Tori Carrington - Submission

“Thanks.”

Joann began to pass her.

“Would you mind if I asked for your forwarding address? In case I have any other questions?” Molly asked.

Joann looked hesitant.

“I promise I won’t call unless I’m absolutely convinced you can be of help. In fact, chances are you’ll never hear from me again.”

Molly pulled her pad and a pen from her purse. And, after a sigh, Joann took it and scribbled down an address and a phone number.

“Thanks,” Molly said again, unsure how any of this helped her but glad that she’d caught Joann before she’d left.

Molly led the way outside, then stood watching as Joann climbed into the truck cab, gave a final wave and drove away.

THE GOOD THING ABOUT being a homicide detective was that you didn’t spend a lot of time at the office. The bad thing about being a homicide detective was that when you did need to be at the office, you were at a desk in a room shared by a dozen others.

Phones rang, voices chattered, computer printers printed. And one of the younger narc detectives was even trying to figure out how to use the manual typewriter in the corner—and not having much luck, judging by the occasional string of profanities he muttered.

At least I was no longer the center of attention. Ten months ago I couldn’t walk into a precinct room without it going completely silent, everyone staring at me.

I guess that was what happened when you bedded the captain’s estranged wife.

While few incidents could trump the losing card I’d dealt myself with that stupid move, the more time passed, the more people moved on with their own lives, leaving me alone to see to the ugly details on my own. Although I’m sure an office pool was running to see when the captain would finally fire my sorry ass.

And that day would be soon if I didn’t catch a break in the Quarter Killer case.

I edged my chair closer to my paperwork-covered desk and leafed through the mess that threatened to topple over into my lap. Actually, it appeared to have slid onto the floor and been piled back up by someone, because it was messier than usual. I sighed and started sorting through it, knowing it was too much to hope that somewhere in there I would find the clue I needed to solve the Laraway and Arkart murders.

The phone on the corner rang. I ignored it.

“Chevalier, line two for you,” a junior detective called out.

“Take a message.”

“Take your own damn message. What, do I look like your secretary?”

I glared at him, wondering when he’d grown a pair of balls when only a short time ago he’d been all about pleasing everyone, then snatched up the receiver.

“What?”

“Alan?”

A female voice. More specifically, a female voice belonging to the oldest of my three sisters, Emilie.

I took a deep breath. “Now’s not really a good time, Em. Can I call you back?”

“Normally I would say yes, but what I have to say really shouldn’t wait.”

I rubbed my forehead, wishing for a cup of coffee. “What is it?”

“Zoe hasn’t been back to her dorm room in two days.”

My hand froze.

Zoe was the youngest of the Chevalier family, although at twenty-one she liked to pretend otherwise. Em and Laure had long ago tried to convince me that they were overcompensating for the loss of their parents by spoiling her, but neither of them had seemed capable of doing anything differently. After all, Zoe had only been eleven at the time, and while they both had their own ghosts to wrestle with, it seemed easier to focus their attention on their youngest sibling than address their own needs.

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“I talked to her roommate.”

“Does the roommate have any idea where she might have gone?”

“Not a clue. Her overnight bag is still there and nothing seems to be missing.”

Another junior detective called out. “Chevalier? Call on line four.”

I gritted my teeth.

Emilie said, “That’s not like Zoe at all. She usually lets everyone know where she is and what her plans are. Including me.”

She was right. From a young age, all of us had drilled into Zoe the importance of keeping in contact at all times. And she’d complied. Probably because the one time she hadn’t, when she was fifteen and had gone to the movies with a male friend, she’d found half the NOPD drawing guns on her in the middle of the theater.

“I’ll stop by sometime this afternoon,” I told Em, then rang off.

I grabbed my hat and started to get up, half relieved that I wouldn’t have to tackle my desk just then.

“You still have that call waiting on four,” the junior detective shouted.

I picked up the receiver again and punched the button for line four. “What?”

No one said anything.

Good. They’d hung up.

“Alan?”

Another female voice. But this time it didn’t belong to one of my sisters. It belonged to a person I’d never expected—scratch that, never wanted—to hear from again.

Captain Seymour Hodge’s wife, Astrid.

THE WOMAN WAS A certifiable nutcase.

And as much as I wanted to hang up the phone, I couldn’t, because essentially she had my nuts in a case.

“Um, hello. How are you?” I said lamely.

I looked around the room, but no one seemed to notice my sudden distress. I sat back down in my chair, the paperwork on my desk nothing but a blur as I tried to recall what had motivated me to get involved with this woman, who had caused far more trouble than she’d been worth.

“I’m sorry, Alan. I didn’t mean to call, but I had to.”

I opened my desk drawer, looking for aspirin to quell the headache that had been with me since I’d gotten up that morning and that had just doubled in size.

“I mean,” Astrid continued, “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I thought we both agreed that further contact wouldn’t be wise.” My exact words the last time we spoke had been Talking to you again would be akin to professional suicide, but I didn’t like thinking the words, much less saying them again.

“I want to see you.”

“Impossible.”

“I’ll keep calling until you come over.”

I winced. “So call.”

Then I did something I also didn’t think was wise and hung up.

MOLLY SAT IN THE MIDDLE of her hotel-room bed. She’d showered and had on the hotel robe, her hair up in a towel, even though it was only six o’clock. The contents of the box of things she’d gotten from FBI agent Akela Brooks were spread out in front of her, her sister’s diary the focal point. But try as she might, she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Instead her gaze kept going to the key in her hand, and her mind kept retracing a path to her lunch with Alan Chevalier earlier.

She’d wanted to call him, tell him of her find. But they’d already agreed to meet at a nearby bar on Bourbon Street tomorrow night to trade any information either of them had come across, even though she had a pretty good idea she’d be the only one trading anything. She supposed it could wait until then.

Besides, she knew the instant she told him about the key he’d take it, and she’d likely never see it again, much less find out what was in the box it opened.

Of course, she actually had to find the box first if she hoped to learn anything, an impossible task given her outsider status in the investigation. Bus station aside, she wouldn’t know where to begin looking. After all, there was the little matter of the number that had been removed from the key.

How many lockers were at the bus station? Was there only one station or were there several? Did the airport have lockers? Could it be there?

“For all I know, the box could be in Toledo,” she said aloud.