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She took another long look at the houses that lined Xavier Morrow’s old street, where he’d lived before Katrina.
The Lower Ninth Ward had been the focus of media coverage of the boat rescues, and that was what Molly remembered from that time. But Burke had schooled her on the neighborhoods of New Orleans when she’d first agreed to work for him. There had been boat rescues in several of the other neighborhoods—this one and others along the river to the south of the city.
Chalmette—and the entirety of St. Bernard Parish—had been devastated by the hurricane, no homes spared by the floodwaters. Much of the neighborhood had not been rebuilt, vacant lots where homes had been.
The post-Katrina houses were mostly single-story, with a few two-story homes here and there. There were no other cars on the street, unless they were parked. Anyone who was going to work was gone by now. A few children played in one of the backyards, periodically running around to the front to retrieve a ball, which normally would have made her smile. She was too anxious at the moment, too aware of the danger hanging over Gabe’s head.
She was also aware of the older woman weeding her garden—while she watched them.
Molly had caught her sneaking peeks at them from beneath her wide-brimmed hat. She would be the first person they’d talk to. She was one of three original residents on this portion of the street.
“Just checking the time,” Molly said, not sure why she hadn’t told Gabe what Burke had shared that morning. Maybe she didn’t want him to get his hopes up.
But more than likely it was the really bad feeling she had about it. Gabe would want to be there, to talk to the woman who’d contacted Burke first thing, who was likely still in Burke’s office, asking for his help.
Molly didn’t want Gabe anywhere near the office. She didn’t want him anywhere near Xavier’s old neighborhood, either, but she was learning to choose her battles with her chef.
My chef.
He wasn’t really hers. But he could be.
Her chef was currently staring at her, his arms crossed over his broad chest, hazel eyes narrowed. “I thought you weren’t going to lie to me.”
“I wasn’t. I really was checking the time. This time. It’s rude to call on people before ten o’clock.”
He shook his head. “Molly, just tell me.”
She sighed. “All right. There was a call on the office voice mail this morning when Joy arrived, a message from a woman who said she needed to speak with Burke urgently and that it had to do with your father.”
Gabe gasped quietly. “I want to see her.”
“I figured you would,” she admitted. “But I have a bad feeling about this. It’s too convenient. We find out that your father was investigating a murder, and, alakazam, this lady shows up.”
“Xavier did,” Gabe pointed out.
“True. That’s why Burke is meeting with her. He said he’d call me when he’s done.”
Gabe frowned. “Why would someone fake this? How would they know—” He exhaled. “Oh. You think it’s some kind of a trap laid by the killer or killers.”
She had to smile. “You’re sounding more and more like one of us.” She sobered. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think. It’s what Burke thinks, too. He didn’t want us anywhere near the office this morning. And if he had, I would have said no. I won’t put you in danger like that.”
“You think they’re trying to get to me?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, trying to keep the duh from her tone and failing spectacularly. Gabe didn’t seem to mind, though. He kept studying her face with the same fatalistically curious expression. “Either to get to you directly or to tail Burke afterward.”
Gabe’s mouth tightened. “To find Xavier.”
She lifted a shoulder. “He’s the eyewitness.”
“He was just a child,” Gabe said, frustrated. “It’s unlikely anyone would take him seriously, even if he did come forward. Why is this happening?”
“That is a very good question,” Molly said. It was one that she’d considered often over the past forty-eight hours. “My best guess is that Xavier saw the man’s scar and that makes him identifiable today.”
“True. I guess we can’t google ‘New Orleans men with scars.’ ”
Her lips curved faintly. “I did. Didn’t get anywhere. Especially since I think this guy is high-profile. For the kind of obstruction you experienced, a poorly done autopsy and the attempt to frame your dad with cocaine planted in his pantry, there has to be some kind of high-profile exposure.”
“You’re saying that whoever killed the woman during Katrina is afraid of scandal.”
