.” He rounded the corner as she did. She waved at him before she drove into a side garage. “And thank you for following me.”
“Let me know when you rearm the alarm,” he said. The house looked anything but secure. It wasn’t a sprawling monstrosity like her father’s house, but it was still large. There were too many floor-to-ceiling windows, too many French doors, too many shadows in the yard.
“I’m almost in the house. There. I’m in.” Brandon heard three persistent beeps through the phone. “Well,” she said, “there’s a bit of dysfunction with the alarm. What can I say? The system’s new. Okay.” She drew a deep breath, then he heard a piercing electronic wail. “Great. Now I’ve set the darn thing off.”
“Need help?”
“No, but thank you.” She spoke to someone and he assumed that it was Carolyn, the housekeeper she had mentioned. “Okay. I’ve put the password in, and,” she paused. He heard a short beep. “Now the numbers. It’s rearmed. Finally. Sorry about that. Carolyn is here, we’re fine, and it was just a glitch.”
“Check the zones.”
She gave a low, throaty chuckle. “If you think I know how to do that, you are far overestimating my capabilities. I’ll call the alarm company tomorrow, but, for now, it is on. I humored you,” she said, “now will you humor me by listening to some unsolicited advice?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. Look. I don’t know how you can think straight. First Lisa, now your brother.” Brandon listened to Taylor, but he wasn’t focusing on either Lisa or his brother. Taylor’s landscaper had done a good job of back-lighting the oak trees that sprawled across the yard, but there wasn’t enough light for safety. Hell. Sitting there, Brandon could map out a shadowed-path through the yard to a side gallery where he had a choice of brainless entries, either through French doors or floor-to-ceiling windows. Sebastian had told Brandon that Black Raven agents could work through most home security systems in under ten minutes. Better systems could be cracked as well, but they took more time. No matter how good the system, one of Black Raven’s agents only needed a few minutes, and they could rig the system for their future silent ingress and egress. After that conversation, Brandon had Black Raven agents design the system that he used in his home and his boats, and they did semi-annual maintenance checks. “Go home,” she continued. “Go to where Michael is sleeping, kiss his cheeks,” she said, “and try not to think about anything else but him. Watch him breathe.
Watch
him
.”
“How is it that someone who is only twenty-seven is so wise?”
She laughed. “I was an only child, with parents who were very, very social. Most evenings were spent with adults when I was growing up, at dinner parties. I was taught to be a good conversationalist. Which means that I know how to ask questions-”
“Yes,” he chuckled, “you certainly do.”
“-and listen to the answers,” she said. “As a child, I enjoyed the company of adults, and,” she hesitated, “maybe some of their wisdom took. I like the patina that comes with age.”
Good to know
, he thought, because he’d become hard again by listening to her voice. Maybe their age difference wouldn’t be a big deal to her. If only he could convince her that casual sex was a good thing. He shook off that thought, though, because the vulnerability of her house was still bugging him. “Do me a favor. Open a window on the first floor. Any window. Don’t disarm your alarm system. See what happens.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He heard her heels clicking on the floor, then he saw her in one of the side windows.
She reached up, unlocked it, then lifted it. Brandon let out a breath of relief when he heard the alarm.
“It’s working,” she waved at him, then disappeared from the window. “And now I’ve rearmed it. I’ll get the alarm company in here tomorrow.”
Chapter Seven
At home, Brandon found Esme pacing in the casual sitting area that joined the kitchen, with Jett at her heels and Michael in her arms.
“He woke up about a half hour ago. I fed him and changed him,” she shifted the baby into Brandon’s arms, “and now he’s falling asleep again. Jett won’t leave his side.”
Michael stirred when Brandon touched his lips to the baby’s cheeks. Blue-green eyes opened for a second and focused on him.
Good God.
He lost his breath as he held his son’s gaze. Michael’s eyes shut again. Brandon held his baby against his chest, and told himself that he’d become the father that this child needed. Somehow. He’d figure it out, minute by minute, just as he’d gotten through the last five years. He drew a deep breath. “Esme, I’ve got it from here. Get some rest. The nanny arrives at seven. I’ll be good until then.”
Esme disappeared in the direction of the guest apartment, which was above the garage. She didn’t normally stay at Brandon’s house, but with Michael’s sudden arrival, she had told him she’d stay overnight for the next week, or longer, if needed. Brandon lay Michael on his back in the pack-n-play that Kate had purchased on Thursday. Jett settled on a nearby rug. Brandon sat in a leather barrel chair next to the pack-n-play and put his feet up on an ottoman.
In the dim lamp light, he watched Michael’s chest rise and fall with the gentle breaths of an easy sleep. After a few minutes, Brandon felt himself drifting. Relieved, he shut his eyes. His thoughts wandered to Lisa, whose research echoed the long-silent sentiments of his own father.
His son’s mother.
Murdered.
One day Michael would ask Brandon about her. He had no idea what he’d say. He only hoped that he’d be able to tell Michael that his mother’s murderer had been caught.
His thoughts shifted to Victor. His eyes opened. The world was a better place without his brother in it, but he didn’t expect Kate and his mother to feel that way, because Victor had been careful to conceal his true self from them. He had to break the news about Victor to them. Sooner was better than later, before the burden of carrying the information became heavy. He drifted ever closer to sleep. Thoughts that Brandon didn’t allow while awake came as he drifted.
Victor had been a sneaky, cruel, and smart child. Brandon had learned at an early age, when Victor was thirteen, and Brandon was six, that Victor was more than mean. Bad, bad things happened in River’s Bend, a rural area that was twenty minutes outside of New Orleans that wasn’t yet starting to see gentrification. Neighborhood dogs were maimed and left to die. Cats, on occasion, would hang from trees. To Brandon’s knowledge, no one suspected Victor. No one except Brandon, who followed Victor at night through the quiet streets of wide, empty lots, sleepy, half-developed cul de sacs, wooded fields, and slow bayous that outlined the area that the developers called Woodmere. At least he tried to follow his brother. Victor was quiet, fast, and elusive.
Brandon’s dreams led to the fire that destroyed their family home. It had occurred when Brandon was seven and Victor was fourteen. Time had not diminished Brandon’s memories of the fire’s heat or the stink of smoke. Kate had been two, sick and staying in the room with their mom and dad. Catherine, his older sister, had been ten and her room had been the closest to the fire source, a hot water heater. She died of smoke inhalation. Brandon awoke with a start, his mind racing to reality. He’d lost them all. Catherine was dead. Amy and their unborn child were dead. And now, Lisa was dead. Murdered. But this time, with death, there was also life. Their baby was sound asleep, and he was in charge of the impossibly small life.
He stood, stretched, then paced. Sleep was, as usual, bad for him. Tonight, being awake was worse. He stopped at the refrigerator, found chicken salad that Esme had fixed, and spooned some into a plate. As he leaned against the kitchen counter and ate it, his thoughts wandered to Taylor. Twice tonight someone had frightened her, or she had momentarily been victimized by her imagination, sparked by the harsh reality of Lisa’s murder.
That hug. That kiss. Taylor’s body, pressed against his.
Brandon went upstairs, took a quick shower, then returned to the living area that adjoined the kitchen, where he sat in a barrel chair, put his feet on an ottoman, and focused on the rhythmic movement of Michael’s impossibly small chest. Up. Down. Up. A little higher up. A pause. Then down. Up. Down. Brandon’s eyes became heavy.
Taylor.
His last waking thought was of Taylor, wondering how she’d known that on this night, the vision of Michael’s soft inhale and exhale would be his ticket to peaceful sleep.
***
Joe called Taylor at 8:30 a.m. as she was pulling into the D.A.’s office parking lot. “We’ve got a lead in the Smithfield case. I need you to grab an assistant from juvie, get them to pull a file on a Marquis Rochard, and get here, fast. Rochard’s mom brought him to the station about an hour ago, saying he has information regarding Lisa’s murder. Rochard wants outstanding warrants against him dropped in exchange for the information. I can’t do anything without the D.A. being involved.”
“Marquis Rochard,” Taylor repeated. “Got it. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” She parked in the ten-minute zone, went to the hallway where the five assistants who handled juvenile cases had offices, and stopped at the office of Colleen Dunbar, the senior juvenile assistant. Colleen had salt and pepper hair, large brown eyes, and she wore a conservative business suit. “The police have a juvenile who wants to get rid of warrants in exchange for information in a murder case. Who should I talk to?”
Colleen grimaced. “Me.” She listened while Taylor gave her background, then said, “I heard you decided not to stay.”
Taylor nodded.
“We’ll miss you.”
“Thank you,” Taylor said, warmed by the nice words from the normally-serious assistant. “The Deputy Chief will be appointing someone else for the murder case, probably by the day’s end, but for now, I’m the contact.”
Colleen put down her coffee mug. She pecked at the keyboard, then paused. “Well, Rochard’s not an angel,” she said. “He had three shopliftings before age fifteen. Then a burglary of a dwelling, a car theft, and a year in detention. He’s been out only three months, and he’s already scored a couple of pickpocketing incidents in the French Quarter. He’s wanted for another burglary. He’s screwed if these cases get prosecuted.” Colleen clicked more keys on her keyboard. “At least he doesn’t have weapons or drug charges. The D.A. might let me deal for murder-related information. I’ll call while we’re on the way.”
Taylor drove to the police station. Colleen, in the passenger seat, called the Deputy Chief. By the time they arrived at the station, Joe was in the interrogation room with Tony, the witness, and his mother. Joe and Tony stepped out of the room to talk to Taylor and Colleen. Colleen received a phone call, listened, then told Joe, “We’ll agree not to prosecute on his outstanding warrants, but only if he provides information that leads to an indictment. Want me to go in with you?”
Joe shook his head. “His mother’s refused legal counsel for now. We’ll get started without you. He’s more likely to talk without you in the room. If they request a lawyer, I’ll want you to step in.”
Taylor and Colleen stood in the observation room, watching through a one-way window and listening through speakers. Marquis’s skin was dark black. Short dreadlocks stood at odd angles from his scalp. He chewed on his lower lip and stared at the wall. Caretta Rochard, in a neon blue, skin tight halter and tight jeans, had her arms folded over her large midriff. When Joe and Tony reentered the room, she said, “Y’all tell me my boy’s charges are dropped or we be leaving. Now.”
“Don’t threaten us, Caretta,” Joe said. “If he has information regarding a murder…”
“He do.”
“Then legally, we’ll hold him until he gives it to us,” Joe said. “Now, we are grateful that you’re here. In exchange for your voluntary appearance, the D.A. will drop the outstanding charges against Marquis, but only if he provides information that leads to an indictment.”
“It will,” Caretta frowned, “if you do your job.”
Joe nodded. “If Marquis lies to us, if he sends us on a wild-goose chase because he’s making stuff up, we’ll charge him with providing false information to law enforcement.”
Caretta said, “We understand that.”
Joe’s attention focused on Marquis. “Do you?”
The boy mumbled.
“Look me in the eye,” Joe said, “and say yes or no.”
“Yes,” Marquis said, “I understand.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
“I saw Tilly Rochelle last night at midnight. He claimed the kill.”
“He did what?” Joe asked.
Marquis rolled his eyes. “He said that he shot her through the head. The Tulane student.”
Joe paused.
From their place behind the glass, Colleen asked Taylor, “Was she shot in the head?”
Taylor nodded, her heart racing.
“Was that made public?”
“Not anywhere that I know of.”
“Why would Tilly tell you that?” Joe asked.
“Because he’s a stupid motherfucker,” Marquis said.
Caretta gave Marquis an open-palmed whack on the top of his head. “You say what you told me, without the cursing, or you are not living in my home no more.”
Marquis looked at Joe, pursed his lips together, then shook his head. “Me and Tilly used to be friends, until he stuck me with one of his burglaries, and that’s why I’m here. He’s bragging about killing that Tulane student like he brags about everything. He thinks the murder’s his way into the Gravier Street Kings. Stupid ass doesn’t even know how to get into the Kings.”
Colleen glanced at Taylor. “Have you been around long enough to know the Rochelle name?”
Taylor nodded. “It sounds familiar.”
“The Rochelles breed violent miscreants. We probably have had twenty cases in the last five years involving Rochelles. I know Tilly without even looking him up. Tilly is eighteen.” Colleen gestured to the window. “Tilly makes Marquis look like an honor student.” As Joe wrapped up the interview, Colleen stood. “Well, back to the office.” Taylor glanced at Colleen, who was heading towards the door of the surveillance room.
Taylor stood, but reluctantly. “Do you think Marquis is telling the truth?”
“I have no idea,” Colleen said, “he could be fingering Tilly for any number of reasons. Tilly is certainly capable of murder. He’s been on the fringe of several,” she shrugged. “But figuring it out is Joe and Tony’s job. I have a hearing at one this afternoon. I’ve got to prepare.”
After Colleen and Taylor parted ways at the D.A.’s office, Taylor went to her office and pulled up Tilly Rochelle’s files. She wasn’t interested in his crimes. She wanted a picture. In the fourth file that she opened, she found it. It was from a year earlier. He was a small and wiry man-child. His skin was ebony and his hair was short, in a tight, black afro. A physical description put him at five nine. Taylor exhaled, releasing pent-up anxiety. Tilly Rochelle was not the person who’d been staring into Lisa’s house. His face wouldn’t have reached the window. She placed a call to Joe and left a message for him to call her. She needed to tell him that she thought she saw someone last night who wasn’t Tilly Rochelle, but that required explaining about her trip to the murder scene, the car, and what had happened at Lisa’s house.
A few attorneys stopped by her office. News had travelled fast regarding her decision to leave the office and, it seemed, that was all anyone could talk about with her. A couple of her closer friends asked her to go to lunch, but she declined, saying that she had a prior engagement. The secretary who she shared with some of the other assistants came into her office. “Your files are now reassigned. I have the list of who gets what. Are there any documents on your private drive that need to be e-filed?”
Taylor shook her head. “I don’t believe so, but I’ll double check after lunch. Who is going to have the Lisa Smithfield file?”
“That one’s going to the Deputy Chief for now.”
Taylor called him and updated him on the morning’s events. Then, because Taylor had told others that she had a lunch engagement, she felt the need to act as though she did. She left the building and started walking, without a firm plan as to where she was headed. Her phone rang as she was slipping on sunglasses. It was Lloyd.
“Hello, dear. I am sorry that I didn’t return your call yesterday. Time got away from me with last minute details for the museum’s new exhibits and the gala.” Lloyd, at seventy-five, did everything fast, including speaking. He was athletic and energetic and had a tireless zest for life that defied his age. “I can’t believe that the gala is two days away, and the opening is in three days. It is all going to be simply fabulous.”
He was semi-retired from the university, but he still worked with graduate students. He also kept busy as a consultant for the World War II Museum, and she knew he was writing a book on President Reagan. Taylor turned in the direction of the museum and started walking. “Are you at the museum now?”
“Actually, I’m leaving there,” he said, “but I have a few minutes to talk now, if you’d like.”
“Well, yesterday, I was calling to ask you about the Tulane student who was murdered the other night. I thought you might know her.” Today, she thought, as Marquis Rochard was fingering Tilly Rochelle, questions regarding Lisa’s research were not so important to the question of who murdered Lisa. There was silence. “Lloyd?”