He punched in the cigarette lighter, again recalling Mickey boasting about getting his picture on the front page of the newspaper. Well, he was going to make the front page, all right. Cursing the waste, then reminded that he was out of cigarettes once the lighter popped, Ry gunned the engine and sped past the Lafayette Cemetery. As he turned onto Chestnut Street, the red brick two-story came into view, and he hit the remote and watched the lacy iron gate open.
The rain had diminished to a fine sheeting mist, Ry noted as he killed the engine and climbed out of his Blazer. As he walked toward the rear entrance of the house, he could smell the night-blooming jasmine that grew tight to the veranda. He walked past a towering oak dripping with Spanish moss and strolled up the concrete steps. The iron railing felt warm to the touchthe days incessant heat still evident after midnight.
On the veranda Ry passed by the rope hammock, gave it a push, then opened the back door that he never bothered to lock.
Back in Texas the ranch house had always been left open to friends and neighbors, the coffeepot full and hot, along with a radio playing as a form of welcome. When Ry had moved to New Orleans, he had promised himself that once hed gotten his own home he would keep the same tradition alive. And though no one ever came around much except for Jackson, hed kept his promise.
Inside, he switched on the light, then pulled his sodden blue shirt from his jeans and tossed it over a chair at the kitchen table. The tape playing softly in the boom box was a blend of flute and guitar, a Native American arrangement that fit his somber mood as well as his Texas roots. He left it on and turned off the automatic coffeemaker and emptied the two inches in the bottom. Efficiently he prepared tomorrows brew, reset the timer, then turned the light off and left the kitchen.
A stairway just before the living room led to the second story. Tired, anxious to get some sleep, Ry climbed the steps, loosening his belt to remove his .38 Special from the compact holster tucked into the small of his back. At the top of the stairs, he turned left once more and stepped into the bathroom, his hand finding the wall switch a second later.
What the hell!
Ry quickly flipped off the safety of his .38 as he surveyed the room. There was blood in the sink and bloody fingerprints on the mirror. The closet door stood open. A small trail of blood led to the shower.
He eased into the room, checked behind the door, then warily crept to the shower and shoved open the slider. The white marble shower stood empty except for a white towel stained red that lay next to the drain.
Back in the hall, aided by the glow from the bathroom light, Ry took inventory of his surroundings. His closed bedroom door drew his attention and he arched a knowing browhe never bothered to close doors in his house. Why should he? He lived alone.
The floorboards beneath his boots barely creaked as he took his position outside his bedroom. Then, silently counting to three, going in low and fast, Ry burst into the room.
The door hit the wall with a resounding boom, and in one fluid motion he flicked on the overhead light switch, then did a fast spin-around on his boot heelshis gun-hand outstretched, ready for whatever moved.
The force of the door smacking the wall brought the sleeping beauty lying on his bed awake. She jerked upright, at the same time her eyes went widefamiliar velvet-brown eyes that complemented sleek black hair and a pair of overripe, full lips. Rys heart slammed against his chest as he remembered what it felt like to kiss those lips, how he had loved running his fingers through all that thick silky hair. Not wanting to go there, he quickly drove the memory out of his head and focused on the blood-stained towel wrapped around Margo
duFrays arm.
Before he could speak, she said, This isnt the usual way to ask a favor, Im aware of that, Ry, but under the circumstances Her words stalled. She rested her back against his mahogany headboard. I know what youre thinking. I know I swore Id never ask anything of you ever again. They say you should never say never, and now I know why.
She looked beautiful as ever. Her voice a bit shaky, but her chin was up, which meant whatever had happened to her hadnt gotten the best of her.
Say something, Ry. You know I was never any good at reading your thoughts. Youve always been more complicated than yeast. Im a simple girl, remember? And right now, simple is all I can handle. So answer me, dammit. Have I humbled myself for nothing? You wouldnt turn me away. Or would you?
Chapter 2
She had been waiting for him to speak. Now that he had, Margo hardly recognized the man behind the volatile voice. Louder than normal, with a biting edge to it, this was in no way the cool, collected detective shed known a few years ago.
Does that black look mean youre going to turn me out into the street, Detective Archard?
Cut the detective crap. He disengaged his gun, and in four long strides stood next to the bed, his jaw set as hard as granite.