“You were expecting someone else, I take it?”
I have to give the cop some credit, he recovers from the surprise of me in a hurry. “Yes, actually. Sorry to disturb you. What did you say your name was again?”
Grinning, I catch the old trick. “I didn’t. Just like you didn’t. But feel free to introduce yourself anytime. And if you want to tell me who you were looking for here, you can do that too.”
The cop rocks back on the heels of his beat-up dress shoes that haven’t seen a shine in way too long. After a moment’s deliberation, he pulls his shield from the inner breast pocket of his suit and flashes it at me.
“Detective Cavender. I’m looking for Magnolia Maison. You know her?”
Yeah, I know her, man. I listened to her come last night, wishing I was buried inside that sweet pussy.
I ignore his question and reply with one of my own. “And why are you looking for the woman here?”
Cavender’s lips press into a hard line. “Can’t disclose that information. Police business.”
This time, I chuckle. “Ahh . . . I get you. Well, either way, you won’t be talking to Ms. Maison today or anytime in the future.”
The cop jerks his head back. “So you do know her.”
“Sure do. She’s my woman.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my billfold. One flick of my thumb pulls out what I need. “And if you have any questions for her, you can call this gentleman right here. He’ll make sure you get the appropriate responses.”
I hold out my lawyer’s business card to the cop, and he snatches it from my hand, looking down at it before staring back at me.
“Who the hell are you?” He rocks from foot to foot, entitled and waiting.
“Moses Buford Gaspard, and I’d appreciate you not bothering me at my residence again. Have a good day, Detective.”
I shut the gate in his face.
Twenty-Nine
Magnolia
I shouldn’t be turned on, but I am. Damn it. I overheard every word Moses said to the cop, and I was floored by how he dealt with the situation. He had my back. Protected me and shielded me. Handled Cavender like a boss.
Goddamn it, why does Moses have to be so fucking capable?
All my life, I’ve had to cope with shit alone. Every step of the way. If I wanted something to happen, I had to make it happen. If I had a problem, I had to solve it. Not since those two weeks fifteen years ago have I had someone I could lean on to share my burdens.
And Moses didn’t think twice about it.
First with Rocco, and now with Cavender. He’s stepping up without even being asked.
Goddamn it all.
Moses stands in the doorway, practically blocking out the sunlight because he’s a big bastard. I just stare at him, wondering how I’m supposed to feel right now, because I sure as hell don’t know.
He claps his hands together as if dusting them off. “Done and done. What’s next?”
“You gave him your name,” I blurt. “Why would you do that?”
“So he’ll spend his time running me rather than trying to dig deeper into who really owns this house.”
My eyes feel like they’re about to shoot from their sockets. “Isn’t that even worse?”
That lazy grin stretches across his face. “Nah. I’m squeaky clean.”
“But what about Biloxi?” He told me all those years ago about his many petty—and not so petty—crimes.
“Mama. I told you what I do. You don’t think I’d handle my own shit first and clear out my history? I’m covered.”
“And the lawyer? What’s he going to say?”
Moses’s shoulders shake with unconcerned laughter. “He’ll tell Cavender to go fuck himself in the politest way a thousand-dollar-an-hour New York lawyer can. If they want more, they can get a fucking warrant, which no judge is going to give them based on only you living in a building where someone died. Especially since there’s nothing to tie it to you.”
The massive man plucks a fallen eyelash off of my cheek and holds it in front of my lips to blow. When I don’t, he does, and then moves on like what happened outside was no big deal.
“Now, how about that coffee? I could use a beignet.”
Thirty
Somewhere else in New Orleans
I hate this dirty city, full of people who’d rather party than work.
As I let myself into my brother’s apartment, I crack my neck, fully expecting to find him passed out with a hooker or two in his bed. That is how I found him last time he didn’t answer my texts or calls for two days.
But that’s not what I find this time.
I check every room. It’s a pigsty, not that I’m surprised. Pizza boxes, beer cans, and empty daiquiri cups litter the coffee table. The expensive TV sits silent in the corner, and there’s an inch of dust on the stereo system. It might be the housekeeper’s year off, but Ricky has no problem blowing money on anything he wants. That’s always been his problem. Mi hermano goes through money like water. He’s always asking for his deposit early, which is the other reason I’m here.
He hasn’t asked, which tells me something’s not right.
“Where are you, Ricardo?”
Silence is the only answer, and it is not one I’m willing to accept.
Ten minutes later, I have even more questions.
Starting with how he has twenty-five thousand dollars in his safe. Idiot used his own fucking birthday as a combination too. Not that anyone else alive would be able to match him with that date.
“Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Ricky . . . What the fuck have you been doing?”
To prove a point, I take the cash and start for the door. Except one thing stops me—a piece of paper on the counter with a phone number written in Ricky’s sloppy handwriting. Next to it is a prepaid cell phone.
I flip it open. The battery is dead, so I plug it into the charger attached to the wall and wait a few minutes to power it on. After it comes back to life, I scroll down to check the last dialed number. It’s the one on the sheet.
Dumb fuck. Throw the fucking paper away then, imbécil. If Ricky’s dealing with some shady shit, I’m going to have to get involved. He’s the worst criminal I’ve ever known.
I tap the number and wait for the call to connect. A woman answers on the third ring.
“Jesus. I’ve been waiting a week. Is it done? Are they dead?”
I am not a bad criminal. In fact, I am a very fucking good one.
I take a single guess at exactly what my little brother has gotten himself into and reply to her. “Yes. I want the rest of the money.”
“I want proof before I wire it.” The woman on the other end sounds like she’s got balls of brass and no respect, but then again, she was dealing with Ricky and not me.
“Then you’ll have to meet me. Change of plans . . . no wire. Bring cash. I’ll text you a time and address. Don’t be late unless you want to end up like them.”
“Hey,” she says, starting to protest, but I hang up.
Fucking Ricky . . . trying to be a hit man like I used to be. I shake my head. Now I must find him, because something is not right.