Black Silk. Metsy Hingle

      “We’ll work it out,” he said, but he was worried. He didn’t believe for a second that Holly had killed Francesca. But she had motive and no alibi—something that the police would latch on to quickly.

      “How? What are we going to do?”

      “The first thing I’m going to do is call Margee Jardine and let her know what’s happened. Then I’m going to find out who else visited Francesca last night.” He’d seen the bottle of champagne chilling and two glasses when he’d gone to see her. So he knew she’d been expecting someone.

      “What can I do?”

      “You can stay calm and trust me to take care of this.”

      “I do trust you, Cole,” she said, her expression somber. “Whenever I’ve needed someone, you’ve always been there for me. You’re the one person who’s never let me down.”

      Only Holly was wrong. He hadn’t always been there when she’d needed him, Cole thought as he hugged her close. Eight years ago when she’d been a pregnant sixteen-year-old and J.P. had forced her to have an abortion, he had been thousands of miles away. She’d gone through that nightmare all alone because he’d been on a Special Ops assignment, because he had chosen to re-up for another tour of duty instead of coming home where he was needed. While he hated J.P. for putting Holly through that, he hated himself more for not being there to protect her. He intended to protect her now.

      He looked up at the television as the crime show in progress was interrupted by the sound of a breaking news report. At last, he thought and set aside the papers he had stopped by his office to pick up. He’d been disappointed when the media had failed to report Francesca’s murder on the six o’clock evening news. Although phone calls had been made and favors called in by the Stratton family to handle the situation with discretion, he’d hated that no one was acknowledging his work. Instead, everyone seemed to have focused on the cancelled wedding—which didn’t deserve even the fifteen minutes of attention it had already garnered. No, the real story was him and what he had done.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program to bring you this breaking news story,” Bill Capo, the WWL-TV Channel 4 News anchor and reporter began. “Francesca Hill, the fiancée of real estate mogul J. P. Stratton, is dead, the victim of a robbery turned homicide. As reported early today, guests who were invited to the wedding of the former casino hostess and the multimillionaire began receiving phone calls shortly before the scheduled ceremony, notifying them that the wedding had been cancelled. At the home of J. P. Stratton, here is Anne Le Blanc with more on the story.”

      The television screen switched to a view in front of the Stratton home where a flock of reporters and news trucks were gathered outside the wrought iron gates. Although it was nearly nine o’clock at night, the area was lit up like a Christmas tree thanks to the news crews. And standing there bundled in a fitted red leather coat that tied at the waist and fell just above the knee was the perky blond reporter who had been the first to report the cancellation of the wedding.

      He’d recognized the name, of course, and had found it amusing to have Emily Le Blanc’s baby sister reporting on his latest accomplishment. But the one who had truly intrigued him was the older sister—Charlotte Le Blanc. In the few weeks he’d known Emily, he’d heard all about her two sisters—especially about Charlotte, the smart and serious one who was studying to be a lawyer. He hadn’t realized that she’d abandoned her plans to become a lawyer and become a cop instead. Smiling, he couldn’t help wondering if he had been the one to influence her change of career. He also wondered if she would put up more of a fight than Emily had. She would, he decided and found himself growing excited by the idea.

      “Anne, what can you tell us?” Bill asked.

      Holding the microphone in front of her, she touched her earpiece and stared directly into the camera. “Bill, I’m standing outside the palatial home of J.P. Stratton, who as you know, was scheduled to be married this afternoon and whose wedding was abruptly cancelled without explanation. Although we have not been able to speak with Mr. Stratton, his publicist and a member of the immediate family has confirmed that Ms. Hill is dead. Her body was found early today by the maid who had come to help her prepare for her wedding.”

      “Anne, do we know how she was killed?” Bill asked as the screen split in two, giving views of the TV studio and of the reporter outside the mansion.

      “Bill, the police have not released any details about how Ms. Hill died. But what we have been told is that cash and jewelry were missing from Ms. Hill’s apartment. And the case is being treated as a robbery turned homicide.”

      Robbery turned homicide his ass, he thought, irritated. He didn’t know who the prick was that had stolen Francesca’s wallet and jewelry, but he had been the one who’d killed her. And the damn police better not screw up his plans. They should be looking for a murderer—not some petty thief.

      Charlotte Le Blanc would be looking for a murderer, he told himself, growing calmer.

      “Anne, do the police have any suspects?” Capo asked.

       “None that they’ve reported.”

      But they soon would, he thought and Detective Charlotte Le Blanc would uncover them all. He was sure of it. Smiling again, he turned off the set and gathered up the file he needed. Karma had brought her to him for a reason, he decided. And once she had served her purpose, he would kill her.

      Six

      “This is Stratton. Leave a message and I’ll get back—”

      “I’ve already left three messages,” Charlie said and slammed down the telephone without waiting for the rest of the recording. Dinner with her parents had been lovely but after Anne had gotten the call from the TV station ordering her to report on location for a story, she’d had to forgo dessert. So Charlie had skipped the bananas Foster as well and left their parents’ home. Too wired to relax, she’d known going home was pointless. So she did what she often did when a case was nagging at her, she headed back to the station.

      It was after eight o’clock when she’d arrived. And as was usually the case for a Saturday night during carnival season, business at the station was brisk. Most uniformed officers were pulling double shifts to handle the crowds and the problems generated by the party fever that engulfed the city for two weeks each year. When she made her way back to the Homicide Department, she hadn’t expected to find Vince there working. But then she hadn’t been surprised to find him, either. With the murder rate quickly approaching triple digits, there was always work that needed to be done, leads that needed to be followed up on, paperwork to be processed. They had other open cases that required attention. But the word had come down from the top that the Hill case was priority. That was fine with her, Charlie admitted, because from the moment she had seen that black silk stocking, the case hadn’t been out of her thoughts.

      She went back to the list of people who had visited Francesca Hill the previous night. The odds were one of them was the killer or had seen the killer. She ran her finger down the list. J.P. Stratton. Aaron Stratton. Danielle Marceau. The Reverend Homer Lawrence. Cole Stratton. Plus the two mystery guests—the crying female and the camera-shy guy with the shades. She made a question mark, knowing it was possible that whoever had monkeyed with the surveillance tape was none of the above. But for now, she had to work with what she had and what she had were a lot of people visiting Francesca Hill on the eve of her wedding. She needed to find out why.

      Going back to the top of the list, she skipped past J. P. Stratton and Aaron Stratton. She had spoken to them once already and doubted she would learn much more