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He took the stairs on his left, coming out on a long landing that had been a balcony in the original house. The brass numeral three that had fallen off the door long ago had left an impression of the number in faded red paint. In fact, faded was the best description for the entire building. What had been a pricey, showy home fifteen decades ago reminded him of an aging, wrinkled beauty queen: a ghost of its former loveliness but with its grace and gentility intact.
He’d just finished opening a few windows when his cell rang. After a glance at the screen, he debated answering long enough for the caller to hang up. A moment later, the phone beeped, signaling a voice mail. In the cool, dim light of his bedroom, he sprawled across the bed before playing the message, closing his eyes at the soft greeting.
“Landry, it’s Dr. Granville. I heard the news about Captain Jackson... I guess I should make that Admiral. I understand he’s been promoted since the last time I saw you. Anyway, hearing the news made me think of you, and I wanted to tell you if you need to talk—and you know, of course, that I think you should—I’m still here or I can refer you to someone else.” The faintly accented voice paused before going on. “Take care of yourself through this, Landry.”
He noticed as the message clicked off that she hadn’t offered condolences.
Victoria Granville, blonde, British and beautiful, was a few years younger than his mother and knew him better than anyone, including his mother. Without her, he wasn’t sure he would have survived being Jeremiah’s son.
But he didn’t need to talk to her now. He was okay with his father’s death. His only care was a vague sort of relief. The admiral was dead. Now he could burn in the fires of hell, where he belonged, and Landry...
Landry was free. At last. Thank God.
He just didn’t feel that way yet.
He dozed awhile, but his sleep was restless. Funny how things never changed. He was thirty-two years old, but in his dreams he was just a kid again, gangly, scrawny, and couldn’t defend himself or anyone else. In that same realm, Jeremiah was always three times larger than life, menacing, cruel, willing to squash Landry like a bug. No one will notice if you’re gone. No one will miss you.
Right back at you, old bastard, Landry thought as he changed into clean shorts and a T-shirt advertising the club. He’d begun working at Blue Orleans before he was old enough to legally set foot in the door, running errands, tending bar on occasion, helping to throw out the belligerent drunks. His boss, Maxine, had always counted policemen among her clientele; a few free drinks or a food run down the street for the best po’boys in the city made them overlook the underage help.
Tonight Landry hadn’t been on the clock long before the first cop he could identify strolled through the doors: Jimmy DiBiase, still wearing the white shirt and dark pants, looking pretty wrung out. Landry’s gaze automatically looked past to see if Kingsley was following him, but there was no sign of her.
“Give me something cold on ice.” DiBiase slid onto the bar stool in front of Landry, lifted a handful of peanuts from the dish and cracked one.
“You wanna be more specific?”
The cop glanced over both shoulders, then said, “Water’ll do.”
Landry filled a tall glass with ice, then topped it off with his bottled water supply beneath the bar. He added a straw, a few wedges of lemon and lime, then set it down. “Where’s your partner? I thought you guys were attached at the hip.”
DiBiase smiled. “Nah, the divorce decree pretty much took care of that.”
Landry couldn’t have gone any stiffer without facing physical threat. Divorce decree? Special Agent Kingsley had been married to good ole boy DiBiase? It was a hard pairing to wrap his mind around. The beauty and the beast. The good, the bad and the ugly. She was cool, elegant, prettier than she wanted people to know, and DiBiase was a New Orleans homicide detective. You didn’t have to say much more than that for people to get the picture.
DiBiase grinned. “Surprised you, huh? Hell, it surprised me back when she said yes. Not so much when she cut the ties and wished me to the depths of hell.”
Now that part was easier to imagine. Alia in a fussy, lacy, girlie gown? Alia promising forever to DiBiase? Settling into life all lovey-dovey as Mr. and Mrs. and planning a future? None of those images would form. But kicking DiBiase to the curb, maybe with a particular level of viciousness? Yeah, he could see that.
DiBiase grinned again. “It was my fault. I can’t even point any fingers her way, which is just as well since she’d probably break them.” He took a drink, then said reflectively, “Hell, she’d have been justified shooting me a time or two, but she never threatened me with anything more than a stun gun. Believe me, nothing wakes a man up quicker than finding one of those pressed to his throat.”
