CHAPTER 31

At dusk, Jake was in his loft, sitting where he’d been when Sanchez had left. He was staring up at the skylight, looking for answers that weren’t there. Benson had remained at his feet, his soulful eyes still troubled. Above the skylight, bloated clouds laden with moisture huddled over the city, promising another downpour. The sullen sky reflected his mood.

He’d been waiting, hoping his father would do what was right and go to the police. His information might not free Alyssa, but it would give the authorities less reason to think of her as a criminal who’d gotten away with a crime once already.

It wasn’t going to happen. Jake should have known. His father was a complex man with a lot of money. No doubt, he didn’t believe Jake would walk away from a fortune by turning him in.

Okey dokey. Two could play this game. No way in hell was he going to let Alyssa go to prison for something she didn’t do. He’d have to go to the police himself. So be it.

He rose, his legs stiff from sitting for so long. “Come on, Benson. Din-din. As soon as you eat, I want you to go outside. I won’t be back until late.”

Benson surged up onto all fours, tail wagging for the first time in hours. He’d picked up one of his favorite words, din-din. He trotted at Jake’s heels into the kitchen, where Jake pulled out a sliding bin containing Benson’s kibble.

A sharp knock on the door startled him. He gave Benson a quick pat and went to answer it. Max stood there, appearing exhausted, subdued.

“I’ve told the police everything I know.” Max’s voice seemed dry and matter-of-fact, the way people sounded when they’d explained something over and over to different groups of people. “Phoebe’s been murdered.”

“I know.”

Tears flashed in Max’s dark eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry. I know how much you cared about her.”

He’d written off his father, and he’d been wrong. An ache of relief nearly overcame him. It was a second before he found his voice. “Come in. Let’s talk.”

Max walked slowly into the loft, and Jake realized this was only the second time his father had been here. The first time, he’d proudly shown his father the place he’d bought to renovate. Max had freaked. Why would anyone want to live in a huge room divided by screens when they could buy the nicest place in town?

This time Max didn’t make any comment on the way Jake had remodeled the loft. He collapsed into a leather chair, asking, “Do you have any Wild Turkey?”

“You’ve got it.”

Strangely enough Jake had bought his father’s favorite years ago in case Max came over again. Jake walked over to the bar housed in a breakfront. He cranked open the cap of the sealed bottle, then poured a generous portion into a cut crystal glass. He fixed himself two fingers of his favorite single malt Scotch, Springbank.

“Here you go.” He handed his father the Wild Turkey and waited for him to take a drink before asking, “What happened?”

“I told the police everything.” The words were spoken in a tone Jake barely recognized. Gone was the commanding voice Max usually had. “All about Patrick. All about my relationship with Phoebe through the years.”

A wave of concern for his father swept over Jake. “Did you have your lawyer with you?”

“Yes. Since you’d hired Vincent Crowe, I had to go with second best, Amory Binochette.”

Jake waited until his father took another long pull on his drink, leaning down to pet Benson, who’d given up on din-din and had again settled at his feet. “How did they react?”

“They were shocked about Patrick, but it’s yesterday’s news. They have a murder to solve.” His expression telegraphed the pain he still felt for his young son. “They kept asking if I’d gone into the study to talk to Phoebe. Apparently they have a witness who claims a person dressed as the devil joined her in the study.”

Jesus H. Christ, I ask you, who would so diabolically come up with a plan like this? He’d never believed his father had killed Phoebe—although it was in the realm of possibility—but he had thought his father had gone into the study.

“You don’t know how much I want them to find Phoebe’s killer.”

Now there was an undercurrent of sadness in his father’s voice. Jake reminded himself Max had lost the woman he loved. Jake might have found Phoebe shallow and conniving, but his father had cared deeply for her.

Not only had Max suffered an irreplaceable loss, he’d sacrificed any chance he had of a political career. Just as bad, when the truth about the baby was public, Max would become a social pariah. He’d never be the Orion krewe’s king of Mardi Gras.

Max might even be kicked out of the Mayfair Club, although Jake didn’t think this was as likely. Sin cojones as the guys at the dock used to say. No balls. The members of the Mayfair Club were more likely to snub his father than risk a direct confrontation. Still, the damage would be the same because Max cared. He’d spent the last decade trying to win social acceptance in a city where your ancestors were the bottom line.

He did it for me, Jake thought, an unwelcome tightening in his throat. Okay, okay, this is no time to be overly sentimental. His father also had gone to the police because he genuinely wanted the murderer caught.

Still, Jake felt compelled to say, “How can I tell you how much this means to me?”

“Men don’t talk enough about how they feel,” his father’s voice deepened, putting him on alert. “You love Alyssa. I understand what you’re going through. I loved Phoebe. I can’t believe s-she’s …” Max’s voice broke and he self-consciously averted his head.

Jake tried to put himself in his father’s place. What if he’d loved Alyssa for all those years, then she’d been murdered in cold blood?

“I’m sorry, I—” He broke off, searching for the right words to express his feelings. He realized when he was emotionally threatened, he withdrew behind the shield of a joke or silence.

He leaned across the coffee table, attempting to get closer to his father. “I’ve never been the son you’ve wanted me to be. I’m sorry.”

Max sank back against the plush cushions. “What can I say? I fathered you at a time in my life when I was young and didn’t think about what it meant to have children. Then Phoebe announced she was pregnant, and I discovered I was ready—more than ready—to be a father.”

He stared at Jake as if he had more to say, but hadn’t a clue how to say it. “When Patrick died, I-I missed him so much. He was young. He never had the chance to live. I couldn’t have Phoebe, and no other woman appealed to me. I had more money than I could ever have imagined, but I was miserable.” His world-weary eyes reflected his sorrow. “I decided to look you up, not knowing what to expect.”

Jake tried to keep his expression neutral. Why tell Max he had ignored a son who had spent years praying for his father to remember him?

“Right from the start, you were perfect. You reminded me of how I’d been at the same age. You were stubborn, full of pride. You didn’t want a damn thing to do with me, and I couldn’t blame you.” His dry, self-deprecating chuckle cracked and woke up the snoozing Benson. The dog cocked his head and trained his eyes on Max. “I had to lure you to New Orleans, but once you were here, the challenge excited you.”

Jake couldn’t deny it, but some wounds never completely heal. He resented those years he’d gone without the benefit of a father. Sure, his mother had loved him, and she’d done her best, but knowing he had a father living not too far away in New Orleans, a man who never bothered to see him, or even call—hurt.

“I couldn’t have had a better son. You mean the world to me. When you asked me to come forward, I was happy to do it—for you. I know how much pride you have, how you hate to ask for anything, but loving someone changes us. You wanted to help Alyssa, and I wanted to help you.” He dredged up something that might have been a smile. “I arranged to talk to the police before I discovered Phoebe had been murdered.”

“You did?” Jake’s voice was low, disbelieving.

“You bet. I knew you weren’t making idle threats. I lost you once. I have no intention of losing you again.”

Max’s confession released something deep inside Jake. His father cared, he truly cared. The bitterness Jake had harbored for so long evaporated, thrust aside by the revelation. Now they were united against a common enemy.

“Oh, yeah, and I cut Clay Duvall loose. I had my attorney prepare something like a quit claim, which gives Clay back his company.”

“You took a loss?” Jake had to admit he was totally amazed. It was not in character for his father to leave money on the table in any business deal.

Max didn’t respond. The silence in the loft thickened, and Jake realized it was now totally dark. He leaned over and turned on a lamp. The sudden glare threw his father’s features into stark relief, his own face years from now. Jake prayed he would be happier.

“I mean what I said,” Max told him. “I’d rather lose money than lose you.”

“Thanks,” Jake managed to whisper. “I mean it. I appreciate all you’ve done.”

There was a knock on the door, and it saved him from sinking in a quicksand of emotions. His father was right, he thought, heading to the door with Benson dogging every step. Jake had little experience in expressing his feelings.

“Yo, I’ve got news,” Sanchez said the second Jake opened the door.

“Come in. My father’s here. He’s told the police everything he knows.” Jake led Sanchez into the living area and turned on another light. Sanchez refused a drink, saying he still had more work to do tonight.

“What did you find out?” Jake asked as he took the chair next to his father rather than putting distance between them the way he usually did by sitting across from him on the sofa.

Sanchez plopped down, saying, “Phoebe told her attorney to prepare the divorce papers and send them to her in France. The address she gave—”

“Belongs to Troy Chevalier’s parents,” Jake said.

“You’re kidding.” Max’s voice was disheartened.

“I wish.” It took Jake a few minutes to explain to Max all about Troy.

“Why would Phoebe leave Clay now?” Max asked. “I never thought she’d leave him.”

Jake shrugged. “Money. Social position. A new, glamorous life in one of the most sophisticated cities in the world.”

“It sounds like Phoebe,” Max admitted.

“There might be something else.” Sanchez put in. “No one saw Wyatt LeCroix after the cocktail hour, although it’s hard to be positive with so many vampires on the scene.”

“Why would he kill his sister?” Max asked Sanchez.

“The divorce would force Clay to buy out her portion of Duvall Imports. The little scam Wyatt had been running with the Port Authority might be exposed,” Jake guessed. “Wyatt would face jail time.”

“That’s right,” Sanchez said. “It would give Clay an even better reason for killing her than Wyatt. But Clay has convinced the police he has an alibi for every minute of the party as well as the entire night. I have a contact on the force, and I suggested they give him a lie detector test.”

“Where was he all night?” Max wanted to know.

“He claims he was with Maree Winston.”

Max nodded, a flicker of interest in his eyes. Jake gave his father credit. The old goat still appreciated a killer bod. “The feathered vampire outfit.”

“That’s the woman. She came with Neville Berringer, but according to Clay, he dropped Maree off at her carriage house where Clay was waiting.”

“Have the police confirmed this?” Jake asked.

“The authorities have tried to locate Berringer, but he’s fishing in Cancun for a week.”

“It probably doesn’t matter,” Jake said. “I’m betting Phoebe was killed during the party, not later that night. Why would she still be in the study after everyone had left?”

Sanchez’s dark eyes roved from father to son. “Alyssa had told the police she believes she heard a shot just before dinner was served. That was nine o’clock.”

“You sure have a pipeline to the police,” Jake said. “What else has she told them?”

“About the devil going into the study.”

“I was the only one at the party in a devil’s costume,” Max said.

Sanchez nodded thoughtfully. “Someone could have been attempting to frame you, Max. Then Alyssa made herself an easier target.”

The fine hair across the back of his neck prickled to life. Alyssa. His father. Why was the killer getting so close to the people he cared about? Was it coincidence? Was it his imagination?

“Do you know what else the police have on Alyssa?” Jake asked.

“They’re checking her nun’s costume for residue from the gun.”

“They won’t find anything.” Jake gave this a second thought. “Unless there’s a way of tampering with clothing after the fact.”

Sanchez shook his head. “Highly unlikely. It’s not as easy as slipping in, planting a murder weapon, and slipping out. The killer may not be half as clever as he thinks. A .22 isn’t very powerful—”

“But it’s small, easy to conceal,” Jake said. “Everyone there—except for the feathered vampire—could hide it on them.”

“Maree Winston was carrying a feathery purse. It could have been in there,” Max told them.

“Possibly,” Sanchez agreed. “Back to the bullet. A .22’s bullet isn’t very powerful. Actually, many victims recover.”

Jake remembered the locked door. “I went downstairs, looking for Alyssa. The door to the study was locked. I’ll bet the killer shot once and was afraid to shoot again because someone might recognize the sound. If Phoebe wasn’t dead, locking the door would ensure no one found her in time to save her.”

A choking sound came from Max. “Oh, my God. Who could be that cruel?”

His father’s dark eyes met his, and Jake leaned over and put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “An autopsy should show if the shot killed her or she bled to death, right, Sanchez?”

“Correct.” Sanchez waited a minute before adding, “When the killer planted the gun, he must have thought it could be matched to the bullet.”

“I thought that was a no-brainer,” Jake said.

“With other caliber guns, it is, but a .22 usually distorts on impact. That makes a ballistics match impossible.”

Usually. Jake wanted to be encouraged but it was difficult. Someone had tried seven ways to hell to frame Alyssa. Could they get lucky for a change?

“Anything else?” asked Max.

“They’re checking her laptop for incriminating e-mails or whatever they can find. The doorman at the party is one of their witnesses. He saw Alyssa going into the study. He didn’t see her come out, which is at odds with the story she told police about coming into the hall again and seeing Ravelle.”

“With a television celebrity and her crew at the door, doesn’t it seem logical that the doorman wouldn’t have noticed Alyssa?”

“True, but he is a witness who can put her at the murder scene.”