Standoff, page 7
Boudreaux cocked his head. “So you think I’m making a mistake to put the deal off until next week?”
The drug czar’s Cajun accent was subtle, showing up mostly in the way he put emphasis on the last word in the sentence. He was evidently proud of his roots, but didn’t want to be defined by them. Luke’s research indicated the New Orleans dealer was a self-made man and had started out on a shanty in the bayous.
He surrounded himself with men who were bold and fearless, even cocky. But he expected respect. If Luke impressed Boudreaux tonight, it was possible he could work his way into the organization. At least long enough to find out when the big shipment of heroin he’d heard about was arriving in the States. “I understand why you’re cautious, but my people are ready to do business. You and I can work a deal that will benefit both of us.”
“I like the way you think.” Boudreaux slapped him on the back just as a microwave dinged. “You’ll join me at the table?” he asked. “We pass a good time over a plate of boudin from Fat Mama’s Tamales, eh.”
That’s what Luke smelled. He liked the sausage well enough and nodded as Wilson quietly moved from the door to the microwave.
“Good.” The drug czar clapped his hands together.
It was as though Luke had passed some sort of test. He followed Boudreaux to the table in the far corner of the room as Wilson removed a plate of the fat sausages from the microwave and set it before them. Then Boudreaux picked up his phone, and soon zydeco music filled the room.
“Boudin should be eaten in the right atmosphere,” he said. He took one of the sausages and bit into it, then pulled the casing through his teeth, squeezing the filling out. “Mmm, that’s good. Almost as good as Grandmeré’s, rest her soul.”
Luke forked a link and bit into the boudin and followed the Cajun’s example, savoring the blend of meat and rice infused with a smoky flavor. It’d been a while, and he was glad to discover he still liked the Louisiana delicacy.
“Grandmeré, she raised me, you know. In my mind’s eye, I can still see that shanty houseboat on the bayou and her standing at the woodstove, boudin sizzling in the black pot.” A faraway look came into his eyes, then his jaw clenched. “Living on the bayou made an old woman of her long before she took me in. When death came calling for her, I was left alone at twelve to fend for myself. More nights than not, I went to bed hungry, something I vowed once I got out of the swamp I’d never do again.”
“I’m sure that was hard,” Luke said. His research had included reading Boudreaux’s bio several times.
“You don’t have a clue, rich boy.” The joviality had disappeared from Boudreaux’s voice. He shoved a plate with slices of pickle on it across the table. “Here, try one of these.”
The Cajun was the one who didn’t have a clue. Yeah, Luke might have come from wealth, but there’d been very little love shown. “I wasn’t patronizing you,” he said evenly. “Having rich parents doesn’t always mean you have love, at least not from them.” He allowed a tiny smile to show. “But there’s no love like a grandmother’s, right?”
Boudreaux’s black eyes narrowed. “Your folks . . . that’s why you do what you do?”
Luke squared his shoulders. “I do what I do because I want to. I don’t answer to anyone.”
The unwavering black eyes seemed to bore right through him. Suddenly, Boudreaux clapped his hands again. “We’re going to get along just fine,” he said. “Now try one of the pickles.”
Luke didn’t like pickles, but it hadn’t been a suggestion. He picked up one and bit into it. In seconds his mouth was on fire and tears watered his eyes. Swallowing a cough, he poured a glass of water and downed it.
Boudreaux laughed. “Whoever named the pickles Fire & Ice got it right, eh?”
His mouth still burning, Luke nodded and drank more water.
“Now, we get down to business. Sunday night you wanted a kilo of heroin and you wanted it on a regular basis. Is that still the case?”
“When can I get my first supply?”
“Saturday night.”
He nodded. “Where and what time?”
“You’ll be called. Just have your money ready—C-notes, old bills in six stacks.”
Luke nodded. It was on the tip of his tongue to discuss the drugs going up the Trace. Instead he stood. He needed to get in good with Boudreaux first. And he wanted to be wearing a wire when he did.
16
He read the article on Kyle Marlar and then laid the paper down. He had a plan and searched his call log for the number Marlar had used. The state representative answered on the second ring, and he didn’t sound surprised.
“I can’t make it to King’s Tavern at seven. How about around nine, just before closing time?” he asked, knowing Marlar would say no. The newspaper article had reported he was speaking on how to take photos of the night sky at the Perseids meteor event at Fort Rosalie at nine o’clock. The article had even provided information on where the state representative would be set up.
“Sorry, but I’ll be busy then.”
“I don’t understand why we have to meet at all. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“My photos show otherwise.”
“Look, I’m not in your pictures. You have the wrong person,” he said.
“I have the right person, all right,” Marlar said, then he was quiet for a few seconds. “Look, I have pull. Give me what I want, and I’ll see to it you don’t serve any time.”
“What do you want?”
“I told you—the name of the person who injected heroin in my son. And a promise to testify against Boudreaux in court.”
“I have no idea about your son, and you’re crazy if you think I’m testifying against anyone.”
“I think you will before this is over,” he said. “I have no doubt you can find out who killed my son.”
“It isn’t that easy.”
“I don’t care if it’s easy or not. If you don’t agree to do it—”
“You’re going to show the cops a bunch of pictures that make it appear I’m doing . . . what?”
“You’ll see when we meet.”
“What if you dropped one of the photos and someone found it? From the way you talk, I’d be ruined.”
“They’re on a camera card. No one will see them except you, unless you don’t show,” Marlar said.
Good. The images were digital. “All right. I’ll meet you at seven.”
“If you don’t show, tomorrow I go to the authorities.”
“I’ll be there.”
He hung up and flexed his fingers. This had to go like clockwork. A few minutes later, he laid his tools on the table. Black leather gloves, a suppressor, and his 9mm Glock. He started the stopwatch on his phone and pulled on the gloves, removed the suppressor from the case, and fumbled as he attached it to the automatic. He had to do better than that, and repeated the process until he completed it seamlessly.
17
Brooke Danvers squared her shoulders and settled the flat-brimmed hat on her head. She checked her image in the bedroom mirror. Gray shirt, green pants, and regulation shoes. She looked the part for her last interpretive program. Not that her look would change much when she officially became an LE.
She wouldn’t have to wear the flat-brimmed hat as often since at her five-feet-seven-inch height, the brim could possibly block her view when ticketing drivers, a problem the six-foot-plus rangers didn’t have to deal with. The only other difference between her old uniform and the new one was the duty belt and everything that went with it—gun, extra ammo, handcuffs, flashlight, and latex gloves.
Her gaze shifted to the Sig Sauer hanging in her duty belt on the bedpost. She hadn’t worn it since Sunday night. If she’d had it on last night, the intruder would not have gotten away. Brooke debated wearing it tonight, but she expected mostly families at the meteor event, and she didn’t want to frighten the small children.
But it wouldn’t hurt to try it on, and she carefully lifted the gun and strapped it around her waist, then turned and admired the way it looked. Just as Brooke rested her hand on the pistol grip, the doorbell rang and she jumped. She wasn’t usually this edgy.
It rang again in quick succession. Only Emma laid down on the doorbell like that, and she hurried to the front door. The view through the peephole confirmed it was her best friend and fellow ranger mugging at her. “Let me in before the humidity frizzes my flat-ironed hair,” she said through the door.
“I thought you were going straight to Fort Rosalie,” Brooke said as she opened the door and then stepped aside to let her friend in. “And I’m afraid it’s too late about your hair.”
“Rats!” Emma tugged at a red curl that had sprung awry.
“So what are you doing here?” Brooke asked.
“I had a few minutes to burn, and I remembered you were making brownies for Miss Daisy. Thought you might have a few left over,” she said.
“I do, and they’re in the kitchen.” This afternoon Brooke had turned to baking once she had her dad’s office back in semi-order. “Come on,” she said and led the way down the hall. “But,” she said over her shoulder, “I’ve told you not to call her Miss Daisy! It makes her feel old.”
“I always forget. But she reminds me of the Driving Miss Daisy star.” In the kitchen, Emma looked her over. “How are you? Did you get your dad’s office cleaned up?”
First thing this morning, Brooke had called her friend and told her about the break-in. She had not told the part about Luke. She shrugged. “Question one, I’m doing okay. Question two, the mess is cleaned up, and I even attempted to see if any of his files were missing.”
“Were any missing?”
“Who knows? It doesn’t look like he ever purged anything. Twenty years of cases. And he had his own filing system, mostly notes stuck in folders and filed according to dates. On the bright side, if I couldn’t figure out his files, I’m pretty sure whoever broke in couldn’t either.” She unsnapped the top of a cake carrier and set the brownies in front of Emma. “Cup of coffee?”
Her friend waved her off. “You forget where we’ll be tonight? Not many amenities.” She bit into a brownie. “This is good. Any clues as to who broke in?”
“No. It was dark in Dad’s office and it happened so fast, I only got a general impression of the man.” It still rankled that he’d gotten away.
“That’s scary,” Emma said. “But I guess you’ll encounter things like that every day on the new job. Are you sure you want to switch?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Besides, I’ll mostly be stopping speeders and handing out tickets.” And trying to prove her dad hadn’t committed suicide.
“Well, even that can be dangerous. What if you stop someone doing something illegal, like running drugs?”
“You sound like Mom and Dad. I’ve completed twenty weeks at the law enforcement training center and once I’m sworn in, I’ll have another three months of training under Clayton, at least that’s who I figure will train me now.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. “So last night didn’t bother you?”
Brooke wouldn’t go that far. “It bothered me because he got away. Can we talk about something else?”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” she said a little too quickly.
Emma glanced around the kitchen. “The cabinets look good. Your dad was doing a great job.” Then her friend winced. “Sorry again. I didn’t mean to bring your dad up. When do you move back into your apartment?”
“Hopefully I’ll be back home in a couple of weeks.”
“What if your mom decides to sell the house now?”
Brooke flinched. Other than her apartment and when she was away at college, this house had been the only place she’d ever lived, but her mom selling was a real possibility. It’s what she’d wanted to do instead of remodeling, and now that Dad was gone, there was nothing to stop her.
“If she does and moves to where your sister lives, you won’t leave too, will you?”
“No. My roots are here—five generations of them.”
“Maybe you can buy the house.”
“With what?” Her shoulders slumped. “Except for a couple thousand dollars, I spent all my savings on the law enforcement training.”
“Too bad the park service didn’t pay for it.”
“Yeah, but since switching departments was my idea and not theirs, I had to pay.”
“Speaking of the training,” Emma said, pointing at the gun, “are you wearing that tonight?”
“No, I was just trying it on. Did I tell you I got Gary Franklin’s job? I’ll be taking the number three spot at Port Gibson.”
“Don’t you mean number two? I heard they were moving Clayton into your dad’s job.”
Social media had nothing on the park service grapevine. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“You haven’t been in to the office.” Emma broke another brownie in half. “You’ll never guess who I saw when I stopped to gas up my car. Your old boyfriend, Luke Fereday.”
“He wasn’t my boyfriend!”
“Yeah, right. And you didn’t have his name plastered on every notebook you owned along with his last name with your first one.”
“I was a teenager, for Pete’s sake, and probably did that to drive my mother crazy.” While Luke wasn’t the typical “bad boy,” trouble had always seemed to find him in the form of fast cars and mostly harmless pranks. “Besides, he was here at the house last night. Even ran off the intruder.”
“Get outta here,” Emma said, her eyes wide.
“Yep.” Heat warmed her face as her friend continued to stare at her.
“You still have feelings for him.” It wasn’t a question.
Brooke jutted her jaw. “I do not have feelings for Luke Fereday. It’s been fourteen years since he left, and I’ve maybe seen him three times. We’re not the same people we were then.”
Emma laughed. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“No, after everything that’s happened this week, I’m off center.” She reached for a brownie and nibbled on it. “He broke my heart when I was seventeen. He won’t get a chance to do it again.”
“Maybe he’s changed.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact Luke had commitment problems then, and from his job choice, he still does.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a bartender.”
“And?”
“Most bartenders move from place to place. They have trouble committing. And how does one go from a naval career to tending bar? There’s a world of difference between the two careers.” She splayed her hands. “It doesn’t make any difference anyway since I won’t be having any further contact with Luke. He’ll go his way and I’ll go mine. Besides, Jeremy and I are dating now. We’re going out tomorrow night.”
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed the half hour, and Brooke made a squawking noise.
“It can’t be seven thirty already,” she said, unbuckling the gun. “I have to stop by the rehab and drop off Daisy’s mail and the brownies before I go to Fort Rosalie.”
“I get the hint,” Emma said, grabbing another brownie. “River bluff in the morning?”
“Not in the morning,” Brooke said. “We won’t get away from Fort Rosalie until well after midnight, and I won’t be in any mood to get up at five thirty and run.”
“Later will be too hot. Meet you at the gym around six tomorrow evening?”
“Make it five so I’ll have time to get ready for my date,” she said and laughed as Emma saluted. They’d been friends since first grade, and she was Brooke’s greatest encourager . . . and task manager. The two saw it as their duty to keep each other in shape.
Brooke put half a dozen brownies in a Ziploc bag for Daisy and grabbed her bundle of mail before hurrying out the door with Emma. Even though the sun hung low, the evening hadn’t cooled down, and hot, humid air hit her in the face. At least with her straight hair she didn’t have to worry about frizzing like Emma. Nevertheless, she was glad she’d pulled it off her neck into a ponytail.
In spite of what she’d said about Luke, she checked to see if his car was in Daisy’s drive. Empty. A tinge of disappointment surprised her, and she quickly brushed it aside. Why she even looked, she didn’t know. She didn’t need Luke Fereday complicating her life.
She backed out of her drive. Maybe it was true that a person never got over their first love. She didn’t really believe that, but it would be better if Luke weren’t staying at his grandmother’s.
Brooke shook her head. Why was she thinking about Luke? She had a good thing going with Jeremy. No need to mess it up.
18
Brooke pulled into the rehab, glad that practically everything in Natchez was reachable in ten minutes—fifteen at the most. She grabbed the brownies and mail and made her way inside, where she signed the guest book before walking to the east wing. She’d know soon enough if Luke had been here. If Daisy didn’t mention his name, neither would she. “Knock, knock,” she said and pushed open the door to room 119.
“I’d about given you up.” Daisy sat on the side of her bed working on her knee exercises. “My, don’t you look spiffy. What’s the occasion?”
Her heart sank at Daisy’s slip, but Brooke kept a smile on her lips. “Thank you, ma’am, for the compliment, and I’m on my way to the Perseids meteor showers tonight . . . remember? We talked about it.”
The older woman tapped her head. “Where is my brain? Of course we did. Fort Rosalie. It will be a lovely night for it.”
This wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten something. Brooke hoped her fuzzy memory was from the recent surgery and anesthesia. She laid the older woman’s mail on the utility tray by her bed next to a laptop. “Sorry I’m later than usual, but by the time I set up everything, I was hot and sweaty and had to go home and change. But I brought you some brownies.”
