CHAPTER EIGHT
Jack didn’t believe in coincidences. He believed in cold, hard facts. Cold, hard facts didn’t lie. Cold, hard facts even a hard-ass like his partner, Cordry, couldn’t dispute.
When he walked into the precinct that morning and found out about an unidentified body coming into the morgue late the night before, Jack figured it had nothing to do with him or any of his cases. He chose to believe it had nothing to do with him or any of his cases. Wrong again.
He stared at his computer screen. This little coincidence—actually not so little, since pushing three hundred pounds was not considered little—wouldn’t disappear on its own. This was not one of Cordry’s epiphanies. He was going to be righteously irritated when they had to go down to the morgue and determine the man’s identity. The forensic evidence connected the dots between this corpse and Finn’s disappearing body. Hell.
He rubbed his temples with the pads of his thumbs, the beginnings of a headache threatening to explode inside his head.
“Cordry.”
“Huh.” The man didn’t bother lifting his head from the file he held in his hands. His reading glasses were low on his nose, his eyes scrunched tight as he scanned the scribbled writing.
“Have you seen this report on the dead body they pulled from the Mississippi last night?” Jack asked.
“Why would I?” he complained. “It ain’t like I don’t have enough dead bodies of my own to contend with.”
“I guess this one’s on my watch, not yours.”
He lifted his shaggy head and stared over the tops of his glasses at Jack, his mouth twisted in a perturbed expression. “You got another partner I don’t know about?”
Jack grinned. “Not yet.”
Cordry stabbed his finger at the report in his hands. “What you pulling my crank about? Everything I know, you know, and if I can’t make heads or tails out of this suck interview McCauley did, I’m laying it at your feet, partner.”
“This isn’t about the Williams case; it’s about Finn Jones’s missing body.”
This time, Cordry grinned. “She lost her body?”
“No.” Jack gave him the middle finger salute. “This is about the dead body she maintains she saw in the Quarter during her walking tour.”
“Alleged dead body,” Cordry prompted.
“Maybe not alleged anymore. This guy’s DNA matches the blood I found at the scene.”
“Hmm, don’t that beat all. No coincidence then.”
“Nope.”
“She’s not the cornflake I took her for.”
“She’s definitely not.”
“Damn.”
“You know, I’ve seen her sister, Emmy.” As if they hadn’t been discussing homicides, Cordry changed subjects without a blink. He slapped his cheek twice and whistled low. “She can play with my shield anytime.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Good luck with that. She’d have to be pretty hard up to go for your ugly mug.”
“Give me the damned case number, dickwad. I’ll pull it up on my screen and see if I can solve your case for you.”
“Thanks.” Jack grinned. “You do realize we’ll have to go down to the morgue and take a look at the guy.”
“You might have to. I don’t since you be the one gonna have to bring in your girlfriend for the ID.”
“Thanks for the back-up.”
“Anytime, partner, anytime.”
“And she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Whatever you say, Jack-O.”
“Shut-up.”
***
Finn sliced and diced with the best of them. She could whisk, stir, whatever was called for without breaking a sweat. She loved the process and could lose herself in the work. She surprised herself when she discovered prep work calmed her, grounded her, made her forget everything else going on in her life.
On most days she didn’t have a care in the world when it came to class.
On other days, it wasn’t the bookwork, the cooking, or the presentations that scared her. It was the unlikely trinity of chef instructors who gave her the heebie-jeebies. They could turn a student to a dithering idiot with a frosty look or a casual put-down.
There were three, as different from each other as Larry, Moe and Curly, but not nearly as funny.
Of the two women instructors, Finn preferred the indifference of Chef Loretta Hicks over Wicked Witch Chef Westrom, who tormented her students so badly there were days when Finn doubted she was truly human. In fact, she could have sworn she’d seen slitted, silvery, snake-like eyes in her head on one occasion when class had been particularly difficult.
One of her fellow classmates fainted while another one ran from the room screaming, screeching like a bad actor in a horror movie, never to return. Finn sympathized but even if she’d wanted to follow their lead, her feet refused to leave the floor, unable to move despite the shaking of her knees.
It was her luck to have two female instructors who’d never had a good day in their lives. For kicks and giggles, they probably tortured wayward students in the basement.
Chef Loretta was plump, of average height, with the most beautiful wavy white-blonde, shoulder-length hair. Finn had only seen it on one occasion. Ordinarily she wore it tucked beneath her hat, out of sight like a nun. She had a round face, pinchable cheeks that had, no doubt, never been pinched. It was a total façade. She could trick a student with a practiced turn of phrase that left everyone in the room reeling.
Chef Westrom with her piercing black eyes often invaded Finn’s sleep in nightmares. The woman looked more witch-like in Finn’s dreams.
The one man, Shane O’Hurley, Chef Shane, was as jovial as Santa Claus, though he looked nothing like him. He was tall, rail thin, with thick black hair and even thicker glasses. His clear blue eyes gave him away, twinkling like the eyes of a benevolent angel. He insisted the students call him by his first name.
He’d never once barked at Finn, unlike the other two instructors. This was the problem. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop...in her clam chowder, so to speak.
These three professional chefs held her life’s dream in the curve of their proverbial soup bowls. It scared the bejesus out of her. She’d rather have Chef Shane rant and rave and throw his ladle at her, than present her with his cheerful demeanor. What was wrong with the man anyway?
Today the class was taking a written test on Safety, Sanitation and Kitchen Design given by Chef—Do Not Call Me Wanda—Westrom, instead of cooking. In its way, it was relaxing. The room was quiet and peaceful, like a regular school classroom. It contained ordinary desks and a white erase board on the wall.
The sun shone through the windows like butter scorching in a hot pan. No instructor yelled or harassed or cajoled. And Finn knew the answers to the questions. Until this moment, she’d been able to concentrate and not think about her mounting problems. That was, until she saw her damnable ghost winking at her from across the room. He mouthed ‘coq au vin’ with raised eyebrows. She nodded and mouthed back ‘thank you’. He disappeared as if satisfied with her answer.
***
Debbie couldn’t have been more excited if she had a date with a Jonas Brother. With all the Jonas Brothers. At the same time. Oh, wait, one of them was married. Whatever. She was so-o excited.
She stood in front of the mirror admiring the violet eye shadow brushed on her lids. It matched exactly the purple color in her hair. She and Benjy were going to the zoo together, almost like a date. They had so-o much in common. They were both teenagers. They were both hormonal. They were both in love. Not in love with each other maybe, but in love with the idea of love. Or maybe in love with lust. Debbie didn’t care. She was going to be with someone she liked, someone hot, someone who seemed to like her. What more could she ask for? It was a beautiful, sunny day and she was spending it with a beautiful guy. Freddy, although they texted regularly and she loved him like crazy, was far away. Benjy lived right next door. So convenient.
She checked her outfit once more before she left the house. Dressed in short jean shorts, a white camisole and a long, gray, sleeveless sweater vest which hit a scant inch below her butt, she thought she looked pretty hot. She’d painted her nails with the Purple Haze polish, the exact match for the streaks in her hair.
She grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder, locked the door behind her with the spare key Finn had given her and stepped out the door. When she walked up the narrow walkway beside Gert’s house, she noticed the dark clouds gathering above her head. Damn. It was going to rain. Where had the sun gone? Maybe they wouldn’t be going to the zoo, after all.
Debbie reached the front of Gert’s house. Where were Benjy and his sexy Corvette? She didn’t spot it. She did see an unfamiliar black car parked on the street right in front of Aunt Gert’s house. Strange cars parked on the street all the time. This was a neighborhood the tourists liked to walk around, gawking at the mansions and taking pictures, especially of Gert’s house with its many elaborate Italianate features. Or so Gert said. Whatever Italianate features were.
Debbie didn’t know the first thing about architecture, Italianate or Greek Revival or Mickey Mouse but Gert loved her home and bragged on it all the time. She was tickled whenever she saw a tourist standing on the corner snapping a picture. She claimed the house was built in 1869 by a rich business guy who wanted to show off. Gert said one of the ways you could tell the house style was by the distinctive arched openings over the doors and windows. Debbie didn’t know anything about that but she loved the fancy iron-lace scrollwork on the fence and around the upper gallery.
With her hands on her hips, she wondered where Benjy was. She hoped to see him step out the front door about now.
Nothing. But it was definitely getting darker. She could smell rain in the air.
She gave him a minute and sat down on the top step of Gert’s front porch, then reached inside her purse for her phone. At the same time, someone opened the door of the parked car on the street. A car door slammed and a woman Debbie didn’t recognize got out. She started toward the house. She wasn’t carrying a camera, a cell phone, or even a purse. Not even a smile. Something else altogether.
A gun.
An enormous, awful-looking, monstrous, blackish-colored handgun that she held outstretched in front of her.
Debbie screamed. Without thinking, she ran toward the stranger yelling as loud as she could. Shock transformed the woman’s face and her mouth fell open. They slammed into each other at the curb. The other woman, her eyes round with confusion, toppled onto her butt, and hit her head on the cement. Her eyes fluttered, then rolled back in her head. The gun slithered from her hand and clattered into the street.
Shocked into silence, Debbie swiveled and ran back toward Gert’s house, punching 9-1-1 into her phone.
Debbie heard Benjy’s flip-flops thwack against the pavement as he strutted around the back of the Arnaud house oblivious to the drama. Debbie saw him as he came parallel to her and she screamed again. With one hand on her phone, she scrabbled in the bottom of her bag for her house key. “Benjy! That woman’s got a gun!”
That woman was coming round when she spied him. Her mouth firmed into a thin white line. Shakily, she got to her feet and wobbled toward her car. She sidestepped around to the opposite side of the car, jumped in and sped away.
Benjy jerked open the gate, ran up the steps and pulled Debbie in his arms. “Whoa,” he murmured against her hair. “Who was that?”
“I don’t know. Was she really, you know, going to shoot me? Like Angelina Jolie in the movies or something? I don’t even know who she is. Why would she, like, even want to shoot me?”
“Maybe she was going to rob you.”
“She had a gun.”
They both looked to the curb as a dust cloud settled into the street where the car used to be.
The 9-1-1 operator came on and Debbie managed to give her the information she needed. She promised Debbie an officer would arrive soon.
“Look.” Benjy pointed to the curb. “She doesn’t have a gun anymore.”
They stared at the discarded weapon as rain drops splattered around them. He picked it up. “Whoa.” Turning to Debbie, he held it out to her. “It's not even real. It's plastic.”
***
Finn stood out of the rain beneath an overhang on the corner of Bourbon and Iberville munching a Lucky Dog slathered with mustard when her cell phone chimed. She juggled her hot dog in one hand and rummaged through her backpack with the other. She snagged the phone and yanked it out.
She didn't recognize the number but the area code was her mom's. Oh, no. She should at least try not to talk around the food in her mouth. She swallowed before she answered. “Uh-huh?”
“Finn! Wow! Like you wouldn't believe what happened to me.”
“Try me,” Finn muttered, recognizing Debbie’s over-excited teenage voice. “I'm of the opinion, anything is possible at this point.”
“Huh?”
Finn sighed. “Tell me what happened.”
“Benjy Arnaud was going to take me to the zoo today so I was, like, hanging out in front of Gert's house waiting for him when I see this car parked out front. I didn't think much about it 'cause I know people like to walk around the neighborhood and gawk at the houses and stuff.”
Finn grinned and took another bite of her dog. Those gawking people were her bread and butter. Thank God for gawkers.
“You still there?”
“Eating,” she mumbled. “Go on.”
“She had a gun!”
Finn coughed, then choked as a chunk of meat lodged in her throat. A passerby stopped and slapped her between the shoulder blades until she managed to swallow and began to breathe again. Finn nodded her thanks, her eyes watering. The stranger moved on without a word and disappeared into the crowd.
“Finn, did you, like, hear me? She pulled a gun on me!”
Her voice raspy, her breath ragged, Finn said, “A woman you say, did this? In broad daylight?”
“Yeah, a woman. She got out of the car nice as you please and, like, started walking toward me with this gun pointed right at my head.”
Finn's heart stopped. “What, what'd she look like?”
“She was about my height, but she had big boobs and was bigger than me.”
“Blonde, brown eyes?”
“She was blonde but I didn't see her eyes. Like, do you know who she is?”
“I think so. So what did you do? Run back in the house and call 9-1-1?” Finn realized she had stopped breathing again. She inhaled a hitching breath and waited for Debbie's answer with her heart in her throat.
“Not exactly.” Finn heard a hesitation before Debbie continued in an excited, high-pitched voice. “I, like, went crazy or something. I didn't even think to call the cops until after I went after her.”
“You went after her?” Everything and everyone on the street looked normal through the falling rain but she felt as if her world had switched direction and was spinning out of control. What had she done? Drawing Debbie into her trouble was not what she'd intended or had any idea could even happen. But no matter what, the anger starting to build in her breast was going to be released on the devil woman. With a vengeance.
“Are you okay?”
Debbie laughed, startling Finn. “I'm awesome. I'm, like, you know, Wonder Woman.”
“What did you do?” Finn looked down at the mangled hot dog and shredded bun in her hand and tossed the mess into the nearest trash container. “Don't tell me you took the gun away from her?”
“Finn, I didn't even get the chance. When she pulled the gun on me, I went into hyper-drive or something. I charged her.”
“Oh, dear God.”
“Yep, she made me, like, so mad I ran toward her screaming my head off. Then guess what happened?”
“I don't know, but you'd better tell me right now before I have a heart attack on Bourbon in front of all these gawking tourists.”
“Gawking. Funny.” Debbie laughed but didn't say anything else.
“Tell me what happened, Debs. Please.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? I doubt it. What did she do when you ran after her?”
“She must have, like, you know, panicked after I ran into her and knocked her down.”
“You knocked her down?” This kept getting worse and worse.
“Yep,” Deb said with apparent self-satisfaction. “She seemed, I don’t know, like dazed or something for a minute and that's when I got smart and ran back to the house.”
“Thank God. Then what happened?”
“When I hit her she dropped the gun, then she got up, jumped in her car and, like, drove away without it.”
Finn let out a slow breath. Leaning against the wall of the building behind her for support, she said, “She simply drove away? No one got hurt? No shots were fired?” She couldn't believe she was asking these questions as if she was a cop interrogating a witness on some overly dramatic TV show.
“No, 'cause you know what's, like, really funny?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing is funny about this.”
“Yeah, there is. The gun wasn't even real.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Benjy got there right before she drove off and he saw her, like, you know, drop the gun. He picked it up from the curb and showed it to me. It was black plastic, like a kid's toy or something. But, wow, it looked real to me.”
“Did you at least call the cops then?”
“Yeah, Benjy's so smart. He even got the license plate number and the kind of car it was and everything. He's, like, a genius or something.”
“Or something.” Finn's mind spun with the horrible possibilities of what could have happened. What this meant. Barron knew where Finn lived. Did she know Debbie was her sister? Would she try a stunt like this again? With a real gun next time? Was it even a crime to point a child's gun at someone? She'd heard stories of people trying to rob a bank with a fake gun. From what she remembered, it didn't matter because the people thought it was real and were in fear for their lives. Something about intent.
Finn was tempted to turn over the photos to her and forget Margaret Jane Barron ever existed. It was time for a serious talk with Tommy or Jack. Or both.
And if she ever saw that hateful woman again, she was going to go after her with something more serious than a fake plastic kid's gun. She was going to kick her butt. But not today. Today she had to catch a streetcar in a driving rain and get home to make sure Debbie was honestly okay.
***
Finn sprinted for the streetcar, and spotted the God-awful, threatener-of-little-girls Barron woman in her car following her down the street. Finn panicked. She had to get away. With rain slashing sideways in cold drenching sheets. With lightning sparking overhead. Even with thunder booming every other minute. She had to get to Debbie.
It hadn't even been ten minutes since she'd left Bourbon, her Lucky Dog and an astonishing conversation with her baby sister.
Somehow, the woman knew Finn’s tour guide schedule. How else would she have tracked her down?
The bitch was the most single-minded woman Finn ever had the misfortune to meet. Why couldn’t she leave Finn alone? Leave all of them alone? Or leave town? Any normal person would simply cut their losses, head for Aruba or Switzerland or South America, and relax, for God’s sake. And spend all of their embezzled money.
But, no.
Finn looked over her shoulder. Through the murk, she spotted the car getting closer but if a bolt of lightning didn’t strike Finn she should get to the streetcar before M.J. Barron got to her. So much for kicking butt. Not today. Today she was too scared to think straight.
She dashed the last few feet and jumped up onto the waiting streetcar. Water dripped down her face but she managed to pull out a handful of quarters. She dropped them in the slot as the streetcar took off, and made her way down the aisle. She managed to hit every other person with her backpack and dribbled cool water in her wake.
She’d no more than sat down on the wooden bench, when charged lightning flashed and struck the top of the streetcar. The car lit up like a popping flashbulb. Electricity crackled. Thunder boomed overhead. The car shook, rumbled, grumbled and rattled, then came to a complete standstill, the smell of burnt metal hanging in the air.
Every last person aboard stared at Finn. As if this was her fault.
“What the hell?” she muttered.
“What the hell?” the car operator complained. He turned in his seat and scowled at Finn. “What did you do?”
“Get on?” she suggested as water trickled off her cap, down her clothes and puddled at her feet.
Lightning slashed overhead again, illuminating her fellow passengers’ faces, scorn and disgust plainly written on each and every one.
Finn shrugged, setting off another torrent of water onto the floor. These people were the least of her problems. She stared out the window. The Barron woman was no longer following her. Apparently when Finn got on the streetcar, she gave up the chase. Temporarily. Finn released an agonizing breath. One situation averted, another staring her in the face in the form of fifteen irritated passengers.
“This wasn’t my fault.” She stared at the sneering faces. “I didn’t do anything.”
“It was running fine before you got on, missy, and lightning don’t stop the streetcar.” The older woman who wore a red vinyl rain hat and slicker over her black maid’s uniform spoke from the opposite bench. Finn noticed a puddle beneath the feet of her black sneakers, as well.
A young man in the seat behind Finn, a few years younger than Finn, spoke up. “Yeah, man, you brought some kind of bad mojo with you.”
Finn stared. He was tall, lean and stringy, basketball player material, but still good-looking in an athletic way with big, beautiful, caramel-colored eyes and slashing black eyebrows. He wore a rain-soaked hoodie of indeterminate color pulled up over his head. She wondered what color his hair was. Under any other circumstances...oh, right, who was she kidding?
“Yeah, yeah, I got my mojo working,” she sang, recalling the lyrics of an old song she’d once heard. Aggravated, she continued, “I’m a black-magic voodoo priestess who put the hex on a streetcar because I hate streetcars. Every last one of them. May they all rot in Hell.” As if streetcars went to Hell. “I only got on because of you.” She pointed at the young man.
“Me?” He stuck a finger at his chest.
Finn got to her feet, walked over and sat down next to him, making him scoot over toward the window to give her room. He eyed her with apprehension.
“Do I know you?” he asked, his eyes wide. Lightning struck nearby lighting up the streetcar’s interior. He jumped and his eyes, if possible, widened further.
“Not yet,” she said, licking the water from her lips.
He swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“A woman is trying to kill me, someone put a voodoo curse on me and I found a dead body. I’ve been kidnapped and threatened. All in the last few days. I’ve had a very bad week and I could use some cheering up.”
“Okay.”
“You’re going to cheer me up,” Finn said.
“How?”
“You’re going to kiss me.” Why did she say this? Damned good question. She didn’t have a clue about the way she was acting except it seemed like a way to diffuse the anger she felt radiating off the other passengers. Who didn’t love romance? He was sexy in an uncomplicated way. And she needed cheering up in a bad way. What the hell—it was New Orleans.
She leaned in, smelling his clean, rain-washed scent. She placed her hand on his cool, stubbled cheek and waited, staring up into his avid eyes. He took the bait and kissed her. Applying a small amount of pressure, he parted her lips with his. His breath hitched, and she kissed him back. When he started to get serious with some tongue action, she pulled away.
“Can I call you?”
“Sure.” She sighed. “You could but you’ll fall in love with me, then break my heart when you move on to something better.”
“I’m already halfway in love with you.”
“Come on, you don't even know me.” She frowned. “That’s not love you’re feeling. That’s sex. What’s your name anyway?”
“Jeff Smith.”
“Jeff Smith. What do you know about how streetcars run?”
“Nothing.” His glazed eyes, brown and wide, stared at her as if she was a super-model. He was cute and non-threatening in a good way.
She pushed back his hoodie to see his hair. Chestnut-colored and wavy, it brushed the collar of his shirt. Finn was tempted to run her fingers through it and forget about every other person on the streetcar.
“Can we cut out the crap?” The streetcar operator stood over the two of them, one hand placed on the back of their seat. “What are you two pulling here anyway? Is this some kind of terrorist act? Stopping my car?”
Stupefied, Finn stared at him. He was serious. Deadly serious. He thought they were terrorists?
Two seats back, she heard a loud female whisper. “Terrorists? Did he say terrorists? Call 9-1-1, Jeannette.”
Before long every other person on the streetcar had their cell phones pulled out and were calling the cops.
Within five minutes a good half dozen police cars and, if she wasn’t mistaken, the FBI and Homeland Security, surrounded the streetcar. With guns drawn, agents and officers alike approached the stranded streetcar and demanded they step out with their hands up. Every single passenger and the belligerent driver pointed out Finn and her new friend to the authorities when they hit the street.
Without a shot fired, they handcuffed Finn and her new friend, Jeff Smith, and took them into custody.
How had Finn thought her week couldn’t get any worse?
Jack grabbed the phone when it rang and absent-mindedly listened because he was poring over the autopsy report on Finn’s dead body. With one ear, he listened to Special Agent Adam Deming from the FBI giving him a courtesy call as a heads-up. When he heard Finn’s name his mind instantly focused on what the man was saying. His mouth dropped open and perspiration beaded on his forehead. What the hell?
He’d lived in New Orleans his entire life, long enough he didn’t think there was anything that could shock him anymore. He thought he’d seen and heard it all. This news shocked even him. His mind unraveled all the possible scenarios.
The FBI Terrorism Task Force had arrested Finn and some man an hour ago on terrorism charges.
No effing way!
He couldn’t get up and out the door fast enough. The FBI’s main office was north of Lake Pontchartrain but since it was closer, the authorities had taken the two of them to the FBI office on Poydras over in the CBD.
He arrived in the CBD after driving the cruiser like a maniac through the wet, puddled streets of the Quarter with lights flashing and siren blaring. With his blood pressure spiking, his mind racing, he was sweating like a new sailor set loose on Bourbon Street for the first time.
After he’d pulled out his cell phone and given him his time of arrival, Deming, smartly dressed in a dark suit and blue striped tie, met him in the lobby.
“Don’t tell me this is serious. Please.” Jack wiped the sweat from his brow then tugged on the lapels of his jacket and brushed rain drops off. “You know as well as I do Finn Jones isn’t a terrorist.”
A slight grin pulled at the man’s mouth. “Five minutes with her convinced me. She’s no more a terrorist than my Great Aunt Tilly.”
He started toward the elevators, Jack following in his wake. “Then what’s the problem?”
He punched the button and turned to stare at Jack, his face serious. “When she got on the streetcar it stopped dead in the street. The instant she got on. Then she met up with this smart-ass kid from Tulane and they were seen talking in whispers and kissing. Both of them carried suspicious backpacks.”
Kissing? Finn? He didn’t know she was seeing anyone. “Last I heard kissing in public isn’t a criminal offense. And half the people in New Orleans carry a backpack. What’s the big deal?”
“She had Mace in hers.”
The elevator pinged and the door whooshed open. They stepped inside and it whooshed shut behind them.
“And,” Jack prompted.
Deming punched the floor button and stared at Jack. “Her partner in crime was carrying a Glock in his.”
“Could be legal.”
When he raised his brows in question, Jack shrugged. “Well it could be. At least it wasn’t a bomb. What’d Finn have to say about it?”
“She claimed she never saw the guy before today and she was rattled because some woman was trailing her as she raced to catch the streetcar. The only reason she let him kiss her, aside from the fact he was appealing, was to diffuse the situation, or so she said. Seems her fellow passengers thought she put some sort of spell on the streetcar or something. There was a thunderstorm with a lot of thunder and lightning at the time.”
Jack shook his head. “Some woman was chasing her?”
“Yep, she said you knew who it was and I should, too. She’s wanted by the FBI for embezzling.”
“If it’s who I think it is, she is wanted. We had this conversation. And she’s been harassing Finn for a couple of days now.”
The elevator pinged and stopped. Deming started walking out, then came to a complete halt, turned around to stare at Jack, his jaw slack. “Don’t tell me this is the same woman you called me about?”
Jack stepped out of the elevator. “Probably.”
“Let’s go talk to your Miss Jones.”
Finn couldn’t believe they’d arrested her. Although she wasn’t sure she’d actually been arrested, come to think of it. The agent who interrogated her never read her Miranda rights. He didn’t handcuff her. He was adamant that she not talk to Jeff. No problem. Hard to do with the guy in an entirely different room.
Some other bozo in an ill-fitting suit stashed her in a tiny, airless office painted pea green. She suspected the door was locked and she wouldn't be able to simply walk out. He took away her backpack so she couldn’t call anyone. She prayed Debbie was okay.
She knew she hadn’t done anything wrong. This time. Or maybe her crazy life was catching up with her. So was exhaustion.
When Jack strolled in with the FBI agent who interviewed her, she knew things had to get better. She jumped to her feet and pulled him in for a heartfelt hug. He wrapped her in his strong, comforting arms, then looked down at her with a bemused smile. “Whoa there, Miss Jones. Isn’t this a little sudden? I didn't know you had feelings for me. What’ll your new boyfriend think?”
Finn stared at him, then backed out of his embrace. “You know I didn’t do anything.”
“I hear you murdered a streetcar while carrying a concealed weapon and will probably be charged with PDA.”
Now she was worried. “PDA?”
“Public display of affection.”
She opened her mouth to protest when he continued, “And you were associating with the criminal element. You mean to say you’re not a terrorist?”
“Oh, please.” She threw her arms in the air and stomped across the room. “Stop kidding around. This is serious.”
“I’ll say,” Deming, the FBI agent, said. “Let’s all take a seat and try to stay calm.”
Finn obliged though she was feeling anything but calm. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop.
The agent sat at the head of the table. Finn and Jack sat together on one side. Finn frowned at Jack, who had the audacity to wink at her.
“No one thinks you’re a terrorist, Miss Jones.”
“Then what am I doing here?” She looked to Jack for help. He smiled benignly. “And who is the criminal element? Jeff?”
“He was carrying a gun.”
“Am I in trouble here, Jack? They haven’t even read me my rights.”
“This isn’t a cop show, Finn. They want to talk to you, not arrest you. You don’t need your rights read.”
“That’s true,” the agent said. He tapped the tabletop with his index finger. “We realized, belatedly, after fifteen 9-1-1 calls, we might have misconstrued the situation and came in with too much force.”
“You should have seen it, Jack. All these cop cars surrounded the streetcar and men in bulletproof black vests jumped out with their guns drawn. I was terrified and I wasn’t the only one.”
“We apologize,” the agent said without a hint in his indifferent voice that he meant it. “What can you tell me about Jeffrey Smith?”
“Nothing I haven’t told you already.” She looked at Jack. “Honestly, I barely talked to him.”
“Long enough to take advantage of him is what I hear.”
“Take advantage? He kissed me after I asked him to. I didn’t steal his virginity.”
The agent snorted, then tried to cover it up by coughing. He looked away a moment, probably to compose himself.
“Special Agent Deming tells me he’s four years younger than you are,” Jack said.
“Really? Twenty-one?” At Deming’s nod, she said, “He was awfully cute. It's been awhile; I couldn’t help myself.”
Both Jack and the agent burst into laughter. Finn realized she wasn’t in too much trouble if they could laugh about it. She released a long breath and tried to relax. Sitting alone in the FBI building with an agent and a police detective, even if she did know him, wasn’t conducive to relaxation. This room looked like any old meeting room, but she suspected it was an interrogation room for hardened criminals, not harmless tour guides.
When another guy dressed in the requisite suit pushed open the door, everyone looked up. He stepped inside, then beckoned to Deming who got to his feet and walked out of the room to talk to him, shutting the door behind him.
Jack reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. The Barron woman was chasing after me again. After the kidnapping and all the threats, I’m not anxious to be in her company. I was doing everything I could to get away. Kissing a stranger may not be the smartest thing I ever did, but I was not myself. I don’t think I’ve been myself for three days now and I don’t much like it.”
“We’ll get her soon or the FBI will.”
“There’s more. Before this happened, I just got off the phone with Debbie and was trying to get home to her. That crazy Barron woman stopped in front of Gert's house, got out and pointed a gun at Debbie.”
Jack straightened. “A gun? What happened?”
“Debbie went crazy and knocked her to the ground. Then when she came to her senses, she called the cops. By then Barron was long gone, but in her rush to get away she dropped her gun. Debbie said it was a plastic kid's gun but, damn, she scared Debbie to death. How did she know where I live? And now she’s threatening Debbie? What’s up with that woman?”
“All good questions. Ones we're going to put to Deming as soon as he gets back. Meanwhile, I want to know why you were kissing a perfect stranger on the streetcar.”
“I’ve had a bad week. Jeff smelled good, looked good and he kissed me like he meant it.”
“Good for him.” He lifted his hand and, none too softly, patted her cheek. “He could have been a terrorist, chere.”
She rolled her eyes. “He also could have been the love of my life. Not that that will ever happen after getting hauled into this awful building because of me. Half of New Orleans watched and cheered as we were patted down, handcuffed and taken away. It was damned humiliating. After today he’ll probably put out a restraining order on me.”
“He had a Glock concealed in his backpack.”
“A Glock’s a gun, right?” At his nod, she continued, “Is it illegal to carry one or conceal it?”
“Not if you have a permit.”
“Does he?”
“Don’t know.” Jack shook his head. “I’m sure they’re checking.”
“I kissed a perfect stranger with a gun in his backpack.” Finn rubbed her temples. “I want to go home and go to bed.”
“I’m sure they’ll release you as soon as they ask you a million more questions.”
“Wonderful.”
Special Agent Deming came back inside, looked at Jack and then Finn, and then back again. “There’s good news and there’s bad news.”
There always is, Finn thought. There always is.