Submission. Tori Carrington

sure if the smile prosecutor Bill Grissom was giving her was genuine, but she was certain his words were. She’d spent the better part of the morning on the phone with the Toledo law office where she worked, probing who knew whom and what help their extended circle of professional acquaintances could offer her. She’d lucked out when it turned out a junior partner’s wife’s family was from New Orleans and her father-in-law was a prominent judge in Jefferson Parish.

      A few more phone calls later and she was standing in the prosecutor’s office, shaking hands with him.

      “Do you have any suggestions on what I might send Judge Giroux by way of thanks?”

      Grissom chuckled. “A good bottle of bourbon should do the trick. In fact, a case wouldn’t be turned away.”

      “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

      “Please, have a seat.”

      She did, and then he rounded his desk and sat down, as well.

      “So what can I do to help you, Miss Laraway?”

      “I need to know what information you have on my sister’s murder case.”

      He clasped his hands tightly on the desk before him. “Ah, yes. I was afraid when I heard your last name that’s what you would be interested in.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but even if you were related to the president of the United States, I couldn’t share information like that with you.”

      Molly frowned. “Mr. Grissom, I assure you that I’m not on a vigilante mission. I’m merely interested in seeing that my sister’s killer is brought to justice.”

      He returned her stare.

      “I understand that a Claude Lafitte was originally arrested for the crime.”

      “Yes. And he was promptly released.”

      “Why?”

      He smiled patiently. “Because we ascertained that he couldn’t have committed the crime.”

      “And the evidence that supports that?”

      “Is in my file.”

      “Does that mean there’s another suspect under investigation?” Molly held her breath as she considered the possibility.

      “Not per se. Let’s just say that the evidence pointed us in a different direction.”

      “But you don’t have any one person under consideration.”

      “Not at the moment, no.” He gripped his chair arms and sat back. “I understand you’ve been in contact with the detective in charge of the case.”

      “Alan Chevalier. Yes.”

      He nodded. “And he’s being accommodating?”

      “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

      His expression registered brief surprise. “Well, then, he’d be more the man to talk to. Whatever happens goes through him before reaching this office. And until we do get that one suspect…”

      “I understand,” she said, rising. “I just thought it would be a good idea to touch base with you. Let you know I was in town and willing to help in any capacity I can.”

      “I appreciate the gesture.”

      She shook his hand again. “And I appreciate your hospitality. Thank you for meeting with me.”

      Molly walked out of the office and released a long sigh. She’d suspected that meeting with the prosecutor wouldn’t yield much. But surprisingly it had given her more than Alan had. So Claude Lafitte had been released because evidence had pointed in another direction. What evidence? And in which direction did it point?

      She’d put on her suit for the meeting and decided to make a trip back to the hotel to change. Which would also give her the opportunity to call FBI agent Akela Brooks. Perhaps she could get the answers to those two questions before meeting Alan tonight at the bar on Bourbon Street.

      “DETECTIVE CHEVALIER? I have another emergency call for you. I’ll patch it through.”

      I nearly snapped the cell phone in two.

      This was the sixth call I’d received in three hours. It seemed Astrid was keeping her promise to keep calling me until I agreed to stop by and see her. During my last brief, tense conversation with her, she’d said she wouldn’t try anything; she just needed to see me.

      Somehow I didn’t believe her.

      I quickened my step as I walked from the precinct to my car and climbed inside. At least she hadn’t told dispatch who she was. I could be thankful for at least that much. But there was no telling how long that would last. Astrid Hodge was a woman used to getting what she wanted. And for some godforsaken reason she wanted me.

      “Hello, Alan.” Her voice came through the tinny speaker dripping with self-satisfaction.

      My every bone tensed.

      “You know, your calls can be traced via your home number,” I said. “What’s your husband going to say when he sees the bill?”

      “I’m calling on my personal cell. And he doesn’t have access to the bill.”

      Which made her intent doubly suspicious.

      “When are you stopping by, Alan?”

      “Never. I value my job too much.”

      She made a tsking sound. “More than me.”

      “Much more than you.”

      “That hurts.”

      “Not any more than you’ve hurt me over the past ten months.”

      “We both know that what happened between us was mutual.”

      Was it? I was no longer sure. I mean, for all intents and purposes, I’d believed that in the beginning. But as time wore on, and after she’d accidentally told her husband—my captain—about our affair of one night, I was beginning to wonder if I’d fallen into some sort of dark trap designed to help Astrid spice up her marriage.

      “Give it up, Astrid. I’m not coming over.”

      She started to say something, but I clicked the phone shut on her.

      I sat for long moments in the car, staring at everything and nothing. All I could do was hope that she’d finally give up and stop calling. But a part of me knew that she wouldn’t. That eventually she would win and I would have to go over to her place.

      The sex hadn’t even been that good.

      I put the car into gear and pulled from the curb, my destination Hotel Josephine. I’d received an anonymous tip that the hotel’s only guest wasn’t who he claimed to be. While the owner, Josie Villefranche, had told me Drew Morrison was in town for a convention, it turned out her guest’s intentions weren’t quite that innocent. A few calls had verified that while he was registered at the Innovation in Auto Parts convention at the Marriott, his area of expertise wasn’t car engines; it was in getting people to sell what they didn’t want to. Namely he was there to convince Josie to sell her hotel.

      While it didn’t make him suspect material—especially since the Quarter Killer’s first victim, Molly’s twin sister, had been killed more than two weeks ago—it did shine a poor light on him. And it was worth checking out if only to see what else Mr. Morrison might be lying about.

      The cell I’d dropped into my lap chirped again. I hated these damn devices. There was a time not too long ago that you could escape the telephone. When you walked away from the office, you were out of contact. Period.

      At the very least, couldn’t they make the damn things sound like a real phone?

      “What?” I barked after fumbling to answer it.

      “Alan?”

      My