Bayou Hero. Marilyn Pappano
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a gesture, long lean fingers indicating a set of open doors. Fingers and hands that bore a few scars and calluses but no cuts. No injuries where a blood-slick knife had sliced through skin.
Though a killer with any sense would have worn gloves. Even a crime of passion would have allowed a few moments for finding a pair in the house.
She took the steps down onto the patio, and sweat broke out along her hairline. She loved New Orleans—even kind of loved the humidity—but this was turning out to be one of the heavy, muggy days best spent over an air-conditioning vent. Already her shirt was clinging to her body, and tiny rivulets were rolling down her spine. She swore she could feel blisters forming inside her shoes, and she was already regretting her choice of a suit this morning.
Landry crossed the patio to the yard. With the first step, Alia’s heel sank into recently watered grass. She put on her best blank expression, gritted her teeth and walked with him toward the nearest flower bed. “Do you know any of your father’s enemies?” she asked evenly.
“Twelve years since I saw him,” he reminded her. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze on flowers that were, indeed, pretty: tall, strong and healthy, vibrant colors against lush grass and graceful trees.
“What about your mother?”
He tilted his head to one side. “They were married longer than I’ve been alive. If she were going to kill him, don’t you think she would have done it sooner?”
Alia waited a beat before clarifying her question. “Where is your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Christmas.”
Six months ago. The only reason more than a week passed without Alia seeing her own mother was the thousand miles between them. She could hardly imagine living in the same town, only a few miles apart, and having virtually no contact.
“Is she on vacation? Visiting family or friends? Doing a grand tour of Europe? Volunteering in the rain forests of South America?”
That earned her a sidelong glance but nothing more.
“She must be somewhere, Mr. Jackson.”
“I don’t know where.” Before she could open her mouth again, he went on. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my parents and I aren’t close. Here’s what I know about my mother’s current whereabouts—one day about three weeks ago, Miss Viola called and asked if I knew she was gone. I didn’t. We weren’t due to see each other again until September. Mary Ellen confirmed that she was, indeed, gone, off to visit relatives. I asked her which relatives. She said the admiral hadn’t told her.” He raised both hands in a final that’s all you’re gonna get ’cause that’s all I know gesture.
Alia gazed at a giant orange zinnia so brilliant that it made her eyes hurt. So Admiral Jackson had given his daughter minimal information, and she’d accepted it. Because that was how their relationship had always been? He’d dominated and she’d accepted?
Could Camilla be dead? Were the rumors true that she’d been institutionalized or had taken off with a lover?
Feeling Landry’s gaze on her, she gently flicked a beetle from the zinnia, then resumed their slow pace. “Who is Miss Viola?”
“Viola Fulsom. She’s my mother’s father’s second cousin three times removed or something.”
In simpler words, family. In Louisiana, it didn’t matter how many times removed; a cousin was a cousin. And yet in this particular family, father and son were estranged, mother and son virtually so. Father was dead, mother was missing, and son...
Was Jeremiah Jackson III a killer? Had he gone into his childhood home, taken a knife from the kitchen drawer and plunged it into his father’s sleeping body more than thirty times?
Alia shuddered deep inside. It didn’t matter how many cases she worked, how many crime scenes she saw or what gruesome details she noted in reports and photographs. She couldn’t quite grasp the character flaw that made it so easy for a person to take another’s life. She could read and talk and investigate, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—crawl inside a killer’s mind any more than she had to.
“Where does Miss Viola live?”
“Where everyone in our family except me has lived for the past five generations.”
The Garden District, with its beautiful houses and wealthy families who sometimes hid more secrets than the darkest bayou.
Alia committed the name to memory. Members of the Jackson and Landry families couldn’t hide in Louisiana even if they wanted to. Too much money to spend, too many parties to attend, too many decades of history to uphold. Miss Viola would be easy to locate.
They were approaching a set of fat-cushioned wicker chairs underneath the spreading branches of a live oak near the back corner of the lawn. A bit of breeze blew through there, redolent with the heavy scents of flowers and, fainter, from someone else’s yard, food cooking over charcoal. The aroma was enough to remind her that she’d skimped on breakfast and it was nowhere near time for lunch.
After Landry sat in one chair, she took the other. The wicker was the expensive kind that didn’t creak with every tiny movement. Crossing her legs, she allowed herself to wonder for a moment what it was like to own a place like this: luxurious, no expenses spared, decorated with antiques and high-end furnishings, wrapped in the long, sultry history of the old, sultry city.
Money doesn’t buy happiness, her mother always said, and Alia had always thought it could certainly help. But the Jacksons proved Mom right: they had money, and they weren’t happy.
“How long have you lived in New Orleans?”
Landry’s head was tilted back, hands folded over his belly, eyes little more than slits. “All my life.”
“Your family didn’t accompany the admiral to his assignments?”
“Camilla Jackson move away from here, even temporarily? Saint Louis Cathedral would crumble to dust first.” Then he did a lazy sort of shrug, so very careless and so very charming to a woman who was the charmable sort.
Thank God, Alia’s weakness for charming scoundrels had died somewhere about the middle of her marriage to Jimmy.
“When the old man got orders,” he went on, “he went, we stayed here, and he came home on weekends and on leave.”
Staying home took all the fun out of the life. She’d been born in the Philippines, started school in Hawaii and finished it in DC, with stops in California, South Carolina, Florida and Virginia. Dropping in at the Pentagon after school had been a regular practice. She’d gotten a gift from the Secretary of the Navy upon high school graduation and even attended a dinner at the White House. “So you missed out on the whole navy brat experience.”
“Jeremiah Jackson had no tolerance for bratty behavior.”
She would bet he hadn’t—not from his children, the sailors under his command or civilians like her who worked for his navy. “What happened between you two?”
She felt the instant he glanced at her. His eyes were still slitted, making it impossible to read their expression, and a small muscle twitched in his jaw. It didn’t bother her; people in general didn’t like being questioned, especially with suspicion. They tended to get annoyed or smug or tearful or angry, and she tended to stay on track. Stubbornness was one of her better traits, according to Jimmy.
But Landry could probably out-stubborn her. She knew he’d only answered her questions because she’d asked them here at his sister’s house. If she had shown up at the bar or his apartment, he would have shown her right back out. She couldn’t compel him to tell her anything important—couldn’t compel him to talk to her at all—and he knew it.
“I think your partner’s ready to go,” he said in a