Chapter 4

4

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2:30 P.M.

PHIN LOOKED BOTH WAYS ALONG Cora's street, making sure there were no men in black lurking in the shadows. The coast seemed clear, so he stepped aside so that Cora could unlock the front door.

SodaPop was stuck to Phin's side, keeping him calm. He'd been worrying about Joy, but her children had assured them that she was stable. Still unconscious, but stable. She was currently in the ICU, but they hoped she'd be moved into a normal room by the next morning.

He'd also worried about what they'd find inside Cora's house, but neither concern had sent him into a spiral, mostly because of SodaPop. Good girl. He'd felt confident enough in his self-control to send Stone and Delores to play tourist in the Quarter for a few hours. He'd see them later that night, after Cora's house was safe. Phin was to ensure that her home was physically secure, and Antoine was to ensure that there were no more bugs and that the alarm system she'd installed was working properly.

Step one, of course, was figuring out what was up with the letters. After retrieving the copies from Cora's safe-deposit box—there had been three sets of copies, because Cora Winslow was very organized—Burke had taken one set back to his own house, planning to go through the letters personally.

It made sense that Joy's attacker might have thought Cora had brought the letters with her to the office that morning, but why the attacker would want them, none of them knew. Hopefully Burke would figure it out.

Burke still wasn't sure who he would assign to be Cora's bodyguard.

Let it be me.

But Phin knew that was a truly stupid thing to wish. Not with his baggage. Plus, as confident as Cora had seemed in his ability to control himself, he had noted her relief when Antoine had tagged along.

Maybe it was because Antoine had come to check for bugs, but Phin was realistic, if nothing else. A man who needed a service dog was not qualified to be a bodyguard.

That he'd wanted the job since he'd come to work for Burke two years before was immaterial. He'd have to be satisfied going back to his old job—nighttime security and the firm's general fixer-upper.

And wasn't "fixer-upper" true in the metaphorical sense, as well? Phin was no catch. Especially not for a woman like Cora Winslow.

He flinched at the thought. He had no business even entertaining the notion that a woman like her could be attracted to a man like him. But he'd seen kindness in her eyes and an unwillingness to hurt him, and that would have to be enough.

"This place is amazing." Antoine had stopped two steps into the foyer, awe in his voice. "It's like a museum."

Phin hummed his agreement as he gazed up at the fifteen-foot ceiling and ornate archways leading to the rest of the house. "Greek Revival."

The house was a stunning example of the architecture that had been so popular in New Orleans during the mid-to-late nineteenth century. But it needed a lot of work. The light pink exterior was practically begging for a coat of paint. The interior walls were also faded, the baseboards and the tray ceilings chipped, and the area rugs frayed.

But the hardwood floors shone and the foyer, at least, was sparkling clean. The ornate chandelier over their heads was shining and spotless.

"You know your architecture," Cora said, dropping her keys in a bowl by the door.

"I've studied a little. Nothing official." Phin pointed to the keys. "One of the first things you'll need to do is find a safer place for your keys."

Wincing, she blushed and put the keys into her pocket. "You're right. I'm sorry." She started toward the living room. "I need to check on my dog."

Phin held up a hand. "Stay here. I need to clear the house." Just in case someone was hiding, waiting for her.

She frowned. "Blue's in the living room. He's old and missing a few teeth, but he won't like you coming into his territory. It's unlikely he'll attack, but I need to introduce you."

"Then I'll do that room last. Antoine, you ready to check for bugs?"

Antoine had already taken his scanner from one of his computer bags. "I am. I'll wait here with Cora until you're done."

"And you're carrying?" Phin said loudly, kind of hoping this morning's asshole was listening. The bastard would know that Cora was being kept safe.

Antoine grinned, understanding completely. "I am," he said, just as loudly.

Cora watched them with apprehension. "Am I allowed to make a few phone calls?"

Antoine sobered and fished a phone from his pocket. "Use my burner until I check your phone for listening devices, and don't say anything confidential."

"I just need to call Tandy at the gallery and let her know I'm home safe. Oh shit. My lawyer, too." She grimaced. "Everyone worries."

Phin understood. She had a delicate air, even though he knew she was tough. He had a lot of respect for Cora Winslow.

"I'll call down as I clear rooms," he said, then started up the grand staircase with a gleaming mahogany banister that looked original to the house.

Exceptional workmanship.

SodaPop at his side, he went all the way up to the third-floor attic, working his way down, clearing each room. When he opened a bedroom door on the second floor he stopped in his tracks, his mouth falling open.

Cora had an incredible computer station, comparable to the one Antoine kept at Burke's office. Multiple monitors, a sleek tower, and an ergonomic keyboard that looked like something out of science fiction.

He looked down at his dog. "What the hell does she do in this room?" The dog didn't answer, of course. Just gazed up at him calmly, making him feel calm, too.

He cleared the computer room and all the others save the living room before returning to the foyer, where she was still talking on the phone.

"I'm okay, Harry. I promise. I'm home and I'm about to set the alarm. Blue's here with me."

Phin had overheard her speaking to the older man after he'd followed her out of the police station and had quickly realized that Harry was the lawyer who'd accompanied her. If I'd been Harry, I would have insisted Cora get in the cab with me and not left her standing on the curb after being chased by Joy's attacker.

But maybe her lawyer knew her well enough to know she wouldn't have listened. Still, Phin had been annoyed that the old man had put his afternoon appointments ahead of Cora's safety.

"I'll call you in a few hours. Bye, Harry." She ended the call and rubbed her forehead. "Honestly," she muttered. "I'm not a child. But Harry's known me my whole life, so he still thinks I'm a little girl." She looked up at Phin. "All clear?"

"All but the living room. I'll do that while Antoine's doing his sweep."

Antoine saluted, then took the same route up the stairs that Phin had taken.

"This way." Cora led Phin to another amazing room with high ceilings and lush draperies that were only a little faded. He admired the details as he completed his search for any hidden intruders.

It, too, was clear.

This room had aged much better than some of the others had. It was furnished with modern, comfortable sofas and chairs, but the walls were covered in old portraits. Like, really old. "Who's this?" he asked, pointing to a severe-looking woman in a black dress with an elaborate pearl necklace around her throat.

"My great-great-grandmother, Blanche Winslow. She was married to him." She pointed to a man with an amazing beard in a naval uniform. "Seymour." She pointed to another portrait, newer than the others. The woman had Cora's red hair, piled atop her head. "My grandmother, Norma Winslow."

Phin studied Cora's profile. "You're wearing her pearls." They were a single strand, both simpler and classier than the ones that Blanche had worn in her portrait.

Cora smiled. "I am."

"What happened to the fancy pearls Blanche is wearing?" He wondered if someone might also be looking for valuables.

"Gone. They disappeared somewhere around 1900. Pirates," she said dramatically, making him chuckle. "Or maybe a thieving relative. Nobody knows."

Phin turned from the portraits to the old dog, who lay curled up on a braided rug in front of one of the room's two fireplaces. "Blue, I presume?"

Cora's smile held a tinge of sadness. "Yeah. He sleeps most of the time these days. He's twelve, which is getting old for his breed. We've had him since he was a puppy."

Phin studied the dog, who lifted his head to stare at him, growling menacingly.

"It's okay, Blue," Cora said. The growling immediately ceased, but the staring continued.

It was easy to see how Blue had come by his name. The dog was a blue merle color and his eyes were a strikingly light blue. He looked like a cross between a boxer and a pit bull.

"What breed is he?" Phin asked.

"Catahoula Leopard." Cora's speech changed, emphasizing her New Orleans accent, sounding more like Burke. "State dog of Loo-siana. Go ahead. Let him sniff you."

He went down on one knee next to Blue and let him sniff his fingers. He got a single lick for his trouble before Blue yawned and went back to sleep. Phin looked up at Cora. "He must have been really riled up to have barked that night. Doesn't seem like he's got a lot of energy for random barking."

"No. That's why I went down to check things out. He never barks at night. This neighborhood is usually quiet."

Phin gave Blue a soft scratch behind his ears before rising. "I noticed the garden in the back when I was checking out the kitchen." It was surrounded by a six-foot wall and he'd noticed the gate across the driveway when they'd pulled up. "Does the gate lock?"

The garden was large for the neighborhood. There was a small swimming pool as well as a koi pond. The pool had been covered for the winter, but the koi had been swimming happily, even though the temperature was brisk.

"It does, but I rarely lock it. Like I said, the neighborhood is usually quiet. I started locking it after the first break-in. I guess they didn't mean Blue any harm, even though he barked at them the first time. Someone was here while I was working at the library, but they left Blue alone."

"That's good, at least." He moved to the bookshelves that lined one long wall. The shelves were heavy with books. Most were decades old. Some looked centuries old. But there was a section of paperbacks with creased spines. There were fiction books of all genres, although the bulk seemed to be sci-fi and fantasy. There were also nonfiction books, mostly DIY fix-it books but also a ton of cookbooks.

"Yours?" he asked, looking over her shoulder.

Her smile was self-deprecating. "I am a librarian."

He tapped the spine of a book that had been a bestseller a few years before. "I like this one. I have it at home on my own keeper shelf."

Her smile bloomed. "You like to read?"

"Kept me sane when I was serving. People would donate books to the troops and I read every single one I could get my hands on." His mouth quirked up. "Even read some romances."

She grinned, delighted. "Me too. You can borrow any of mine that you'd like."

"Likewise," he offered, then realized he was still staring at her.

And that she was staring back at him.

Heat rising in his cheeks, he gestured to the portraits that covered the rest of the walls. "Your ancestors?"

She nodded. "I'm the sixth generation of Winslows to live here." She sighed. "I might just be the last. This house costs the earth to maintain."

"I know. Burke spends a small fortune on his house in the Quarter every year, apart from what he pays me to keep it up." Which was separate from his salary at Broussard Investigations, and honestly, more money than Phin thought he was worth. "Are you going to keep it?"

She looked around sadly. "I don't know. My grandmother passed away about two years ago. It's a lot of work to just keep it clean. I kind of let the house go that first year. No time or money. I had…other priorities." She glanced at a framed photograph on the mantel over the fireplace. The young man in the photo bore a strong resemblance to Cora, curly red hair and all. "My brother was ill."

Was.

Phin gentled his voice. "He passed?"

She swallowed. "Yeah. A year ago. He'd had Hodgkin's lymphoma and we thought he'd licked it with chemo. But it came back. He needed a bone marrow transplant, but we never found a match. Everyone we knew tried to donate, but…" She shrugged. "And then it was too late."

"I'm sorry," he murmured, saying a silent prayer of thanks that all his siblings were alive and healthy. He hadn't seen them in five years, but he followed their lives, largely with Stone and Delores's help.

"Thank you." She laughed bitterly. "I looked so hard for my father when John Robert's doctor told him he needed the transplant. My mother was dead by then, and my grandmother and I weren't matches. I thought, ‘If only I can find my father. He'll donate. I know he will.' I searched and searched, but I could never track him down. Meanwhile I kept getting le—"

She cut herself off before she could say letters , then sighed. "I even donated DNA to one of those genetic tracing websites, hoping he'd done the same and I could track him—or his new family—that way. But he was dead all along."

Phin didn't know what to say, so he said nothing at all.

Cora sighed again. "I'm really tired. I guess this morning's caught up to me. Would you mind if I rested for a little while?"

"Of course not. Kick off those torture-shoes and rest your feet. I'll start checking doors and windows and make a list of the supplies I'll need to make the house intruder-proof."

"Torture-shoes is definitely true today. Thank you, Phin. I really appreciate it." She sank down into the sofa closest to Blue and kicked off her shoes.

Her toenails were painted neon pink with white smiley faces, which made him want to smile, too.

Instead, he clucked his tongue to call SodaPop and began checking entry points to her home. He'd nearly completed the first floor when Antoine came down the stairs, glowering.

He held out his hand, revealing five small listening devices the size of pebbles. He dumped them in a Faraday bag to keep them from broadcasting.

"And I'm not close to being done yet," Antoine said. "Sonofabitch bugged every bedroom and her bathroom, too."

Phin clenched his jaw. "Cameras?"

Antoine shook his head. "None that I can find yet. I'm going to my car to call Burke. I'll be back in a few. Stay here with her." He looked around with a frown. "Where is she?"

"On the sofa, hopefully asleep. I'll stand watch."

Uptown, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2:45 P.M.

Sage slipped into his grandfather's home study, confident that he hadn't been seen. He knew every nook and cranny in this monstrosity of a mansion, having grown up here.

He took a moment to look at the photographs on his grandfather's desk, a familiar sadness pressing at his chest. His father's photo was prominently displayed, one of the last formal photos they'd had taken.

The photo captured three generations: his grandfather; Sage's father, the firstborn son; and Sage himself, his father's only child.

Sage, his father, and his grandfather posed for the camera, their suits dark, their ties perfectly tied. Their shoes had even been shined, which Sage hadn't understood as a five-year-old. Their shoes wouldn't even be in the picture, so why did they have to shine them?

His father had laughed, that booming sound one of the only things that Sage truly remembered about his dad. He'd murmured that his grandfather liked things a certain way, and it wasn't a lot of trouble to shine their shoes. Why not make him happy?

But Alan didn't look happy in this picture. He looked…sad.

And guilty. Sage had always thought his grandfather had looked guilty and didn't know why. He still didn't know why. The sadness he'd understood. His grandmother had recently died in a car accident, the car catching on fire. His father had been sad, too.

Sage didn't remember his grandmother. He and his father had lived in Mobile until he was two. That was when his parents had divorced and he and his father had moved back to New Orleans. He didn't remember the divorce, either, but he remembered the shouting every time his father dropped him at his mother's house in Mobile for the occasional weekend. He remembered his mother crying when his father returned to pick him up.

And he remembered that his grandfather had hated his mother. Still did.

Which was why Sage's mother still lived in Mobile.

And… wow . The realization that they'd gotten divorced twenty-three years ago was like a slap in the face.

Apparently, a lot of things had happened twenty-three years ago. He wondered if there was a connection between any of them.

But the clock was ticking and he had to start searching. His grandfather was waiting for his network guy to arrive at the central offices to try to get information off Broussard's laptops.

Good luck with that. Sage had already tried on his own. Whoever ran Broussard's IT department was good at their job. The machines had been wiped.

But it would take the IT guy a while to figure that out, so Sage had an hour or two.

From his backpack, he pulled three small cameras, wishing he'd done this years ago. That he hadn't was only because he hadn't been curious enough to bother. He'd already known all the information his grandfather kept, because Sage had gathered most of it for him.

That had changed when Cora Winslow had come onto the scene.

The cameras were the same kind that he'd planted in his grandfather's adversaries' homes and offices all the time, so he knew their capabilities well. He placed them so that he'd get a view of all areas of the study.

His grandfather would be hiding the Broussard laptops somewhere. Hopefully where the old man hid everything else.

Sage would finally find out where that was.

Metairie, New Orleans, Louisiana

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 5:45 P.M.

A knock on his door had Alan glaring at the clock on his desk. It was about time.

"Enter."

Medford Hughes came in and closed the door behind him, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but there. Which was the same way he looked every time Alan called him in for a job. The man had his own business doing network stuff, but he always made time for Alan. He was too scared not to.

"Don't dawdle, Medford," Alan said, keeping his voice much calmer than he felt. "I need to get into my laptops."

Medford frowned. "Laptops, sir? More than one?"

"Two." Without touching the computers, Alan slid them from Sage's special mesh bag that kept them from connecting to Wi-Fi so they couldn't be tracked. But Alan had turned off his Wi-Fi in preparation for Medford's arrival, so they'd be safe.

Medford stared at the laptops on Alan's desk with open dismay tinged with fear.

"These laptops, sir?"

What was Medford's problem? The man had unlocked laptops in the past that did not belong to Alan and had never said a word. Alan always claimed he'd forgotten his password and Medford had always nodded as if that were the truth, even though he'd known that the laptops hadn't belonged to Alan.

But those previous computers had been taken from people Alan knew. He'd always had at least an idea of where to start with the password—pets' names and the like. This time, he had no clue. And this time, he had two laptops.

The laptops Sage normally collected weren't owned by tech-savvy companies like Broussard Investigations. They were owned by people who were trying to manipulate Alan, who might be trying to steal from him or even concoct blackmail scenarios. Ministers were always vulnerable to dishonest people who tried to paint them as less than holy.

Alan found that knowing the real intentions of those dishonest people was the best defense. Threatening to disclose their worst secrets always made them back down and walk away.

So he'd send Sage after their computers, and the boy had never failed to deliver.

"These laptops, Medford. Can you help me or not?"

Medford swallowed, clearly nervous. As he should be. Medford owed Alan too much to buck the system. Too much to question Alan's orders.

"Sir, without some idea of what you might have used as a password, I'd just be stabbing in the dark."

Medford always referred to the stolen laptops as Alan's, even though he knew they weren't. It was most likely how the man justified his actions to himself.

"You have programs to randomize passwords, don't you?" Alan asked impatiently. "Just let the program spin new passwords until it figures out the right one like you always do."

"Um…well, sir. These particular laptops will likely have…additional protections."

"What does that mean?"

Medford wouldn't meet his eyes. "Just that I might have put protections on these laptops to prevent unauthorized access."

Claiming that he'd been the one to set up the device security was another way that Medford justified the things he believed to be morally wrong. But it was also an attempt at self-protection because Medford suspected that Alan was recording all their conversations.

Which Alan was, of course.

Sometimes Medford was able to break a password and sometimes he wasn't. But he always tried. It looked like today might be a first. Medford was looking at these laptops like they were snakes, coiled to strike.

"What might these added protections do, Medford?" Alan asked.

Sweat was beading on Medford's forehead. "If I try to guess your password and get it wrong after even a few attempts, I could trigger the computer to wipe itself."

"I see," Alan murmured.

I won't know what's in Cora Winslow's letters.

It was possible, of course, that she hadn't given the letters to the PI—yet, anyway—but he wasn't betting on it. Sage's bugs had revealed that the PI's secretary, Joy Thomas, had told her to bring the letters with her to her meeting with Broussard this morning, or to email them. He had to assume Broussard had the letters.

If I can't get into Broussard's email, I won't know who sent them. Because it certainly hadn't been Winslow's father. He'd been dead for twenty-three years.

Alan should know. He'd killed the man himself.

He didn't know what was in those letters, but their very existence—and Cora Winslow's continued attempts to get the police to investigate them—had him nervous. He needed to make sure there was nothing in the letters that could lead police to what Jack Elliot had been doing twenty-three years ago.

Or my part in it.

Medford backed toward the door. "If there's nothing else, I'll just—"

"Stay where you are." He narrowed his eyes at Medford, hardening his voice. "You need to at least try. One of them might have passwords that include the names Nala, Louisa, Wayne, or Jerry." Because those were the receptionist's children.

Finding the woman's children's names had been simple enough. Joy Thomas didn't have a social media presence, but her kids did. He knew where they'd gone to school and the names of their significant others and their pets.

Medford shook his head. "I'll try, but I really think we set these passwords to be completely random and I didn't write them down." His words sounded desperate. Panicked. "I'm not going to be able to guess them."

Alan wanted to snap viciously at the useless man, but he held it back, keeping his smile benign. "Please try."

"Yes, sir, as long as you know that there's a risk of wiping the entire drive." Hands trembling slightly, Medford pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and opened the first laptop.

And then Alan saw what had Medford so spooked. With his failing eyesight, Alan hadn't seen the holographic label on the laptop's lid. It was the same color as the computer itself, visible only when the light hit it a certain way.

But now he could see the label in sufficient detail.

It read Broussard Investigations in an elegant art deco script.

Sage was sure to have seen the label, but he hadn't said a word.

Alan seethed. He should have examined the laptops more closely. Now Medford knew exactly where the machines had come from.

Which meant Medford knew that Alan was behind their theft, which had been all over the news that morning because of the shooting of Joy Thomas.

It also meant that Medford now knew that Alan was connected to the shooting of the Thomas woman, easily the worst thing that Sage had ever done.

Alan remained where he sat, trying to think as his heart raced faster and faster.

I'm not a violent man. The only time he'd killed was that one time twenty-three years ago. After that he'd been careful. He blackmailed. He manipulated. He did not kill.

But Sage might have. The Thomas woman was still alive for now, but that could change. Alan didn't have to ask to know that even attempted murder crossed Medford's moral line. He might tell the police everything.

That can't happen.

Medford was staring at the laptop's screen in what looked like disbelief. He was sliding his finger over the trackpad rapidly, his frown becoming more intense.

"What do you see?" Alan demanded.

"There's no password. It just…opened."

That was good, right? But it was also suspicious that Broussard hadn't taken precautions. Maybe the man was cocky, given his recent successes at catching some very bad criminals. Success did make a man cocky. Alan had fought against that himself.

"The drive isn't wiped?"

Medford finally met his eyes and the man's expression was one of reluctant knowing. "I don't think so. There doesn't appear to have been much on the hard drive. I think it's trying to connect to a server, but it can't because the Wi-Fi's turned off."

"And?"

"I think their content resides on a central server and they use the laptops for access. Like old-time terminals that accessed a mainframe. There's nothing of use on the hard drive."

"But I can access the server with the computer if I connect to the internet? Just by plugging the router back in?"

"Possibly, but that will make the machine trackable." Medford hesitated, looking like he was dueling with the devil himself, but he finally spoke. "If you try to sign on, use someone else's Wi-Fi. And don't do it here."

"I see." He'd already come to the same conclusion. That Broussard would attempt to track down thieves was a given. It was good that Alan was smarter than those thieves. "And the other machine?"

Clenching his jaw, Medford opened the other machine, poked around the hard drive for a few minutes, then lifted his gaze. "It's the same." He pulled off his gloves and threw them in the trash can next to Alan's desk. "I'm done."

There was a tension in Medford's face that Alan did not like. You're done when I say you're done.

"Thank you, Medford. That's all I need for the time being." He rose and walked Medford out. "How's your wife?"

Medford flinched, just as Alan had intended him to. "About the same, sir."

A hopeless addict with a gambling problem, then.

"Give her my best."

Which translated to: If you want her secrets kept, you'd best keep mine.

Medford jerked a nod. "Yes, sir."

Alan expected him to leave, his head down, but Medford unexpectedly raised his gaze to meet Alan's. There was anger there. Despair as well. But there was a glint of determination that told Alan all he needed to know.

Medford had made his decision. The man was going to tell.

"You have something to say, Medford?" he asked sharply.

Medford shook his head. "No, sir. I'll see myself out."

Alan closed the door behind him, then returned to his desk to stare at the two laptops.

He needed to keep Medford quiet. He should make Sage take care of the man, but he couldn't ask that of his grandson. As much as he hated to admit it, that would give Sage one more thing to hold over Alan's head. For so long, Alan had been in control of his grandson. But that had changed sometime in the past year. Sage had become surly and mean, vicious and calculating. Bold and arrogant.

It's my fault. I never should have included him in any of this. But his old assistant had died suddenly. Had had a heart attack in his sleep, so Alan had needed someone new to research potential adversaries. Sage had been only fifteen but smart as a whip.

And loyal. At least he had been then.

Alan's ministry did so much good in the world. But staying on top required sacrifices. Alan had always been certain it had been worth it. He was still certain of his own role. He might have to rethink Sage's, though.

Pulling on a pair of leather gloves from his coat pocket, he closed the laptops and put them back in Sage's special bag. He'd follow Medford's advice and try to access Broussard's server from somewhere else.

Medford Hughes himself was a more pressing problem. He needed to take care of the man before he did anything else.

Alan rubbed his eyes, cursing his blurred sight. He'd have to drive tonight. He couldn't trust anyone to drive him to Medford's home.

From here on out, he'd have to handle things himself.

He picked Medford's gloves out of the trash can and slipped them into an envelope. He knew exactly what he needed to do.