CHAPTER TWO

 

Jack waited until Finn disappeared into the crowded streets, and then took off at a jog. He couldn't believe how stupid he'd been about not helping when she called.

Most of the time he still considered her a kid. It was a lousy excuse. As he careened around pedestrians, pin-balling against lamp posts and newspaper dispensers, he remembered the rambunctious tomboy she'd been. All elbows, knees and coltish long legs with a riot of red out-of-control hair.

He loved her, though not in the way most men did—hot and sweaty hours spent between the sheets. He loved Finn like a sister. Always had. He'd be heartbroken if anything happened to her because he'd been a stubborn idiot. The blow to her head could have killed her.

After running hard several blocks, he wound down to a fast walk to catch his breath. Then as it returned to normal, he had an epiphany—as Cordry called his own well-known moments of clarity. He pulled up to a complete stop, one hand on his hip. Staring at his feet, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

For Jack, things were black or they were white, but this thought came to him in a gray, sex-induced, fog. A brother didn't ogle a sister's rounded ass when she walked away or wonder how her breasts would feel cupped in his palms. He sure as hell didn't notice how she smelled—clean and lemony, a scent that rocked him to the core. Damn. What he felt was most definitely not brotherly love. It was desire, plain and, though anything but, simple. He was trying to sell himself a bill of goods if he didn’t admit he lusted after Finn.

“Jack,” he muttered, “she’s a grown woman. You really are a moron.”

He was thinking about her as he did all women he found attractive, but this was Finn. He wasn't fixin’ to get in the sack with her for a few months and then walk away. And he wasn't a commitment type guy.

He deliberately switched his mind away from Finn's body, to the supposed dead body she’d claimed she saw. When he got to the corner of Dauphine and Toulouse, he cupped his eyes against the glare and stared at the brick structure Finn described, then up at the gallery. He studied the second-story line of doors in the L shape of the building but no body, dead or otherwise, hung on the railing.

Shaking his head, he looked both ways then climbed over the wall. No one peeked out a window at him or pointed a gun through an open doorway as he crossed the courtyard. He prayed no idiot would shoot first and ask questions later. Acting as if he belonged there, he climbed the stairs. He hoped he wouldn't be sorry he refused to wait for backup. Either you broke the rules and paid the consequences, or you looked like a damned fool. Sometimes both.

He wasn't sure where Finn saw the body, but it was nowhere in sight now. Crouching, he found what looked like blood smeared over several inches of the floor. He pulled a latex glove from his back pocket and snapped it on. Lightly touching it with one finger he found it still sticky to the touch, then he sniffed it. Oh, yeah, definitely blood, and too much to have come from Finn’s skinned knee. He stood up, rubbing his finger down his pants leg. He studied the closed apartment doors.

He turned then and spotted a bundle on the railing. As he bent to inspect it, he jerked back. His throat hitched. It was a voodoo doll. Stepping closer to study it, the hair on the back of his neck rose.

A six-inch doll hung from the rail with a string around its neck and three straight pins poking out of the chest. Beneath a miniature baseball cap with New Orleans printed across the front, short corkscrews of cherry red yarn hair stuck out at all angles. Dressed in a pink tee shirt, denim shorts and Mardi Gras beads, even down to the tiny mole below the right eye, the doll was an exact duplicate of how Finn looked today, minus the pins in her chest, the taut rope around her neck and the fake evil grin.

Jack took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. He refused to believe in the bad mojo of a voodoo doll, but he couldn’t discount the threat. Rubbing his forehead, he searched for more clues.

Birds chirped in the trees, children played below in the alley, the sun shone bright as ever. All appeared normal. Finding dead bodies or creepy voodoo dolls wasn't. Finn, of course, had no idea how much trouble she was in. Neither did he, to be perfectly honest. Still, the doll, an in-your-face message, couldn’t be discounted. How serious the threat he didn't yet know, but he would find out.

Since he was supposed to be the professional, he yanked out his cell phone and called the Eighth. He asked Cordry to meet him with a forensic team. Body or no body, Finn had been assaulted here. He feared for her safety, and he hated the entire crummy situation. Damn her meddling butt.

***

When the phone rang, Debbie jumped up off the floor of the bathroom to retrieve it for Finn. She handed her the cordless, then whispered, “I'm gonna get a Coke,” and scampered from the room as if she knew who was on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Finn, honey, glad I caught you at home.”

Mom. How convenient. How fitting. As Debbie would say, how, like, totally ironic.

Finn took the phone from her ear and stared at it. How did the woman always know the worst possible time to call? Could you see a listening device from the outside? She frowned. And why did Finn think her mother would bug her own daughter's phone? Paranoid much? It had been a bitch of a day.

“Finn? You still there?”

She brought the phone back to her ear. “Sorry, Mom. I'm in the bathtub.”

“Why are you taking a bath at, what time is it, four?”

“It's a long story. Were you calling to say hello, 'cause I can call you back as soon as I get—”

“No, no, this is important and can't wait.”

Finn sighed. It never could. Why had Dorie and Dan, the esteemed Jones parental unit, moved to Florida two years ago to retire? It wasn't as if the weather was better than in New Orleans. Hurricanes blew through Florida, too. They didn't golf or play tennis, bridge or pinochle. Her dad loved maneuvering his golf cart—bought the first week they arrived—on the neighborhood streets. So, it was either to get away from Finn and Emmy, which neither chose to believe, or to be around other folks their own age, except teen-aged Debbie still needed to be raised.

“It's Debbie,” Mom continued, irritation obvious in her strained voice. “I don't understand how any child of mine would allow a man to take advantage of her, especially with a ninny, Freddy what's-his-name.”

“Uh-huh, Debbie who?” she asked, kidding.

“Your sister, Debbie. Who else?”

As if Finn could ever forget the irrepressible teen, eavesdropping on her every word from the other room. “I'm sure Debbie wouldn't let anyone take advantage of her. She's strong, independent-minded. Maybe she's experimenting. What happened?”

“Experimenting? My God, Finn, you didn't see them. In her bed. Well, let me tell you, it doesn't bear repeating but you can guess what they were doing. Just last week they were out in the backyard in the hammock, during the daytime, mind you. Silly me. I thought they were doing homework and school isn't even in session. How stupid could I be?”

“Mom, you're not stupid,” Finn said, trying to placate her.

“Thanks, hon, but I should have been paying closer attention. I was making your dad's favorite meat loaf when I get this call from Lorraine MacManus next door, she was nearly hysterical, telling me to do something about Debbie's fornicating—”

“Fornicating?” Finn asked, with a laugh.

“Fornicating. Don't you dare laugh. It was Lorraine's word, not mine. She said I'd better do something about Debbie before she called the police. I stepped out into the yard and there they were, right in plain sight for God and anyone else to see, including Lorraine MacManus. Debbie's top was off and he had his mouth on her bare breasts. Finn, it's embarrassing to even say this but his pants were unzipped and down around his thighs and Debbie had her hand on his—”

“I get the picture, Mom. I don't want to hear about my little sister's sex life.”

“Freddy, even with his skinny little butt, is quite well endowed.”

“Mom!” Finn laughed out loud.

Her mom giggled like a little girl causing Finn to laugh all the harder. “I should have been stricter with her long ago. I was more than willing to ground her, but your father, when he found out, you know how he gets.”

Oh, yeah. Dan Jones, former dockworker and Gold Gloves boxer, put up with no nonsense from his daughters while they were living beneath his roof. And, if he'd been the one who caught Debbie and her boyfriend instead of Mom, the boy would have been lucky to come out of the confrontation with those same unmentionable parts intact.

“I'm calling to tell you she's coming to New Orleans. I expect she'll want to stay with Emmy, poor girl.”

Finn wasn't sure if her mom pitied Emmy or Debbie. “Emmy’s out of town. Vacationing in the south of France with a rock star.”

“Really?”

“I have no idea,” Finn admitted. She must have heard it from someone.

“It’s probably better anyway because I want you to take her under your wing. I'm sure it’ll only be for a short while. School starts in a month and she won't want to miss out. She'll probably be calling Freddy, as well. With his package, he could be in the movies. And you know what kind of movie I’m talking about.”

Package? Finn groaned, slapping her free hand into the cooling bath water. Her mother knew the correct slang?

“And, believe me, I've seen my share of porn.”

“Mom!” Appalled, Finn wondered if her mother was having a hormonal imbalance or simply reliving her younger years. Finn had no earthly desire to picture Dorie and Dan watching porn together, but now she couldn't get it out of her head. What she didn't know and all that. Yuck.

Wanting to change the subject, she leaned her head back and stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling. Innocently, she said, “I’m tempted to say, when should I expect her? But she’s here already.”

“Well. That was fast. I'll stick a check in the mail for her expenses. It’s actually good that Emmy’s gone. She’d just give her more crazy notions about sex. Do you know what that girl told me the last time we talked?”

“No.” Knowing Emmy, she couldn't even guess.

“Both those girls get their sex drive from their father.”

“Mom! Please. I don't want to hear about it.” She wished she could give her own sex drive a chance to roar down the asphalt highway of her life. She'd love to give Debbie and Emmy a run for their money. However, she wasn’t discussing it with her mother.

“I'm sorry but it's true. Dan always enjoyed sex.”

“Mom. Enough already.” Argh. She'd always been frank and open about sex with all the girls while they were growing up, but this was most definitely in the category of too much information. “Tell me what Emmy said to you and keep your and Dad's sex life out of it. My bath water's getting cold.”

“Oh, all right, I have to go to the market myself to pick up bologna for your father's lunch tomorrow. She told me she's seeing three men at the same time. Three! I don't think she meant, at the same time literally—”

“God, I hope not.”

“—but she's dating three men. How does a woman juggle three men and keep a job and everything else she's got going on in her crazy life? Emmy's always been able to get by with very little sleep. She's amazing.”

“Amazing isn't the word I would have used.”

“Anywho, Finn, you take care and let me know what I can do to help you with Debbie. She thinks she's an adult but she still needs guidance. Perhaps it's good she's getting away from Freddy. They're much too young to be serious.”

“Did she say they were serious?”

“If you'd seen what I've seen in the last two weeks, you'd say they were serious, serious as a heart attack. Thank God she's on birth control.”

“You put her on birth control?” She'd never offered Finn or Emmy any options. Finn, of course, hadn’t needed any, but she would have liked the opportunity.

“Oh, heaven's no, she did it all on her own. They have medical clinics on every corner in Florida. It's wonderful. This state is quite liberal considering all the stuffy old folks who live here.”

“Okay, Mom. Got to go, I'm shriveling up like a prune. Will let you know how Debbie’s doing. Love you.”

“Love you, too, honey. You take care of our baby girl.”

“Will do, Mom.” Baby girl? Finn rang off. Picking up her washcloth, she draped it over the top of her head, allowing the water to run down her face. She leaned back and heaved a sigh.

Debbie, holding a bag of potato chips in one hand and a Coke can in the other, stuck her head in the doorway.

When she didn't immediately say anything, Finn turned her head and found Debbie studying her. “What?”

“You've got way bigger boobs than I do.”

“Thanks for noticing. Maybe you haven't grown into yours yet.”

“Hope you're right. By the way, when am I arriving?”

Finn stuck her tongue out, then pulled the washcloth over her face. Yanking the drain plug, she said, “Very funny.”

***

Finn got dressed and downed four ibuprofen. She found Debbie plopped in front of the TV watching the news. The news? Refusing to get drawn into a one-sided conversation about the current political situation, Finn picked up her keys off the end table.

“I’m sorry, I have to go. I have leftover Citrus Ginger Chicken in the refrigerator if you want something to eat besides potato chips.”

“Did you make it?”

Finn nodded. “I was experimenting with a new recipe.”

“How was it? Did anyone else have any?”

“It was good. Outstanding actually.” Finn planted her hands on her hips. “Why all the questions?”

“Well, uh...” She refused to meet Finn's gaze.

Finn rolled her eyes and sighed. “I admit I've had problems in the kitchen in the past but I'm better. I'm learning.” Oh, how she was learning. Only one other person knew Finn attended culinary school. Finn had no intention of telling Debbie, who would blab it to Mom, Emmy and half of the civilized world. Some things were best left a secret, especially when it came to her family. “I’ve also got Lean Cuisine in the freezer.”

Debbie turned back to the TV. “Where you going?”

“I made dinner plans. Before I knew you were gonna be here.” Of course, they were two and a half hours from now but Debbie didn't need to know.

“A date?”

“Sort of.” Please don't ask any questions I can't answer without lying.

“Okay. Can I watch this?” she asked, holding up the DVD of Pretty Woman.

“Sure.”

It wouldn't hurt for her to see how a person's life could derail. Then again, maybe Debbie wanted to catch that runaway train. The Julia Roberts' character turned out okay. She ended up with Richard Gere and a boatload of cash. Maybe Debbie would see it as a motivational video. Career training.

Finn left the house, locking the door behind her. She fired up her ten-year-old faded yellow Bug, then scrambled across town, through the CBD and the French Quarter and, at last, to the three story brick building which once had been a hotel and now housed the Culinary Arts School of Louisiana.

She luckily found a parking space on the street and trudged up to the second floor classroom, making it to class with minutes to spare. But with her head pounding.

They were supposed to make a ham and broccoli quiche. While preparing the dish, Finn got the feeling someone was watching her. A chill shimmied up her spine. Distracted and a bit unnerved, she eyed the other students, but no one was watching her.

The quiche refused to set, and it came out looking like the green slime covering the surface of the bayou. “I have a headache,” Finn explained to the chef instructor, sounding whiny even to herself, “and a concussion.”

“No excuse.” Great. Just great.

Her name was Wanda Westrom but her students called her the Wicked Witch of the South behind her back. With stiff grey hair hidden beneath her chef hat, beady black eyes, a skinny body that would look perfect beneath a long black dress and attached to a broom, she bore a striking resemblance to a certain memorable witch.

Finn’s life was hectic working two jobs, but this was what she wanted. Cooking calmed her, soothed her, refreshed her, made her seem like a normal human being capable of kicking food’s butt and taking names. Yeah, Finn Jones, one-of-a-kind chef! She sighed. She'd better put more effort into these culinary classes. Between giving tours and taking pictures at night for Tommy, exhaustion overwhelmed her. She wondered if this was how Emeril got his start.

Two hours later, she rushed from class to meet Jack for dinner in the French Quarter.

In spite of the rowdy crowds searching for fun on Bourbon Street she actually found a parking space around the corner on the not-much-quieter street of Iberville.

She took a deep breath and walked into the frenetic pace of Bourbon, the spicy food smells and raucous noise invading her head. She gave a hard stare to every man she passed, even turning around to see if anyone followed her, her heart thudding in time to her fast pace. Each time she expected to see her assailant. She couldn't get to the restaurant fast enough.

She spotted Jack, looking as yummy as anything would on the menu, standing in front of the restaurant eyeing the bug-eyed, happy tourists. Dressed in snug faded black jeans and a Margarita-colored polo, he exuded confident masculinity. His five o'clock shadow and overlong hair merely added to his appeal. One older woman actually stopped and turned around to ogle his posterior.

He grinned when he spotted Finn but it instantly faded as he stared at her face. “Feeling all right, chere?”

She nodded. She'd tossed off her double-breasted chef's jacket and left it in the car. Wearing dark indigo jeans, a vee-neck white cotton sweater, silver hoop earrings and strappy four-inch sandals, she looked darned cute if she did say so herself. She’d even corralled her curly hair into a semblance of respectability. Maybe a little cleavage wouldn't have hurt. She should have worn her Victoria's Secret push-up bra, which gave her the look of double Ds instead of her C. It didn’t matter to Jack, but just once she'd like him to see her as a woman.

The man wasn't even looking at her figure, only her face. She knew dark circles hovered beneath her eyes, which no amount of concealer could hide.

She forced a smile. “A leftover headache, nothing to write home about. Did you go to the scene of the crime after I left you? Do you know what happened? Did you find the body?”

“Whoa.” He grabbed her elbow and steered her inside the dim, noisy restaurant. “Slow down. One thing at a time.”

They followed the hostess through the restaurant and then traversed the narrow stairs to the second floor where she seated them on the gallery overlooking Bourbon and handed them menus. They ordered drinks—his, a Corona, and hers, iced tea.

Finn looked down, never failing to be amused by the view—the ogling tourists, the tacky shops and strip clubs, the overall infectious vibe. In spite of its eccentricities and slowly returning crowds of tourists, she loved this city with all her heart and never, ever thought of leaving.

When their drinks arrived, she lifted her glass. “Laissez les bon temps roulez.”

“You bet.” He lifted his beer, then emptied a good portion of it in one swallow. “Not that I've been having all that many good times lately.”

“One can hope.”

“I'll drink to that.” He finished his beer and motioned for the waitress to bring him another.

Finn leaned forward. “What did you find out, Jack? I'm dying to hear.”

He winced. “Poor choice of words, chere.”

“Whatever,” she muttered. God, this man could be downright irritating. “Is a big wart sprouting on my nose? Broccoli in my teeth? Hair standing on end?”

“No.” He studied the menu. “No. You’re fine. It’s something else.”

“What?”

He looked up, his features placid and unreadable. “It’s just you’ve grown up and, though it took long enough, I finally noticed. I’m a man. We have urges. Not that it’s gonna happen between us.”

“Is that all?” At least it explained why he was acting so weird. Nice to be noticed even if nothing happened between them.

“I was kinda wondering about the dark circles under your eyes.”

And, with that compliment every good thing she wanted to say to him flew out the window. “Thank you so very much for mentioning them.”

“Anytime.” He ran his finger around the water ring on the tabletop, then leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “You were right. We’re pretty sure a body had been there. We found blood evidence. The forensics guys are going over it, but without remains, it's impossible to make a case or say an actual crime took place. Other than your assault which I am proceeding with, by the way.”

“Okay. And no probably about it, I saw a body.”

The waitress appeared with Jack's second beer and they ordered. He ogled her butt when she left proving, that, yes indeed, he was a man. They made desultory conversation about Debbie's visit, a difficult case he was working on, even the weather.

When the conversation waned and their meals finished, Finn managed to walk away without saying something stupid, even going so far as to let Jack pay for both of them.

He walked her up Bourbon and around the corner to her car, then kissed her cheek and told her to take care. She watched him wade through the stumbling, drunk tourists and disappear in the crowd.

She wanted to go home and collapse, but her other job called. Jack didn’t know about it and he would never approve of her working for Tommy. The brothers were so combative it was as if they were Olympic competitors contending for the same gold medal. She could hear it now. Jack would give her grief about not being licensed, not knowing what she was doing, getting hurt, blah, blah, blah. If she needed unwanted advice, she’d call her mom.

The Crescent City Detective Agency, located across Canal in the Central Business District, was a single room on the second floor of a furniture warehouse. To get to Tommy’s office Finn had to climb an outside staircase. Since it was dark, and Finn didn't know the neighborhood well, particularly at night, she drove her car up the alley and parked next to the stairs where she could run up and be back down in a matter of minutes.

Finn looked both ways before climbing out of her Beetle. She grabbed her backpack, locked the doors and plodded up the rickety metal stairs, sorry by the time she got to the top, out of breath, her head pounding. The owner kept the door locked, but Tommy had given her a key in case she ever needed to return for an extra camera, listening device or a pair of binoculars when he wasn't available. She fumbled the key into the lock. The door slammed shut behind her. She flipped on a light then walked down the carpeted hall to Tommy's office, the last door on the left.

Light shone beneath the door. She turned the knob and walked inside. Tommy stood with his back to her in front of his desk, a Diet Coke in one hand, a cell phone in the other. He tossed the phone onto the desk when he heard her. He turned and smiled, then beckoned her to one of two mismatched, mahogany dining chairs.

He looked a bit like Jack—light brown hair cut short, with blue-gray, deep set eyes and always a broad smile. He was a few inches shorter than Jack, but as lean and muscled. Both oozed the same masculine self-confidence. Tommy was friendly, always optimistic and outgoing. Like his brother, he’d never met a person, particularly a woman, he couldn’t charm. While Jack tended toward a more introspective personality, neither man took their personal life seriously.

Tommy strode around his huge scarred walnut desk, bought at a deep discount from his landlord, and sat. He propped his black sneakers on the desk blotter. “Hey, it's my favorite snoop. How's it doing?”

“I've had better days.” She flopped into the chair opposite him and dropped her backpack onto the floor. She gestured to his drink. “Got another one of those?”

Behind his desk, he kept a miniature refrigerator. He dropped his feet to the floor, pulled the frig door open and handed her a can.

She pulled the tab, took a big swig and settled into her seat with a sigh, the bubbles tickling her nose.

“Tourists?” he asked.

“Among other things.”

“Least you got work.”

“Yeah, guess I shouldn't complain. Keeps me in school.”

Tommy was the only person who knew about her culinary classes. She hadn't wanted to tell anyone, but he often needed her in the evenings, so she told him to avoid lying. She’d reluctantly confided in him, then threatened death or dismemberment if he told anyone else.

He rubbed his eyes, then smiled at her, his face hopeful. “Did ya get any juicy pictures the other night of Clarissa Franco’s wandering husband, Johnny? I came up blank the night before when I tried. Instead of meeting up with his girlfriend, the miserable excuse-for-a-husband tried to gamble away the rent money.”

Finn grinned. “Lucky me. Mister Franco most certainly does have a little something-something on the side. The two of them are quite photogenic, and I have the pictures to prove it.” She dug in her backpack for the digital camera. No professional photographer, she still managed to get more than a few shots of them kissing, groping and more. One of him grabbing her ass was particularly provocative. Finn felt like a crass voyeur but it paid the rent. Or in her case, school tuition.

Tommy reached for a folder and flipped it open. Rubbing his hand over his head as he looked through it, he said, “Simple case of wife suspicious of the hubby. She wants the pictures to prove he’s out screwing around on her so she can take him to the cleaners at the divorce proceedings.”

“Well, he is and she can.” She handed over the camera.

He grinned as he clicked through several shots. His eyebrows rose, a slight smirk twisted his lips. “Nice. A carriage ride through Jackson Square. What a romantic guy.”

Finn nodded. “I got a few on the carriage but they didn’t do much more than talk, hug and kiss a little. Afterward they found a more private spot and got down to business.”

His grin widened as he handed it back to her. “I see that. Good job.”

Without thinking that Tommy needed copies of the pictures on the camera, she stuck it back in her pack. “Okay, onward and upward. Where do I find the next one?”

“Brenda Sue Washington's husband, Delbert.” He lifted another folder and waved it at her. “She says he goes to his second job at the casino every Tuesday and Thursday night at eleven. At least he says he's going. She has yet to see a paycheck, so she has her doubts.”

He handed her a photo from inside the folder. She tucked it into her backpack after taking a quick look-see. The man seemed innocent enough. With the studious, metal-framed glasses, he could be an accountant or a bank teller. Or a serial killer, for all she knew. You could never tell by a person’s looks.

“Home address and a description of his car are written on the back.”

“Okay, so I follow him and see where he's really going? And take pictures, of course.”

“You bet. Exactly like the last one.” He ran his gaze over her. “You won’t want to wear that white sweater tonight taking those pix. You’ll stand out like a billboard.”

“Okay. These couples. Jeez.”

“Ain't love grand?” He shook his head. “Makes me want to rush right out and get hitched. Again.”

“Aren't you the romantic?”

“That's me all over.” He grinned. “Got a problem with it?”

She shook her head, returning his grin. “No, your business, not mine. So, how come you're not doing this other job tonight? I'm not complaining, mind you, I need the money.”

“I've got something else on the docket.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. He winked. “It's clandestine.”

“Clandestine? Ooh. Is that why you're dressed like a funeral director?”

He laughed, then tugged his black and gray striped tie into place. “I thought I looked damned good.”

“You look, uh, professional.”

He cocked his head and struck a Napoleonic pose, sliding his hand inside his jacket. “Thanks. I think.”

“You ought to lose the sneakers, though.” She laughed. “I never see you in a suit. Honestly? You kinda look like a serious case of indigestion.”

She caught him as he was taking a drink of his Coke. He coughed and laughed at the same time, spewing soda all over his desktop. He jumped to his feet. “Jonesy, Jonesy, hell, that's about all the encouragement I can take.”

She grabbed a bunch of tissues from the corner of his desk and helped him mop up the mess. He was still wiping tears from his eyes when he sat back down.

“So, have you seen Emmy? I heard she was out of town. In the south of France with a movie star.”

She pursed her lips. “You know we don't talk much.”

“I didn't ask if you talked, I asked if you'd seen her.”

“Either way, no. Why? Have you?”

“Yeah, we had lunch together day before yesterday. She looks good. I think she’s working out.”

“I didn't know you two ever met for lunch. Do you do it often?” And why were they meeting for lunch? Emmy only did things that benefited Emmy. What did she want from Tommy? Was he one of her three men?

“Whenever we can arrange our schedules.” He smiled. “I like her company.”

“So why are you asking me about Emmy? And doesn't she always look good?” As if Finn needed any reminders about how they compared in the looks department. Finn had unruly red hair. She kept it a medium length to try to tame it; Her older sister had long, wavy auburn locks that would look beautiful even if she were standing outside during a hurricane. They were both tall, but Finn was lean and athletic with freckles everywhere, while Emmy’s size six curvy figure drew envious looks from women and lustful looks from men. No way would Emmy allow freckles anywhere on her perfect body. Finn often wondered if they were honestly related.

“Oh, yeah, she looked as bodacious as ever but acting kinda mysterious. She was evasive about what she's been up to and where she was going on vacation.” He rocked back in his chair with an avid gleam in his eye. “I think I kinda like the mysterious vibe she's got going.”

Of course he did. All men did. Emmy was catnip to their libido. Disgusted, Finn got up to leave. She grabbed another camera, then lugged her backpack over her shoulder. “I'll stop by tomorrow after I get the next batch of shots.”

“See you then. Take care. You're looking kinda tired.”

“Thanks.” Exactly what a girl wanted to hear from a hunk like Tommy. She'd like one of the Boyle brothers to notice her when she was at her best. She, too, was a woman.

Finn ignored her desire to slam the door behind her like a child. She shut it quietly and stepped out with her thoughts elsewhere.

She heard a faint noise. She wasn't alone. A tall stranger whose face looked familiar came toward her, his strides long and deliberate. “You the one takin’ pictures of me?”

“No,” she automatically lied.

His tone left little doubt about how he felt about her. ‘Dislike’ would be too kind. ‘Outraged and highly motivated to harm her’ seemed more likely. Which was when she remembered why he looked familiar. Franco, the wandering husband she'd photographed last night in all his pants-around-his-ankles glory. It took a nano-second to register the thought that he shouldn't have known where to find her before extreme terror kicked in.

Closer to the stairs than Tommy's office, Finn managed to dash past him in her rarely-worn heels.

He grabbed at her but she ducked. She reached the outer door and twisted the doorknob. He yanked her from behind, and pulled her toward him. A nasty blast of stale breath hit her in the face. The knob slipped from her sweaty hand. She wrenched her backpack off and screamed. She swung it and connected with his head. He grunted and lost his grasp on her.

Finn took advantage of the moment and wrenched open the door. She scrambled out to the landing. With one foot on the first step, he jerked her by the back of her sweater. She screamed bloody murder again and swung around to hit him.

Tommy appeared and yanked Franco up, smashing him in the jaw. The man stood in the tiny space swaying. Finn took advantage. She swung her backpack. This time, Franco sidestepped. And she hit Tommy full force.

He lost his balance, arms cartwheeling in the air as he reached for the rail. He missed and tumbled down the steps, crashing against each riser with a horrible thump until he lay crumpled at the bottom. Franco raced down the stairs, hurtled over Tommy's prone body, then disappeared up the dark alley.

Finn flew down the steps, her backpack forgotten. Tommy lay at the bottom, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched.

She knelt by his side, her breath jerking in and out. She patted his cheek, and prayed he wasn't dead. She couldn't take two dead bodies in one day, no matter how insensitive it sounded.

He opened one eye and squinted at her, his face pinched. “Hell, I, I broke my...damn it all to hell...my damned leg.”

She pressed a hand to her quaking stomach. “Oh, my God. I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I'm an idiot. How could I miss him and hit you?”

“Not your fault. Who the hell was he? You recognize him?”

She nodded. “Johnny Franco.”

“Damn. I wasn't looking at his face in those pictures.”

“What were you looking at?” she asked dumbfounded.

“The woman, Finn, the woman. Franco's wife, my stupid client, must have told him she hired me. I guess he looked up my office location or the bitch actually told him. Damn it all, this hurts like hell.” He swallowed hard. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

Finn jumped to her feet. “My cell phone is up in my backpack. I'll go call an ambulance.”

He stopped her by grabbing her hand, then managed a lopsided grimace. “What have you got in there anyway? It weighs a ton.”

She wiped perspiration from his forehead with the hem of her sweater. “Oh, you know. Leaflets and maps to hand out to tourists, extra Mardi Gras beads and caps, bottled water, camera, wallet, pepper spray, police whistle, the usual. Girl stuff.”

“Girl stuff? Since when did girl stuff become an arsenal?”

Her pulse still racing, she ignored his question for fear of bursting into tears at her relief that he was going to be fine. She ran up the stairs, found her backpack, and pulled out her phone. She called 9-1-1, explained the situation then trotted down the stairs.

“Are the troops on the way?” he asked in a raspy, panting voice.

“Yep.” She knelt again, then caressed his cheek. “Can I do anything to make you more comfortable?”

“Kiss me.”

Her heart lurched. “What?”

“Kiss me. It'll take my mind off the pain.”

Without even thinking about it, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his. He reached one arm around her neck, pulled her close and kissed her in return. Using his tongue and lips with proficiency, he didn't kiss like a man in pain. He kissed like a man looking for more. He massaged her neck with one hand, his other came around to hold her waist. He smelled clean, tasted of Coke and kissed like a champion.

She quivered from her girly parts all the way down to her toes. Wow. Who knew? She couldn't have been more surprised if he'd gotten up and performed the River Dance.

When the sound of sirens echoed in the distance, he dropped his hand from her neck and whispered in her ear, “Finn, honey, I feel like I could run a marathon.”

She sat back on her heels, her lips tingling, her breath catching in her throat. “Glad I could help.”

He chuckled, struggling to sit up. She put her arm around his shoulder and helped him. “Better?”

“This is embarrassing.” He slanted an eye at her, his mouth quirking in a crooked smile. “What'll the paramedics say?”

She patted his back, attempting to regain her equilibrium after a kiss that left her reeling. “Hey, it could have happened to anyone and besides, it was all my fault. Falling down those steps, you're lucky you didn't break your neck, both legs, and half a dozen other bones. You've got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He grinned, then spread both hands over the bulge in his lap. “I wasn't talking about my damned leg.”