Chapter 2

2

Metairie, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 11:15 A.M.

ALAN LOOKED DIRECTLY INTO THE camera, his lips curved into the smile he used with his parishioners. It was nonthreatening. Nonjudgmental. And the most likely to boost donations. They'd done research.

"Now, brothers and sisters, I'm not asking you to give if it's a financial hardship. But if God has laid it on your heart to give, we would very much appreciate it. Any little bit helps. A thousand dollars. A hundred. Even fifty, if you have it to spare." More than half of their gifts came in amounts less than fifty dollars, but those small sums sure added up. "If you have a special ministry you'd like to support, mark it on your check. Or if you're technologically savvy like my grandson, Sage, you can give through our website."

And, speak of the devil, there was Sage, slipping in through the door in the back of the sanctuary. Alan hoped he'd been successful. The alternative had been causing Alan sleepless nights for the past two weeks.

He wanted to stop the filming, to demand to know what Sage had discovered that morning, but they were making videos for the church's website, and every second cost money. You had to spend it to make it, though, and that was what these video spots were all about.

He leaned into the camera, making his smile self-deprecating. "Now me, I'm not tech savvy at all. I still write checks." Actually, he didn't donate to his church. He hadn't needed to in years. Between his local congregation and his TV shows, he had fifteen thousand members all over the United States and abroad, many of whom gave faithfully every week. "You can choose to support one of our many missionaries, our mental health services, or our center for drug rehabilitation. And of course, if you want to support the church itself, we will use your donation to keep the lights on and to feed New Orleans' hungry." And to pay Alan's mortgage. God didn't want his servants living in hovels, after all. "Thank you all, and may God bless you and keep you. May his countenance shine bright upon you and bring you peace."

He held the smile until he heard the director say, "And…we're good. Nice job, Reverend Beauchamp. We got it in one take."

Which was Alan's norm. He'd been making that same speech for his entire adult life. He could do it in his sleep at this point.

"Thank you. I'll be in my office, planning this Sunday's service with Sage."

Gesturing for Sage to follow, Alan stepped away from the pulpit, fighting the need to rub at his temples. The lights hurt his eyes more every day. Macular degeneration was slowly robbing him of his eyesight, but he could still see his beautiful multimillion-dollar sanctuary with its gleaming wooden pews and shining stained-glass windows.

He didn't need to see to find his way to his office. Again, he'd been walking these halls for years. He sat behind his desk and shook out a few painkillers. His heart sank when Sage entered, a scowl marring his grandson's perfect features.

Unsuccessful, then.

"Well?" he asked the younger man. "Did you get the letters?"

"No." Sage drew a breath. "She got away."

Alan prayed for patience. "How?"

"She ran. I followed her, but she disappeared somewhere in the Quarter." He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a black bag. "I got two of Broussard's laptops. I figured these were more valuable than she is, so I came back."

Alan wasn't so sure about that, but it wasn't like he could go chasing Cora Winslow through the Quarter. Not anymore. His degrading eyesight forced him to depend on others for jobs such as this.

"Did anyone see you?"

Sage's gaze dropped for a moment before lifting to meet his. "Yeah. The receptionist was there. But I didn't think she posed a threat. She was in a wheelchair, for God's sake."

Alan abruptly leaned over the desk. "Do not take the Lord's name in vain," he hissed.

Sage rolled his eyes. "For goodness' sake."

Then Sage's words sank in. "You didn't think she posed a threat? What does that mean?"

Sage shrugged. "It was an electric chair. I yanked the battery pack so she couldn't go anywhere. I smashed the office phone so she couldn't call out for help and I took her cell phone. It's in the bag, too, by the way."

"But?"

Sage dropped his gaze. "But she had a gun. I was in Broussard's office, searching for a folder with Winslow's name on it, but I heard women's voices in the lobby—Winslow and the receptionist—and ran out of the boss's office with his laptop. The door to the stairwell was closing, and the bitch in the chair had a gun pointed at me."

"Did she shoot you?"

Sage took off his overcoat, revealing the black clothing he'd worn into the PI's office. He unbuttoned his shirt and held one side out.

Light shone through the round hole.

"I'm wearing Kevlar, but it hurts like a bitch, let me tell you. And don't tell me not to swear," Sage snapped before Alan could do just that. "I got shot for you today, old man. I'll swear if I goddamn want to."

"Shh," Alan hissed. "If you're going to be crude, at least do it quietly."

Sage huffed a laugh. "I'm okay, thanks for asking."

"I'm glad you're all right," Alan said stiffly. Because he was. He didn't want Sage to be hurt. He didn't want anyone to be hurt.

Well, that wasn't true. He wanted whoever had gotten him into this mess to die a painful death. However, Sage was innocent. Of that crime, anyway.

But Sage was spinning out of his control, and Alan didn't like that.

Sage rolled his eyes again. "What's on these laptops that was so fucking important?"

Alan winced. At this point Sage was cursing to rile him up. "That's not for you to know. Did you leave any blood behind for the police to find?"

Sage hesitated again. "No. The vest stopped the bullet."

"What happened, Sage?"

"I grabbed the gun from her hand. Bitch was strong."

" What happened, Sage? " he repeated, using his most authoritative voice.

It worked. It always did.

Sage's shoulders sagged. "We fought over the gun and it went off. Shot her in the chest."

Horror had Alan sucking in a breath. "You killed her?"

Sage's gaze flicked up to meet his. "Maybe."

There was guilt in the young man's eyes. "What else, Sage?" Because there was more. There was always more these days.

"I was…mad. She'd shot me, for God's sake. So I took the gun out and…" He looked away. "I might have hit her in the head with it."

Still more. "What else?"

Sage's chin lifted defiantly. "I pushed her chair over, okay? I stole her laptop, then chased after the Winslow woman. Cora was carrying a big purse and I just wanted to take it from her. That was all. If Winslow's letters aren't on the laptop in Broussard's email, then she was bringing them in to Broussard herself. But the old woman got in my way."

"You killed the receptionist," Alan said heavily.

Another shrug. "Maybe. Cops got there fast. They could have saved her."

Alan pressed his lips together, gathering his composure. "Did anyone see you?"

"Not my face. I was wearing a ski mask. Just like you told me to." He tossed the mask on Alan's desk.

Good thing I told him to wear it. Sage's face and golden blond hair were highly recognizable.

Maybe more so than mine. The boy's face was on advertising billboards all over town. He brought in a lot of donations from their female viewers, young and old.

"Did Broussard's office have cameras?"

"Yes, but none of them caught my face. I was wearing my wig and glasses under the mask, so I was doubly protected. I'm in the clear."

That's what I thought, too, all those years ago. But the body Alan had left in that Baton Rouge parking lot hadn't stayed where he'd put it.

This was his worst nightmare.

He'd waited for a blackmail letter for years, but none had come. He'd waited for the police to show up on his doorstep, but that had never happened, either.

He'd grown complacent.

And then six weeks ago, twenty-three years later , a body had suddenly shown up. He hadn't known it was the body he'd left behind until two weeks ago when the authorities had ID'd the man and plastered the victim's face all over the TV news. That was when the Winslow woman had started asking questions.

Alan was tired of waiting for a visit from the police—or the blackmail letter that he thought more likely—so he'd sent Sage to follow the Winslow woman. Just in case she knew more than she was telling. Sage had searched her home several times and found nothing useful. But then she'd contacted a PI. Alan had thought that was bad.

Now his nightmare had suddenly become so much worse.

"Of all the people to kill, you picked the receptionist for a PI with a reputation for cracking difficult cases," Alan said mildly.

Sage flinched. "I didn't mean to." It was very nearly a whine, which made Sage sound like he was five years old again, not the twenty-five-year-old man that he was.

"That's not going to help you if you get caught," Alan snapped.

Sage's eyes narrowed. "If I get caught, I'm taking you down with me. I guarantee."

"You're not going to get caught." And if you do, you are not taking me down with you. I guarantee. "Leave the laptops with me. I'll have my network guy look at them."

Sage might be able to break into the machines, but the boy knew too much already.

He could crucify me, if he so chose.

Up until now it had been in Sage's best interest to keep Alan's secrets. But if that was no longer the case? God help me, I do not know.

He didn't know Sage anymore. Maybe he never had.

Sage huffed in irritation. "Fine. Have your toady tech guy check them out. But know one thing: I've cleaned up enough messes for you that I know this one is different. If you want my help again, you will tell me why the Winslow woman is so important to you."

No, I most surely will not tell you why. Because this was different. Normally Sage's off-the-books responsibilities included gathering intel on competitors. Most were upstarts, trying to steal Alan's audience. Some sought to blackmail him over nonexistent sexual scandals. So far, all had been easily dismissed by threatening them with their secrets.

Sage was good at finding dirt online, and what he couldn't get from a computer, he managed to learn by asking the right questions of the right people. His charm and good looks didn't hurt. Sage would make a good PI in his own right.

But never had Sage needed to physically touch someone, much less kill them.

A mocking smirk curved Sage's lips. "I'm right. The Winslow woman is fucking important."

"Sage," he barked, not so much offended by the word as he was by Sage's disdain for the rules. "Enough."

Sage took a step back, still smirking. "I'm so sorry, Grandfather. I'll leave you to your…" He waved his hand at the bag containing the laptops. "…whatever those are. If you won't tell me, I'll figure it out on my own. Digging up secrets is my forte, you know." His laugh was both bitter and full of scorn as he threw his arms wide. "May God bless you and keep you. May his countenance shine bright upon you and bring you peace."

With a sarcastic little wave, Sage took his leave, closing the office door carefully behind him.

The room was suddenly oppressively quiet, Alan's swallow audible. Sage had been digging up secrets for ten years and was the best assistant he'd ever had. He'd certainly been the most trustworthy. Until today.

There was now a body in a Terrebonne Parish morgue that had been missing for twenty-three years. Alan needed to find out what Cora Winslow knew.

And if Sage really started digging on his own?

Alan didn't know what he'd do.

Willing his hand not to tremble, he lifted the phone's handset to his ear. "Lana, please call Medford Hughes. I've forgotten the password to my computer again. Have him come to my office as soon as possible."

"Right away, sir. You have a meeting with Roy Grover in thirty minutes."

There was no way he'd be able to focus on a meeting with that barrel of hot air. The chairman of the board of deacons never shut up. "Can you reschedule?"

His secretary's quiet exhale spoke volumes. Roy Grover would be very unhappy. "Of course, sir."

"Give him my apologies. Tell him I'll stop by his house some night this week." Or it might be never. He hated the man. There was always a problem he wanted to point out. More than half of Alan's job was soothing church politics. "You can take off early today, if you like."

Lana had worked for him far too long not to see that he was upset. He didn't want anyone to know he was upset.

Because Alan was very, very upset.

He hung up the phone carefully, staring at the bag containing the two laptops Sage had taken from Broussard's office. One of them might have information about Cora Winslow.

And if neither of them did, he'd have to…

Well, he wasn't sure what he'd do. But if the Winslow woman continued to push for the truth, she would have to meet the same fate as her father.

The stakes had been unbelievably high twenty-three years ago.

They were astronomical now.

The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 11:15 A.M.

Walking away from the police station as quickly as she could, Cora fished her cell phone from her purse. She'd given the burner phone to the detective in charge of investigating Joy's shooting.

"Cora," Harry said, sounding out of breath. "Stop."

She stopped abruptly, turning around to see her attorney huffing and puffing. Talking to the police had given her the headache from hell, but driving Harry to a heart attack would be a horrible end to an already shitty day.

She took Harry's hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you run."

With his free hand, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. "I'm not as young as I used to be," he said, still out of breath. "Where are you going, Cora?"

"To the hospital. I need to see Joy."

Harry frowned. "Not while her shooter is still at large. If the man was truly after you, it might be better to lie low for a little while."

If. Her own attorney doubted her.

"Maybe call in sick to the library," he went on. "Stay home where it's safe."

But her home wasn't safe. She'd told him that, too. He didn't seem to believe the break-in at her home had been connected, either.

Oh, he hadn't let the detective know that. Harry had been a tiger with Detective Clancy, demanding police protection for Cora, but the NOPD didn't have the resources for that. The detective had actually looked sorry when he'd told her that.

"I've already called in to the library. Took a sick day. I'll go home after I've checked on Joy. Thank you for coming, Harry. I wasn't sure who to call."

"I wish you'd have let me get you a criminal defense attorney. I do trusts and wills." He'd been her grandmother's attorney for years and the first name she'd thought to call when she'd decided to go to the police. "At least they don't suspect you."

"I don't know about that," Cora said dryly. "They took my fingerprints and did a GSR swab on my hands."

"You shouldn't have agreed to that," Harry scolded. "I told you that. Why did you even call me if you weren't going to listen to my advice?"

"Because I haven't fired a gun in months," Cora snapped, "so I knew they wouldn't find anything. If they're looking at me, they won't be looking for Joy's shooter."

Harry looked frazzled. "I can't go to the hospital with you. I have appointments this afternoon that I can't miss. Please go straight home, Cora. I'll check on your friend as soon as I can."

"I'll go home," she promised. After I see Joy.

"Straight home?" Harry pressed.

"I have to make a few stops," she hedged. "I'm out of milk."

Which was true. It was also true that she never drank milk. That had been her brother. She felt the stab of sorrow deep in her heart.

She missed him. Every day.

Harry was shaking his head. "Will you at least call me when you get home from the hospital?"

The man had always been able to spot her bullshit. He'd attended her christening, after all. Had watched her grow up, had been an honorary uncle. He'd known her longer than anyone else. Anyone who was still alive, anyway. "I will. That I promise."

"Call, don't text. I want to hear your voice. And if you run into any trouble, we need a code word."

She huffed a surprised laugh. "A code word?"

Harry nodded, totally serious. "In case you're abducted."

She did smile then, a real one. "I didn't think you believed me."

"I'm not sure I do, but you've always had a level head. If you think he was after you, I have to at least assume it's a possibility." He grimaced. "And there is that business with your father. We can't ignore that there might be a link."

Well, that was something, at least. "How about ‘help'? That's a good code word."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're as much of a smartass as your grandmother was. Your brother at least pretended to be respectful."

Another stab of sorrow made her chest ache. "Yeah. He was a suck-up."

But she said it fondly.

Harry smoothed his hand over her hair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned him. That was unkind of me."

"It's okay, Harry. It's been a year. I can talk about him now." She hadn't for the longest time, deep in her grief. "John Robert was more respectful than I am. How about ‘gator' as a code word?"

Harry cupped her cheek. "That'll do, Cora. You be careful."

"I always am."

She really was. In whatever she did. Today it hadn't seemed to help.

He held out his hand to hail a cab, one miraculously stopping. Hailing cabs was Harry's superpower. That and managing her grandmother's trust. There was always enough money for the taxes with enough left to do the most critical upkeep on the house. Harry had been her rock this year.

"Call me, Cora," he ordered over his shoulder as he got into the cab.

"Yes, sir." She watched the cab drive away, then looked at her phone, wincing at all the text messages from Tandy. There were also fifteen missed calls and three voicemails from her best friend.

Glancing up and down the street, she relaxed a little. There was still no sign of the man who'd chased her that morning. He'd probably left town now that Joy's shooting was all over the news.

She hit Tandy's name in her contact list and held the phone away from her ear, bracing herself for the screeching. She was not disappointed.

"Cora Jane Winslow!" Tandy bellowed. "Where the ever-lovin' fuck have you been?" Then she whispered, "Sorry, Nala. Sorry, LouLou."

"Put her on speaker," Nala commanded in the background.

Cora winced as she pressed the phone back to her ear. Joy's daughters were the last people she wanted confronting her right now. If Cora hadn't gone to Broussard's, Joy would be okay. "Hi, Nala. Hi, Louisa."

Cora and Tandy had been best friends since the third grade. Nala had joined their group a few years later, when she'd transferred to their school. Louisa was a few years younger and had followed them around until they'd grown older, the age gap becoming less important. They were her rocks and Cora loved them dearly.

Except now, she was going to get some tough love. Which I deserve.

"?‘Hi,' she says," Nala drawled, her fury evident. "Scares the fucking shit out of us and all she has to say is ‘hi.' Where have you been?"

Cora exhaled. "Can I tell you when I come to the hospital?"

"No, you may not," Tandy snapped. "You will tell us now. You said you were coming to the hospital and that was hours ago. We've been worried sick."

"Especially after what happened to Mama," Louisa said quietly. "You should have called us, Cora."

"I'm sorry. I got tied up. How's your mom?"

"In recovery," Nala said wearily, all fury gone. "Wayne is in the waiting room, along with Molly from Burke's office. Jerry's on his way from Tuscaloosa, so all of us kids will be here for her. Tandy made me and LouLou leave to get some food, so we're in the hospital cafeteria."

"Stay there until I get there. I'll explain everything."

The other side of the line went still. Very still.

"Cora?" Tandy said tightly. "What is going on?"

"Look, I'm standing here on the street. Plus, I'm hungry, too. I'll meet you in the cafeteria. I'm fine. I promise. See you soon."

She ended the call and turned off her ringer because Tandy would be calling back.

Of course there wasn't a single cab in sight now that she needed one. "Uber it is," she muttered, then looked down when a cold nose rubbed against the side of her leg.

It was a dog—a golden retriever with the sweetest face. The dog sat as pretty as you please, looking up at her hopefully. It wore a service dog vest, a collar, and a leash.

"Hello, precious," Cora murmured, looking around for an owner. "Where's your mommy or daddy?" She reached for the dog's collar, taking the leash in hand. "Are you lost?"

"No," a deep voice said in a tone that was not calm. The leash was yanked out of her hand as she looked up. A man was scowling down at her. He looked angry, his brown eyes dark and menacing. "She's not lost."

She took a step back from the dog, holding her cell phone tightly in one hand while she held the other out in surrender. "Sorry. I thought she needed help."

The man's scowl grew, and Cora took another step back, alarm skittering down her back. He was a big man. Cora was five-eleven in her heels, so this guy had to be six-three at least. Maybe six-four. And brawny. He'd be drop-dead gorgeous if he didn't look so intimidating.

He didn't seem to like her very much. Which was on par for the day.

The police station wasn't far. If she had to, she could scream and run back to the lobby. They likely wouldn't believe her again, but at least she'd be safe.

"Come with us," the man said. "We need to talk to you."

Cora's heart stuttered to a stop. Oh no. No way. The service-dog vest was a ruse. Trying to get me to let my guard down. She turned, then froze when she saw the people standing just a few feet behind her. Three more big men and one small woman, none of whom looked happy to see her.

Alarm became fear. The man with the dog could be the man from this morning. They were built similarly.

He's found me. I thought I was safe, but he's found me.

Stupid. She was so stupid. She should have gotten in that cab with Harry. She wouldn't be able to outrun all of them. Not now. She was exhausted and her feet ached from running in her heels that morning.

She lifted her chin and studied them. In case she had to report to the cops later.

All the men were dark-haired. The biggest one behind her was tanned and built like a tank. The shortest was at least six feet tall, but still broad-shouldered. Which was good for him, because he wore three computer bags slung over his shoulders like they weighed nothing. His silver smartphone stood out against his dark skin as he angled it toward her.

He was recording her, the sonofabitch. How dare he?

At least the fourth man seemed less angry than the others. He watched Cora like she was a puzzle to be solved.

But all four of the men seemed…grim. Determined.

And big. They could break her in two.

The woman was the outlier in the group. Only about five feet tall, she looked more like a pixie than a human killing machine.

She was probably their boss. She looked adorably cute but could likely order a murder with the snap of her little fingers.

And I read too many thrillers on my lunch breaks. Except that she wasn't imagining this. This was real, as was her heart smashing against her rib cage.

I will not pass out. That would make their job too easy.

"I don't want trouble," Cora said quietly, although every instinct was urging her to scream and run.

"Neither do we," the dog's owner said. "We just want to talk to you."

Cora took a step backward toward the street. "Leave me alone. Please," she added, unable to control the tremble in her voice.

"I'm afraid we can't do that," the woman said, her lips curving into a gentle smile. The smile was kind and Cora didn't trust it for a moment. Until the little woman gave the dog owner a shove. "Phin, honey, you're scaring her." The woman stepped forward, holding her hand out. "I'm Delores O'Bannion. And you're Cora Jane Winslow? We, um, couldn't help overhearing your phone call."

Cora swallowed, unwilling to believe the woman's overture was genuine. "Go away, please. I will scream."

"No need for that," the man named Phin said. He made a visible effort to soften his scowl, but it really didn't help. "I'm Phin Bishop. You have answers to our questions."

Cora took another step back. "No, I don't. I don't know any of you."

The biggest of the men stepped forward. "We work with Joy Thomas. My name is Burke Broussard. You came to my office this morning. I'd like to know why."

Broussard. "Oh my God," Cora whispered as her knees wobbled with relief. She stumbled backward, her shoe encountering nothing but air. A hand reached out, grabbing her arm and hauling her back onto the sidewalk as a car horn blared behind her.

She looked up at the dog's owner once again. Phin Bishop. His hand still clutched her arm and she found herself staring at his large fingers on her skin. His fingers were callused, like he worked with his hands. Numbly she looked up at him before finally regaining her composure. She yanked her arm back and looked over her shoulder.

Sure enough, she'd nearly fallen into the street.

"Thank you," she said stiffly, then lifted her phone to take photos of their faces, including the man who'd saved her from becoming roadkill. "I'm going to send these photos to my friends who are waiting for me. They'll let me know if you're really Joy's coworkers."

"Which friends?" Broussard—if that was really his name—asked.

"Nala and Louisa Thomas."

Broussard and Bishop both relaxed, as did the man with the laptops.

"That's fine," Broussard said. "Contact them."

"Hurry," Bishop said tersely. "We don't have time to dawdle."

She shot him an irritated glare. "Do not push me, Mr. Bishop. I've had a really shitty day."

"So have I," Bishop muttered. "Just…hurry. Please."

It was the "please" that got her brain in gear. She tried to write a text, but her hands were trembling. Dammit. Finally she typed in Nala's and Louisa's phone numbers and attached the photos.

Do you know these guys? she texted.

Nala's reply came first. That's Mama's boss, Burke. Why is he there?

Louisa's reply was next. Burke, Antoine, and Phin. They're from Mama's office. Why are they there? Who are the other two?

I'm not sure , Cora texted back. But it has to do with your mother's shooting. Can I trust them?

Her phone flashed with an incoming call from Tandy. Of course Nala and Louisa had shown the texts to Tandy.

Cora accepted the call, glaring when Phin Bishop tried to grab her phone. "Hands off, mister. Thank you for saving my life, but you're not entitled to invade my privacy."

She pressed it to her ear, not wanting them to overhear. "I'm here, Tandy."

"Who's there?" Tandy demanded, her phone on speaker. "You're scaring us."

"I'll tell you when I can. Nala, Louisa, can I trust Broussard and his people?"

"Yes," Nala said immediately. "But I don't know who the other two people are."

Cora lifted a brow at the woman, lowering her phone and putting it on speaker. "Delores? Who are you? And him?" She pointed to the man standing behind Delores like a bodyguard.

"My husband, Stone," Delores said calmly. "He and I are friends of Phin's. We need your help to catch whoever shot Joy Thomas."

"I heard that, Cora," Nala said. "Why are they asking you about Mama?"

"Because I was there this morning," Cora admitted. "I'll explain everything when I see you. Your mom told me to run, that she'd handle the man who broke in. I didn't know she'd been shot. I'm so sorry."

Nala sighed heavily. "That sounds like Mama. Are you in trouble, Cora?"

"I don't know. I'll talk to these people and let you know." She looked up at Bishop. "Where are we going to talk?"

Bishop looked at Broussard. "Where?" Bishop asked. "The office is a crime scene."

"My house," Broussard said. "Nala and Louisa have been there several times. They know the address."

"We know where he lives," Louisa confirmed.

"You'll be safe with Burke," Nala said. "Call us as soon as you can."

"Cora?" Tandy asked, sounding tentative and frightened. "What's happening?"

"I don't know."

"Is this about your dad?"

"I think so. The cops don't."

"I'm coming to this Broussard's house," Tandy said. "Just so you're not alone."

Cora's heart squeezed in gratitude. She briefly considered saying no, that Tandy didn't have to, that Cora would be okay. But she wasn't okay. And Joy's daughters said that Broussard was safe. She needed her best friend. "Okay."

"Okay?" Tandy asked, clearly surprised. "This has to be bad if you're allowing me to help you. Tell that man he'd better let me in or I'm calling the cops."

Good luck with that. The police hadn't been the biggest help so far.

"I'll tell him." She ended the call and faced Bishop and Broussard. "Let's go."