Tori Carrington - Submission

Out of the three girls, Zoe was the one most capable of taking care of herself.

And the other two had been old enough when their parents had died that the trauma of losing loved ones had never completely left them.

Suddenly every eye was on me, including the two big blues of the baby in my arms.

“What?”

Laure waved her hand. “What what? What have you done since Emilie called this morning?”

I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t done anything. “I was waiting until I came over here for details.”

“You already have all the details,” Emilie said, taking Henri away from me as if he’d been a gift she was now rescinding.

I shared a look with James, who immediately went back to making sandwiches that for all intents and purposes had been done five minutes ago.

“So what are you going to do? Have you put an APB out on her? Have you gone to the dorm?”

“I’m guessing you already have,” I said.

“Of course we have. But we don’t have badges.”

“I don’t think Zoe would appreciate my flashing my badge around campus.”

“I don’t care what Zoe appreciates—and that’s assuming everything’s okay.”

Laure shuddered and wrapped her arms around her slender torso.

“Look,” I said, picking up a piece of salami and putting it into my mouth, “this isn’t the first time Zoe’s pulled something like this.”

Actually, it wasn’t the second or third, either, but I wasn’t going to point that out. To do so would be to hurt Emilie and Laure by trivializing their concern, and I wasn’t prepared to do that.

“Two days isn’t all that long a period of time.”

“But what if she’s been kidnapped?” Emilie asked.

Her fear must have manifested itself physically, because Henri suddenly started crying.

James took him and mumbled something about changing his diaper as he disappeared from the room. Neither of my sisters appeared to notice.

“If she’d been kidnapped, then surely a ransom demand would have been made by now.”

As if on cue, the phone rang, echoing eerily throughout the silent house.

Laure and Emilie raced for it, while I put the top on one of the sandwiches and took a bite. Hey, I hadn’t eaten since lunch and I was hungry.

“Hello?” Laure said, winning the race.

Her tensed shoulders relaxed as she listened to someone who was apparently not a kidnapper.

“Hi, Rose. No, no word yet. I want to keep the line open in case…she calls. I’ll let you know the minute we hear anything.”

She hung up again and looked back to me.

There were few things that could floor me. But the two women staring at me as if waiting for me to pull answers out of my sleeves like a magician’s never-ending scarf was one of them.

“All right, I’ll look into it,” I said under my breath.

Emilie hugged me, and Laure looked more relieved than I felt comfortable witnessing.

Was it really only yesterday I’d been helping Laure with her homework while Emilie had braided Zoe’s hair in this very kitchen, a pot of gumbo on the stove while the radio played tinny zydeco or jazz?

Yesterday and ten years ago.

“Thanks, Al,” Emilie murmured, her cheek soft against my stubble-covered one.

“Not that I think it’s going to accomplish anything. Watch and see if our renegade little sister doesn’t call herself before I can find out anything.”

“We can only hope that’s the case,” Laure said.

The telephone rang again. James walked back into the room with a still-wailing Henri, and Emilie went to put the sandwiches on plates.

Laure picked up the phone. “Oh, hi, Valerie. No, no word yet. Yes, yes, he’s here now.”

My ex-wife.

I dry-washed my face to hide my frown from Em. “You called Valerie?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said from the other side of the counter. “Even though you two are divorced, Val’s still like family to us.”

“No, not yet,” Laure was saying. “We’re going to call around to the hospitals now.”

An image of my father’s slack face where he’d lain in a curtained-off area of the hospital emergency room flashed through my mind.

And for the first time I knew a fear that my sisters’ concerns might be warranted.

“IT APPEARS YOU HAVE significant contacts, Miss Laraway.”

Molly wasn’t 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.