Alligator Moon. Joanna Wayne

jerked at the sound of something swishing through the water behind him. A water moccasin? A gator? He spun around. Too late.

      His head exploded, but Dennis never felt the pain or the blood and bits of brain spilling over his body. Never knew when he sank to the soggy swamp now red with his blood.

       CHAPTER TWO

      IT WAS HALF PAST EIGHT in the morning when Cassie padded to the front door of her fourth-floor condominium, stepped into the quiet hall and snagged her morning copy of the Times Picayune. She skimmed the headlines as she walked back to the kitchen for her first cup of coffee.

      Drake and the Flanders case were beaten out for top billing by a three-car pileup on I-10, but they made honorable mention in smaller headlines about a third of the way down the page: Pierson Accuses Beau Pierre Sheriff Of Mishandling Evidence.

      And whether he had or not—whether Drake believed he had or not—he could ride that horse for days. The bigger spectacle the pretrial hoopla, the less attention anyone actually paid to testimony or evidence once the trial itself got underway. And Drake was the master of spectacle.

      Dr. Norman Guilliot was in for a fight.

      Cassie dropped the paper to the kitchen table and poured the dark, chicory-laden brew into an oversize mug. But instead of taking it back to the table, she took it out on the balcony to watch the morning traffic of ferries, tug boats and barges along the muddy Mississippi.

      The view from the balcony had been the factor that tipped the scale for buying this condo instead of the larger and more reasonably priced one on St. Charles Avenue. The view and the fact that she could walk the six blocks to work rather than take the streetcar.

      She sipped her coffee and took in the sights. The ferry from Algiers to the foot of Canal Street passed a few yards in front of a slow-moving tanker heading downriver. A sleek cruise ship was docked at the River Walk and nearer the aquarium a much smaller boat was already loading tourists in shorts and sunglasses, their cameras around their necks and their cash stashed in fanny packs that hung under paunchy stomachs.

      The activity was like a restless surge of energy, constantly moving, searching for the next bend in the river, the next port of call.

      The next chapter in her life. Nothing like making an analogy personal.

      She glanced at her watch. Almost nine. Moore’s Travel should be opening soon. Greece might be the answer to her need to go forward with her life, and she was so ready to get out of New Orleans for a while.

      Besides, the trip would give her a chance to spend some quality time with her mother. They’d drifted apart during the seven years she’d spent married to Drake. Mainly because when they’d been together her mother had always cut to the chase and asked the dreaded question.

      “Are you happy?”

      Well, duh? I’m married to the hottest upcoming attorney in New Orleans if not the south. No one but a mother would even think to ask such a question. And if no one ever asked, Cassie didn’t have to answer.

      You can ask now, Mom. The answer is not yet, but I’m getting there. Greece would be a nice step along the way. But with or without Greece, I’m taking back control of my life.

      BUTCH HAVELIN rolled over in bed and stared at the ceiling of his Houston apartment. It was already late afternoon in Greece. Rhonda was probably getting ready for dinner with her friend. She liked to eat early, liked schedules and order and life that fit into neat little compartments and never got befuddled with spontaneity or excitement.

      Opposites attract. The problem was the attraction wore thin over time, became frayed and faded, like an old shirt after too many washings. He and Rhonda had seen thirty years of washings.

      Now they lived in the same house, slept in the same bed—at least, they did the nights he made it back to their home in The Woodlands—still saw some of the friends they’d known since the early days of their marriage. Rhonda still offered her cheek for a quick peck in the mornings when he left for work and they hugged each other when he left on business trips.

      Sometimes they even went through the motions of making love. The saddest thing was that he didn’t even know when it had all slipped away. The passion had just crept from their lives like heat seeping from a hot bath, leaving nothing but tepidity.

      Babs stretched beside him, but didn’t open her eyes. The sheet slipped down and her breasts peeked over the top, soft mounds of firm, golden flesh and pinkish nipples. Small, but all perky and perfect.

      Butch never bothered with trying to convince himself that what he and Babs had now would last or even that he wanted it to. She was thirty-four, only a couple of years older than Cassie. He was sixty-one. They were a generation apart in music, memories and experiences. But none of that seemed to matter when they were together. She made him potent and alive, gave him back snatches of his youth, and made him feel as if he were some stud muffin she couldn’t get enough of.

      He didn’t want a divorce, definitely didn’t want to split up his assets at this point in life. But he was glad Rhonda was in Greece, would be happy for her to stay there a few more months. Safe. Happy. And gone.

      Truth was he’d never given her itinerary a thought, but he’d phone his daughter again today and feign a little concern so that Cassie wouldn’t get all upset and start bugging him about why he didn’t know exactly where her mother was.

      The one thing he didn’t need in his personal life was complications. Not from Cassie. Not from Rhonda. Not even from Babs.

      Conner-Marsh was all he could handle right now, and if he let this merger get screwed up, his ass was grass. There were plenty of younger guys waiting around to knock the old man off the top.

      JOHN ROBICHEAUX pulled the pillow over his head to block the jangling ring of the telephone. The whiskey from last night was blasting away inside his head like a jackhammer. His stomach didn’t feel so great, either. He reached across the bed, checking to be certain he was in it alone.

      He was. Time was that would have been enough to send him back to the kitchen for a hair of the dog that was gnawing away at the base of his skull. These days it just brought a quick wave of relief.

      The phone kept ringing. He reached for it, started to yank it from the wall connection, then changed his mind. It might be a guide job and he could use the business—as long as they didn’t expect him to ride those choppy waves today.

      “John Robicheaux. Can I help you?”

      “I got some bad news for you, John.”

      John struggled to pull his mind from the mire. “Who is this?”

      “Sheriff Babineaux.”

      The sheriff. Shit. John must have gotten in a fight and busted up something last night. He tried to remember but only picked up bits and pieces of the night between the shattering blows of the jackhammer. “What’d I do?”

      “It’s Dennis, John.”

      “What did he do?”

      “He’s dead.”

      The words cut through the fog, jerking John from the stupor. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, the sudden move sending the room into a tailspin.

      “You gotta be mistaken, Tom. I saw Dennis last night. He was fine.”

      “It’s no mistake. I wouldn’t call you with this kind of news if I wasn’t certain.”

      Damn. This was John’s fault. He should have stayed sober. Should have seen that his little brother got home safe. Now… “Did he hit another car or just run off the road?”

      “Neither. It wasn’t an accident, John. Dennis ate a bullet.”

      “Murdered?”

      “Suicide.”

      No! Hell no! Him, maybe, but never Dennis. Dennis had a life. Beer