Kara Lennox - Downtown Debutante

“You haven’t done much surveillance in a warm climate,” observed Grif Hodges, an agent out of New Orleans who’d been brought in on the case, since it was now in their backyard. Mercifully, the humorless LaJolla had gone back to Dallas.

Grif, a New Orleans native, had on gym shorts and a T-shirt. Heath was stuck in his regulation dress shirt and suit pants, his jacket and tie ready in case he had to do anything official.

They’d been parked on this street for an hour, watching Brenna’s room.

Finally, just as Heath was forced to crack the windows or suffocate, the women emerged. Sonya, as always, was dressed to the nines in a silk blouse, a coordinating jacket, slim black pants and spike heels. But it was Brenna who drew his eye. She wore overalls with a pink tank top underneath. Yet even in such shapeless clothing, there was no disguising her full breasts or rounded bottom. As she locked the door, she laughed at something Sonya said.

Heath’s mouth went dry. Who could believe such a perky pixie of a woman could have pulled off a world-class heist? But the evidence couldn’t be more clear.

As the two women headed off on foot toward the French Quarter, Brenna’s gaze swept the street. Heath’s heart almost stopped beating when her eyes fixed on his car, and for a moment he was sure she’d spotted him. But then she looked away and they continued down the sidewalk.

The agents prepared to follow Sonya and Brenna on foot, but the women turned into a tiny café at the end of the block.

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Grif offered. “You see if you can get into their room.”

Adrenaline pumping, Heath quickly located the Magnolia’s manager. The blue-haired lady who ran the guest house took one look at his credentials and had no problem letting him into Brenna’s room.

“I’ll let myself out and lock the door when I’m done,” Heath said in a no-nonsense tone when Madame Blue Hair lingered in the doorway, looking worried.

“What do I tell them if they complain that someone was in their room?” she asked.

“They will never know I was here,” Heath assured her, shooing her out the door. “And I know you won’t tell them, will you?”

The room was small and spartan, with twin beds, a small table and chairs, a battered oak dresser and a noisy window air-conditioning unit. It looked as if each of the women had claimed a bed. The one by the far wall had only one open suitcase on it, a fancy brocade one, partially unpacked. Two matching suitcases were stacked in a corner.

The second bed was covered with wadded-up clothes. A plain black suitcase, also open, overflowed with what looked to be garments selected and rejected. Heath noticed the cream-colored silky tab of fabric peeking out. He couldn’t resist pulling it out, recognizing it as the garment Brenna had been wearing when he’d first confronted her. It was so delicate that he could ball it up and make it disappear inside his fist.

He put it back where he’d found it. He wasn’t here to entertain fantasies. He went through Brenna’s suitcase first, finding nothing but clothing, shoes and toiletries. Next he checked the dresser drawers. The ones on Sonya’s side were filled with neatly folded clothes. Brenna’s were empty. Likewise the closet featured several color-coordinated outfits, dainty sweater sets and tailored pants with designer labels. No clothes that could possibly belong to Brenna.

He checked the bathroom. One set of cosmetics lined up precisely, all the same brand, all looking as if they had just been pulled from the department store display case. On the other side of the sink, mismatched drugstore makeup and toiletries spilled from three different zipper cases.

He checked everywhere. Nothing incriminating. No phone numbers or addresses or mysterious business cards that might explain Brenna’s presence in New Orleans. Definitely no stolen oil paintings.

He went back to Brenna’s suitcase and felt all around the inside. A suspicious thickness caught his attention. He realized there was a hidden zipper that had escaped his notice during the first inspection. He unzipped the secret compartment and reached inside.

Holy cow. Cash, enough to choke a rhinoceros. Now, this was interesting. Brenna had told him that Marvin Carter had stripped her clean, that she was destitute. He quickly counted it. Close to twelve thousand dollars.

He heard footsteps just outside and hastily returned the cash to its hiding place. When someone fitted a key into the door, he did the only thing he could think of—he darted into the closet. This search wasn’t precisely illegal, because the manager had let him in. But it wasn’t a hundred percent defensible, either. Besides, he didn’t want to tip his hand yet. If Brenna knew she was under surveillance, she would never lead him to Marvin Carter and the stolen painting.

The door opened, and he expected to hear the women’s voices. Instead he heard a man say a curt, “Thanks,” and the door closed again. What the hell?

Heath opened the closet door a crack. A wide-shouldered man in a leather jacket had his back to Heath. He was looking around the room, not touching anything. Could Heath possibly be this lucky? Had Marvin Carter just dropped into his lap? If he could capture both him and Brenna, surely one of them would flip on the other.

But when the man turned, Heath could see he looked nothing like the photos he’d seen of Marvin. This guy had shaggy blond hair, a square chin and chiseled cheekbones, nothing like Marvin’s soft features and trim, dark hair.

Unlike Heath, the newcomer spent little time on Brenna’s things, focusing instead on Sonya’s suitcase. He methodically checked the contents, then put everything back just as he found it.

A noise at the door startled the intruder, and he froze. Another key scraped in the lock. This place was Grand Central Station.

Suddenly the blond man wrenched open the closet door and lunged inside, closing the door just as Brenna and Sonya entered.

“I can’t believe you forgot the money,” Sonya was saying. “How embarrassing.”

“I got used to you paying for everything with your Visa,” said Brenna. “At least they didn’t make us wash dishes.”

“Yeah, well, we better return pretty quick with some cash. I didn’t like the way that waiter was looking at us.”

Right about then, the blond man realized he was not alone in the closet. But he displayed unbelievable control, because he didn’t make any noise except for a slightly audible intake of breath.

“Who the hell are you?” Heath whispered, pretty sure the women couldn’t hear him over the drone of the air conditioner.

“I was about to ask the same thing,” the blond man said.

“Wait,” said Sonya. “I’m going to hang this jacket up. I don’t need it.” And she swung open the closet door.

She opened her mouth to scream, but she stopped herself as her shocked gaze locked on the other man. “John-Michael McPhee, what are you doing in my closet?”

Brenna joined her at the closet door, equally surprised. “Agent Packer?”

Heath was going to have to do some fast talking to get himself out of this one. He exchanged a glance with the other man as they both stepped out of the closet. And for one brief moment, he felt they were in sync. Neither of them was supposed to be here, and they’d both been caught. And unless Heath missed his guess, McPhee had some law enforcement training.

He sensed an ally.

And speaking of allies, where was Grif? If he’d been keeping his eye on the women, he would know by now Heath was caught in here. Then he saw a face at the window. Grif caught his eye, smiled and waved, then disappeared. Apparently Grif had read the situation accurately, saw there was no immediate danger and had decided not to interfere.