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“He was homeless? Or just sleeping off a drunk?”
“He had skipped out of rehab for the fourth or fifth or tenth time, so he wasn’t welcome at home. I took him home with me, fed him, let him crash on my couch for a few days. I came home from work at four one morning, and he was gone. I haven’t seen him since.”
It had been a shock when he’d recognized the dirty, barely coherent man as his childhood friend. Jeffrey was younger than Mary Ellen but looked twenty years older. He’d been scrawny and twitchy, and his eyes... They had been uncomfortable, flat, empty.
Ten years ago Landry had seen that look in his own eyes too many times to count, that desperate need to escape. Sometimes it got so bad, living in his own head, that he’d been tempted by booze and drugs. Instead, he’d seen a shrink.
Another deep, deep debt he owed Miss Viola.
Alia’s voice came, soft and sympathetic. “Did he get along with his father before the rehab?”
He smiled faintly. “The short answer is no.”
“And the long answer?”
“You’d have to ask Jeffrey or the old man.”
“Do you know where to find Jeffrey?”
“Nope, but anyone in town can tell you where to find the old man.” Living in a mansion in the Garden District, working in a luxurious penthouse office on Canal Street, partying with the rich and respectable, when he ought to be burning in hell.
Alia hesitated, her eyes going dark and shadowy, her mouth thinning. “Actually, I doubt many people can. Brad Wallace was stabbed to death sometime between last night and early church services this morning.”
Something twisted in Landry’s gut—not regret, damn sure not sorrow. It wasn’t even shock. Just a vague satisfaction that common sense said he should feel guilty for but couldn’t. “Good,” he murmured. “He got what he deserved.”
Alia’s shadowy look and thinned lips didn’t change as he glanced away from her. He didn’t care whether she heard his next word but said it anyway, just for himself. “Finally.”
Too late for Jeffrey. Too late for a lot of people. But hallelujah, the son of a bitch wouldn’t hurt anyone else in this world.
“Do you think it’s connected to the other murders?”
Alia’s shrug was so tiny, he would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her from the corners of his eyes. “Do you believe in coincidence?”
Landry lay back in the grass, staring at the leaves above him. His gut was still tight, and he was getting twitchy like Jeffrey—his body responding to what his mind didn’t want to acknowledge. Coincidence was a marvelous thing...but two best friends, two sick bastards, dying within a week of each other, both stabbed?
Justice, vengeance, a good thing for everyone who knew them—sure. Coincidence? Not likely.
Alia laid her hand on his arm. “Landry, were Jeremiah and Brad Wallace guilty of something that led to their deaths?”
He didn’t want to talk about this, not to anyone, but especially not to her. People were allowed to keep secrets, weren’t they? No one was obliged to share all the ugly details of his life. And these weren’t his secrets alone. They included, affected, other people. They weren’t entirely his to tell.
Except people were dying because of them. Jeremiah and Wallace had deserved it. Camilla bore some responsibility, too, but by God, Miss Viola had done what she could. She hadn’t deserved a shove down the stairs.
Would telling Alia everything stop the killings? Maybe not. Maybe Jeremiah and Wallace had been into things Landry knew nothing about, things equally worth killing over.
Before he figured out whether he was rationalizing so he could stay silent, Alia’s cell rang. He considered his cell phone a convenience for himself. He didn’t make a lot of calls, rarely texted and always screened his calls. He had no desire to be reachable on a whim. Alia’s phone, on the other hand, was a business tool. She was probably getting more information about Brad Wallace’s murder, more gruesome details, more questions.
And she was probably going to ask some of them of him.
He sat up, mimicking her position, though he deliberately focused on not listening to her end of the conversation. He’d had pretty much nothing on his mind but murder the past seven days. He wanted to be done with it. Wanted to go back to life as normal. Wanted to work and fend off overly friendly tipsy tourists and play with his nieces and maybe even go on a date or two.
With Alia. And date wasn’t exactly where he wanted to go. Bed had a really good sound to it.
She ended the call, easily stood and offered her hand. “That was Detective Murphy. He’s investigating Brad Wallace’s death. We’re going to meet at his house to talk for a few minutes.”
