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“Landry, she said— What about Mama? What did she—” Her gaze slid from him to Alia, then to the activity at the crypt. Other cops had joined DiBiase there, blocking the body from sight. But Mary Ellen didn’t need to see more. Her fingers bit into his arm, tears welled in her eyes and an unholy scream echoed off the nearest tombs, scraping his skin raw, making him wince and, for an instant, try to move away.
The wail ended abruptly as Mary Ellen sagged to the ground. Landry grabbed her right arm, Scott her left. Landry swung her into his arms—she hardly weighed more than the girls—and started toward the car. As they drew close, the driver hustled over to open the rear door. Faith and Mariela were crying, Scott clutching Mary Ellen’s limp hand, and the sky chose that moment to let the rain fall down.
After settling his sister on the wide rear seat, he straightened. “Take her to the hospital,” he said quietly to Scott. She’d been taking sedatives all week; he was afraid this was one shock too many for those to manage.
“What about you and the girls?” Scott asked, even as he slid into the car.
“We’ll get a ride home.”
“My parents can take care of them. I’ll call as soon as...”
Landry nodded, then lifted the girls into his arms, their thin little arms clenching his neck tightly. They watched solemnly as the limo pulled away.
“What’s wrong with Mama?” Faith whispered.
“She’s just sad and tired. She’ll be fine after she’s rested awhile.” He hoped she was fine. She’d never been the strongest person around...but she’d survived hell before. This time she had her girls and Scott to help her.
Wearily he looked at Alia. “Can someone give us a ride?”
“I will. My car’s the gray one right there.” She beeped open the doors on a midsize sedan down the block. “Just give me a minute.”
He took the girls to the car, fastening their seat belts, giving them reassuring smiles. “Everything’s gonna be all right,” he said, forcing a smile. “Your mama and daddy will be home as soon as possible, and Nana and Papa are at the house waiting for you.” The elder Davisons had driven down from Baton Rouge for the funeral. They were as well entrenched in Baton Rouge society as the Jacksons were in New Orleans, but that was where the similarities ended. Mr. and Mrs. Davison were honorable, loving, decent people, who treasured their family and most other people.
“Will they take us for ice cream after dinner if we’ve been good?” Mariela’s voice trembled, and a fat tear was caught in her long lashes.
Landry brushed away the tear. “Don’t they always take you for ice cream?”
“Yep, except once when I punched Faith and she looked like a purple-eyed monster. They took her but made me stay home with Mama, and they didn’t bring me nothing, neither.”
Landry managed a grin. “Did you learn your lesson about punching people colors they aren’t supposed to be?”
“Yeah.” She didn’t sound particularly convincing. After a moment, she added in a whisper, “Mama turned white. She looked like a ghost.”
Or as if she’d seen one.
He responded absently, then closed the door and waited near the front of the car. The trees that lined the street provided protection from the rain; only the occasional drop made it through to splatter him. Not so for the detectives and NCIS agents out in the open of the cemetery. They looked as if they’d had to swim upriver in the Mississippi to get to the tombs. They would be there awhile, gathering whatever evidence remained from the taking of Camilla’s life and stuffing her body into a mostly airtight chamber, and they’d pulled out tarps and slickers to protect both them and the crime scene.
Crime scene. First the site of his father’s death, now that of his mother’s.
Despite her suit—gray seemed to be the color of the day—it was easy to pick out Alia. There were other women, but she was the tallest, the leanest, and she held herself with the most confidence. After a moment, she finished her conversation with DiBiase, then jogged to the car, her heels and the rapidly softening ground providing no obstacle. He suspected she was the sort of woman who could run in sky-high heels—or barefoot across glass—if the situation required it.
Raindrops glistened in her hair and on her face as she looked at him over the roof of the car, waiting for his questions, but he had only one.
“Are you sure?”
She didn’t dodge his gaze, didn’t try to put him off. “As sure as we can be without the coroner signing off on it.”
Of course they were sure. Camilla was missing, and there was an extra body in the Jackson crypt that fitted her description. Who else could it be?
