No Safe Place Page 2

  A jolt of adrenaline hit her already coffee-jazzed bloodstream. Prepared to draw her Glock, she let out a quick, relieved breath as the door opened to reveal a man clad in a black cashmere coat.

  "Good morning," he greeted her.

  "Morning." Kate's tone was brusque. She didn't return his smile. But, recognizing him as a tenant, she did take her hand from beneath her coat.

  "They say it's going to snow all day," he said.

  She shrugged as the elevator began clanking back down again. "It's Chicago. That's what it does. Snow."

  And snow. And snow. When it wasn't sleeting, which was even worse.

  "Doesn't sound as if you're much of a fan of our winters."

  "Snow's okay, I guess, when you're a kid." Not that she'd ever experienced a white winter as a child, growing up in the hot and steamy South. "Once you're an aduit and have to deal with driving in the stuff and salt eating through your car and mountains of brown slush until spring, it sort of loses its appeal."

  "Ever go skiing?"

  "No."

  "You might change your mind about snow if you did."

  Kate figured there was a better chance of her being appointed police commissioner. The odds of which, after today, would be ... oh, say, a bazillion to one.

  He filled in the silence surrounding them when she didn't respond. "I've got this place in Colorado."

  "Hmmm," she said noncommittally, in no mood for conversation.

  "In Purgatory."

  Which was exactly what this ride was beginning to feel like.

  "Skiing's great this time of year. White powder like you wouldn't believe."

  The only kind of white powder she'd ever been interested in came in bags. More bags than people outside the cop business—including those politicians who were constantly passing drug laws—could ever believe.

  "I'm going back there next week."

  "Lucky you."

  Personally, she couldn't figure out why anyone would escape Midwest winter weather only to go to a place with even more snow, but she'd witnessed a lot weirder stuff in her years on the force.

  As he continued to extol the wonders of racing hellbent down an icy 14,000-foot mountain strapped onto two narrow pieces of wood or whatever skis were made of these days, Kate zoned out, focusing her mind on her upcoming testimony.

  She'd always been good in court. No, better than good. She was effin' great. Attorneys in the DA's office loved her because she kept her answers brief, never wandered from the question, never offered a personal opinion, stuck to the facts, and, most important, was never, ever rattled by the opposition.

  Of course, she'd never been personally involved in a case, either. Until now.

  "Thought you might like to go with me."

  That got her attention.

  "With you?" She must've heard wrong. "To Colorado?"

  They'd met a month ago, when he'd been moving in. He'd been carrying a six-foot ficus up to his new apartment, and Kate—whose black thumb had never met a plant it didn't immediately murder—had admired the leafy-green tree. They'd exchanged brief greetings in the garage a few times since then, but this was the longest conversation they'd had.

  "Your case should be pretty much wrapped up about then, right?"

  Every atom in Kate's body went on red alert. Although his mouth was curved in a benign smile, she'd known stone-cold killers who enjoyed snuffing out a life.

  Especially a cop's life.

  As if on cue, the already dim overhead light flickered.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third time.

  Just as his gloved hand reached inside his black overcoat, the light went out, pitching the elevator into darkness.

  3

  New Orleans

  THE SMELL OF THE EARLIER RAIN LINGERED ON air scented with camellias, salt, and diesel oil from the nearby river. As she made her tentative way across the uneven, shell-strewn ground, Desiree Doucett tightly clutched the dark hand of the man who'd brought her to this spooky City of the Dead.

  Even pre-Katrina, no cautious woman would have ever entered St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 during the day, let alone at night. Not that anyone would ever call her cautious.

  But still, some risks seemed acceptable. This one did not.

  The fact that her companion, Toussaint Jannise, had paid a drug dealer from the neighboring redbrick housing project to accompany them into the cemetery did little to calm Desiree's nerves. Bald, glowering, huge enough to play linebacker for the Saints, and, she suspected, heavily armed beneath that black trench coat he was wearing—what was to prevent the oversize homeboy from deciding he could make more by robbing them in the deserted cemetery?

  Or killing them, just for kicks?

  Or robbing them, then killing Toussaint, finally ending his Mardi Gras crime spree by raping and killing her?

  Nothing. They were literally at his mercy.

  Nerves jangled, her pulse hammered in her throat, Desiree swallowed and tasted the metallic flavor of fear.

  A thin slice of moonlight had managed to slip through a gap in the heavy rain-black clouds, causing the crumbling tombs, barely visible through the swirling thick fog, to gleam like mute, white ghosts.

  They stopped at a tomb covered with brick dust X's. Coins, shells, and shiny Mardi Gras beads littered the ground around it. The tomb belonged to Marie Laveau, the famed nineteenth-century Voodoo queen. The X's signified bequests, the offerings gifts of appreciation for wishes granted. Or, just in case.

  She watched as Toussaint, who was her teacher as well as her lover, knelt in front of the tomb and, after singing a few African-sounding words she wasn't going to begin to try to understand, began sprinkling yellow cornmeal onto the ground. Although she hadn't been studying Voodoo very long, Desiree understood that he was creating a vever, a tribute to Damballah-Wedo, the most popular father-god, who, when in his serpent guise, had formed the hills and valleys on earth and brought forth all the stars and planets in the heavens. When he'd shed his skin in the sunlight, releasing water all over the land, the sun he'd created shone in the water, creating the rainbow.

  His wife and life partner, Aida-Wedo, a short-coiled, iridescent serpent, shared Damballah-Wedo's function as cosmic protector and giver of blessings. It was Aida-Wedo's image Desiree had tattooed on her breast.

  While Toussaint worked to create the vever, Desiree carefully laid out their offerings: a bottle of specially blended perfume, a rosary with multicolored beads to signify the sacred rainbow, a ripe banana, because that's what the rainbow-hued snake preferred to eat, and seven shiny silver dollars, which she suspected their "protector" would return for as soon as they'd left.

  Most people left silver dimes.

  Then again, most people weren't in as much trouble as she was.

  He stood up. Brushed his palms together. "C'est tout."

  He put his arm around her and together they looked down at the yellow cornmeal drawing of the two standing snakes with a line of five pointed stars between them.

  "That's beautiful," she said.

  "There are those who could do much better," he responded with the humility that had attracted her to him in the first place. In her line of work, she didn't meet many men confident enough in their masculinity to be humble. "But hopefully the god and goddess will find my small effort pleasing."

  He reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulled out a charcoal crayon, and handed it to her. The church, which oversaw the upkeep of the cemetery, had been complaining about people damaging other tombs in order to obtain brick to write with. That was another thing Desiree loved about this man. The fact that he was so thoughtful of others. Another rare commodity in her world.

  "Now," he said. "Make three X's on the tomb while silently telling Marie Laveau of your desire."

  That was an easy one. She wanted to stay alive. Then, if she was allowed a bonus request, she wanted to live happily-ever-after with Toussaint Jannise.

  "C'est tout," she said, echoing his Fren
ch, when she was finished with her silent request.

  "Bien." He took her hand in his, the contrast between his dark skin and her fair reminding her yet again of all the ways they were so different.

  But she was changing. Thanks to him.

  He folded her fingers into her palm so her hand was now a fist, "Knock three times on the tomb where you've made your marks," he instructed.

  As she followed his instructions, he began to sway, his chants ringing with the musical tones of the Caribbean.

  His remarkable turquoise eyes were closed, his handsome face illuminated, as if a thousand candles had been lit beneath his skin. He lifted his arms, palms up, toward the sky. A wind, seemingly seasoned with incense and mysterious spices, gusted in from the river, lifting his beaded hair until it flared out, an ebony halo around his head.

  "Shit, man," said the bodyguard whom she'd forgotten was standing nearby. "This is some fucking weird stuff."

  "You even think about leaving and this man will have Marie Laveau turn you into a goat," she warned, not taking her eyes from Toussaint as the ground began to roll beneath their feet. "And then hell sacrifice you to the darkest, most evil of all the Voodoo gods. Horned fuckers so bad you can't even imagine them in your worst nightmare.

  "And then, after he's sliced you open with his machete, and eaten your still-beating heart, we'll roast you on a spit and cut you up into little pieces and serve you to all your drug-dealing enemies."

  "You are some tough bitch," he complained.

  "You know it, homie." Not that she'd ever had much choice.

  A storm raged around them: deafening thunder boomed like cannon fire, forks of white lightning flashed like Eery comets across the sky. Stars began to tumble; the foil white moon floating over the City of the Dead began to pulse. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, until it rivaled the wild beat of her heart.

  The wind roared; the earth trembled. Hot rain poured down in a deluge, the water sizzling on her skin. Having absolute faith in the man and his mojo, excitement and power and, yes, even hope burning through her blood, Desiree watched, enthralled, as the ghost galleon moon broke free of its moorings and came crashing toward earth.

  The tomb glowed blinding bright. A brilliant blue light shot up from the top and speared the moon, tossing it back up through the roiling black clouds.

  And then all was quiet.

  The rain stopped as if turned off at a tap. Toussaint's beads settled back around his shoulders. As his arms lowered to his side, the earth steadied.

  The spinning stars became fixed once again, sparkling like diamonds on velvet, while the moon continued its peaceful journey across the midnight-blue sky.

  "J'ai fait tous ce que je pouvais," he murmured. "I did all that I could."

  Although he was six feet tall and built like a sprinter, he appeared drained. And no wonder.

  "You have"—she put her arms around him, not to seduce but to comfort—"done more for me than anyone else ever in my life."

  "Damn," the dealer croaked. "Can we go now?"

  Toussaint smiled benignly, not looking anything like a man who'd turn anyone into a sacrificial goat. "Of course."

  They left the cemetery hand in hand.

  "That was," Desiree said, "amazing."

  "Was it?" he asked.

  "You didn't know?"

  "No." He shook his head. "I suppose I was caught up in the moment."

  "Well, let me tell you, darlin', it was one freaking cool moment. If that didn't get Marie Laveau's attention, nothing will."

  Desiree knew that some people—like her charlatan mother, who'd certainly done more than a few woo-woo gigs herself—would say Toussaint had merely pulled off a grand charade. She'd explain how he'd obviously set up the speakers and multimedia show earlier, before they'd arrived.

  That he'd played to his audience's weaknesses, laying the groundwork and letting their imaginations till in the rest.

  He's a showman, just lying to you, baby. It's only your imagination.

  It was what her mama always told her whenever the demons came. But then Antoinette Carroll Pickett St. Croix had never been known for her veracity. Although supposedly wellborn into a fine Savannah family whose antecedents had fought in the American Revolution, Antoinette—actually a product of a cabaret singer and a disbarred alcoholic southern lawyer—had always lived by her razor-sharp wits and the honeyed lies that came so trippingly off her tongue.

  Her mother's daughter in looks, attitude, and ambition, Desiree knew a lot about lies. She also knew something her mama didn't.

  Sometimes the demons were real.

  4

  THE STORM BLEW TOWARD THE NORTHEAST, taking its drenching rains into Mississippi, leaving behind moist air pregnant with the dank, cloying odor of decaying vegetation. The chirr of crickets provided a sharp counterpoint to the deep bass croak of bullfrogs, and the drone of the outboard motor felt like a dentist's drill behind Nick's eyes. Still handcuffed, sliding from drunk to hungover, and soaking wet from being dragged out into the rain, he'd been driven across the Mississippi into St. Bernard Parish. Now he was lying on his back on the flat bottom of a pirogue cutting its way, through the bayou's twists and turns.

  Overhead, Orion—the hunter—armed and in search of prey, strode across a sky as black as the oil floating on top of the water the boat was cutting through. Being in the swamp, especially at night, was like taking a trip back in time to prehistoric days, Nick wouldn't have been surprised to see a pterodactyl suddenly flying through the silvery Spanish moss hanging from the knobby cypress and tupelo trees, or a towering bronlosaurus emerging from the lush, moonlit tangle of ferns.

  The dark didn't bother him. Hell, before returning home to Louisiana, he'd spent fifteen years working under the cloak of night. "The enemy fears the dark," Chief Jake O'Halloran always said. "For we SEALs are in it."

  They'd been more than in the night. They'd fucking owned it.

  When they reached a spot that was more mud than water, the larger of his two captors turned off the engine and began poling. After about twenty minutes, they came around a bend and the muddy waterway opened up onto what appeared to be a small lake. Located on the bank of the lake, beneath the gnarled, spreading limbs of a centuries-old oak, stood an old-style planters' cabin, set on stilts.

  Nick had heard rumors about this camp since joining the force, but he hadn't run across anyone who'd actually found it. Which made sense since, if you believed the stories, the last person to give away the location had been fed to the gators, limb by limb, while still alive.

  The camp's location was isolated even by bayou standards. Nick wondered if the fact that he'd been brought here meant he was about to suffer a similar fate.

  And wouldn't that be ironic ... to survive a damn mortar attack in the mountains of Afghanistan only to end up killed by some asshole Louisiana wiseguy.

  The interior of the cabin would have made a Trappist monk's cell look luxurious by comparison. The four straight-backed chairs and large table that took up most of the single room had been built from local cypress; there were no cushions on the seats for comfort.

  A few army-green cots lined the walls. A Confederate flag hung on the wall along with some Hometown Hotties torn from the pages of Maxim magazine.

  The kerosene lantern on the table revealed a dark amoeba-shaped bloodstain spread over the rough plank floor.

  Of course, this could be a hunting cabin, the blood from some unlucky wild animal.

  Sure it was. And he was Vin freakin' Diesel.

  For a guy who'd grown up on the mean streets of Algiers—Louisiana, not Africa—Leon LeBlanc cleaned up real good. His three-thousand-dollar Italian suit looked custom-made, the thick silver hair sweeping back from his forehead had been expensively scissor-cut, and his nails had been buffed to a mother-of-pearl sheen. Stick him in the stands at a Tulane game and he might look like a banker or stockbroker alumnus from one of those tall glass business towers in the CBD. Until you noticed the .38 handgu
n pointed at Nick's chest.

  "Welcome, Mr. Broussard." His tone was casual, but if a gator could smile, it'd look a helluva lot like LeBlanc. "How nice of you to drop by."

  "Nice of you to invite me," Nick drawled. And about freaking time, Nick had begun to think it'd be easier to get a meeting with the president. "Though if I'd known this party was formal, I'd have taken time to have my old dress-blue uniform pressed."

  LeBlanc's smile didn't fade. But Nick sensed animosity seething from the hulk looming behind him.

  Apparently picking up on the same vibes, LeBlanc lifted a hand. "Why don't you boys go outside after you take the cuffs off Mr. Broussard?"

  It was more order than suggestion and everyone in the cabin knew it. Nick was reluctantly impressed when the goons shuffled out.

  "Good trick." He resisted rubbing his chafed wrists. "They've already proven they know how to fetch. Do they bring you your paper and slippers in the morning, too?"

  "I don't wear slippers." As if deciding Nick didn't pffer a threat, he put down the pistol and reached into a cooler sitting on the floor beside the table. "I leave those for the girly men." He skimmed a gaze over Nick. "Seems you don't favor them, either. Which isn't surprising, you having been in the military and all. And, who your daddy was."

  Deciding it wasn't a question, Nick didn't respond.

  LeBlanc pulled two bottles of beer from the cooler. Dixie, which, since Katrina had taken out the hundred-year-old brewery, had become as rare around these parts as a FEMA official with a checkbook. He held one of the bottles out to Nick.

  "Why don't you have yourself a seat, Broussard? And we'll have ourselves a little chat."

  "How about I go home and leave you to chat with your oversize lapdogs?"

  "They're good boys. Maybe not as sophisticated as some, but they're loyal, which is a rare commodity these days." Gold eyes, rimmed with a darker brown, skimmed over Nick. Took in the bruises. "They were rough on you."

  "You could say that."

  Having grown up sitting in for his father during the weekly poker games, Nick knew when to hold 'em. And when to fold.