CHAPTER 36

The following day, Alyssa awoke to soft light slanting through the shutters on her bedroom windows. She lay in bed, staring up at the coffered ceiling, recalling her conversation with Clay last night.

He seemed to think it was perfectly natural for her to come to see him. No doubt, he believed she still adored him. Maree obviously thought so, too. She kept glaring at Alyssa while Dante added little to the conversation.

The man gave her the willies. Dante claimed to be a psychic, but her intuition told her that he was a con artist or worse. What was Clay thinking? He was a snob and a closet racist. Why would he hang out with Dante?

She wasn’t sure what she had expected to accomplish. Her vague feeling Clay was the key to finding Phoebe’s murderer might be way off. It was apparent Clay was not mourning the loss of his wife, but did that mean he killed her?

Clay could have had her killed. Dante. He instantly popped into her mind, and she tried to remember the size of the man dressed in the devil’s costume who had gone into the study with Phoebe. She’d assumed it was Max because he’d been wearing the same costume, but it might have been Dante, who was also a tall, big man. Under normal circumstances, Dante would have been spotted, but with a mask and costume, no one would have noticed him.

“Criminy,” she said out loud as she got out of bed. “You’re no closer to the truth than you were.”

She dressed, trying to keep up her spirits, telling herself she had two more days. She couldn’t just sit around and wait to see if Sanchez could solve this. If she stirred the pot, no telling what might happen.

Someone wanted her out of the way. She’d been threatened with death. Would the person make a move now? She was offering herself as bait and banking on someone trying to get her.

She needed a bit of luck. The police wouldn’t release any information that would compromise their investigation. If they didn’t make a statement about her release—and her attorney assured her that they wouldn’t—then she could pretend she wasn’t expecting to be arrested again and get away with it.

This might make her enough of a threat for the killer to come after her. She would need to be very cautious. She didn’t have a gun, but a small canister of pepper spray would be helpful. She’d been too busy to pick up the one she’d ordered. She’d better get it today. Buying another cell phone was important, too, but it wasn’t as urgent as having a way to defend herself.

“Hi, there,” Shawn said when she came downstairs to the kitchen.

“Good morning.” Alyssa bent over and kissed Aunt Thee on the cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“As good as new.” The Times-Picayune was spread out in front of Aunt Thee, who was reading it and nibbling on a wedge of whole wheat toast. “Oh, my. You’re not going to believe this,” Aunt Thee said. “You’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame. Now it’s Max Williams’s turn. There’s no mention of you anywhere in the paper.”

Alyssa read the headline in a font reserved for bombings and serial killers. WILLIAMS ABDUCTED BABY. Zane Welsh had written the article. Alyssa remembered Jake telling her about the obnoxious reporter’s visit to his office. Offensive or not, the man was accurate, she decided as she scanned the article.

“Did you know all this?” Aunt Thee asked.

“Yes. Jake told me.”

“You two missed the evening news,” Shawn told them. “Ravelle had part of the story. She claimed Max took the baby—period. No mention of him being the father. Now the old bat has egg on her face.”

Alyssa tried for a laugh, but it was hard. The media might be hot for another story, but she was dead certain the police were still trying to pin Phoebe’s murder on her. She had to do something, but what?

She poured herself a glass of orange juice and decided to go to see her father. He’d seemed sincere about wanting to help her, and she assumed he’d gone to the police. She knew he lunched every day at the Mayfair Club. Would he freak if she walked in to see him? It would certainly send a very public message that the killer would be certain to receive: She wasn’t afraid to go anywhere, even to the ultraexclusive Mayfair Club.

“Alyssa Rossi is on line two,” Spencer told Jake.

“Alyssa, did you get a decent night’s sleep?” he asked the moment Spencer transferred the call.

“After the Gray Bar Hilton, anything is an improvement.”

“Gray Bar Hilton?”

“That’s what the prisoners call jail.”

“Gotcha.” He wished she would tell him that she’d gone to Maree Winston’s apartment. He didn’t want to have to ask.

“Jake … I need to tell you something.”

He gripped the receiver hard and waited.

“I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me. I-I know I seemed … callous or something last night.” There was a distinct quaver in her voice now. “If the worst happens, I want you to know I appreciate you more than I can possibly say.”

Appreciate? Gimme a break. People appreciated fine wine and art. Either she loved him or she didn’t. He didn’t know how to respond without making a bad situation worse.

“I hope someday I’ll be in a position to have a life,” she said.

“You will, Alyssa.” He wanted to share with her the information he’d forced out of Wyatt LeCroix. Before he could say a word, Spencer came into the office and shoved a note in front of Jake.

Your father is outside. He’s really upset.

“Look, I’ve got to run,” he said as he motioned for Spencer to show Max into the office. “I’m going to be tied up here until about eight. Then I’ll come over. Okay?”

He hung up and Max walked through the door. His father stopped in front of his desk, his dark eyes troubled. He clenched and unclenched his right hand. Jake came around the desk and stood beside him.

“What’s the matter?” Jake asked.

“You’ve seen the papers, the television.” The bitter edge of cynicism colored each word. “This is when you find out who your friends are.”

Jake wondered if his father had many real friends. He’d spent his life pursuing success, then his aspirations became political. It didn’t leave much time for friendship.

“How can I help?” Jake asked.

“Go to lunch with me at the Mayfair Club.”

“Sure,” Jake responded although he dreaded going into the snooty club under the best of circumstances. He could tell, though, how important this was to his father. He checked his watch. It was eleven-thirty, too early for the cadre of businessmen who convened in the Mayfair’s dining room around one o’clock.

“There are a couple of reports I’d like you to look over,” Jake said. “Then we’ll go to lunch.”

“There’s something else …” Suddenly, Max’s voice became thick, unsteady.

Uhh-ooh. Jake braced himself. This could get interesting.

The door to the office swung open, and Spencer sailed in, frowning. “Duncan Thomas is outside. He says it’s an emergency.”

Just when he thought things could not get any worse. “Send him in.”

He ventured a sideways glance at his father. Max’s left eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch, the way it did when he was concentrating.

Duncan Thomas, a thirty-something man with a beard already grizzled with gray, was head of overseas operations for TriTech. He stalked into the office and greeted them, his brow furrowed in a tight frown.

“One of Duvall Imports’ ships has been seized in Singapore. Heroin was found in its container cargo,” Thomas announced in a breathless rush.

“Yes! Yes!” Jake gave his father a high five, and they both started to laugh.

Thomas stared at them, slack-jawed. Normally, having any ship seized was a royal pain in the butt—not to mention expensive. But having the Singapore government seize your ship was the worst news imaginable. The government had gained worldwide notoriety for publicly spanking teens for graffiti. When it came to serious crimes like drugs, Singapore had zero tolerance.

Jake told him, “We’re laughing because TriTech no longer owns Duvall Imports. Singapore will probably keep the ship.”

“It’s Clay Duvall’s problem,” Max added.

“I see,” Thomas responded but it was clear he didn’t.

“We found out Duvall Imports was pulling a scam at the docks here,” Jake explained. “We cut them loose this weekend. We have no legal ties to the company.”

“That fast? How?”

“It’s like a quit claim,” Max told him. “Essentially we gave Duvall back the company. I had him moved out of the building on Monday right after my attorney filed the necessary documents with the court.”

“I guess this is good news,” muttered Thomas.

Not if you’re Clay Duvall.

“Someting went wrong, mon.”

“Wrong?” Clay couldn’t believe Dante’s cavalier attitude. “I’ll never get the ship back. It’ll cost me a fortune to bail the crew out of prison. You assured me this was a foolproof plan.”

They were sitting in the small makeshift office that Wyatt had given them when Jake kicked Clay’s business out of the TriTech building. His agent was looking for a suitable suite of offices, but it would take time.

Dante smiled, a flash of white-white teeth in his dark face. “You blame de captain. We try again.”

Now was the time to dump Dante and Maree. He was sick of them both. Alyssa had come back to him. It was clear that he could have her now, and he didn’t want to risk getting dragged into a drug scandal.

“I’ve made de arrangements, mon.”

“No!” The word exploded out before Clay could temper it with an excuse.

Dante surged to his feet and hauled Clay out of his chair. “Don’t you be tellin’ me no. I own you.”

Clay tried to wrench out of Dante’s grip, but he was too strong—physically. Intellectually, Clay knew he was superior. He’d had all he was going to take.

“Dante, it’s over. No more smuggling on my ships.”

The Bahamian threw back his head and roared, his arms vibrating and shaking Clay. When he stopped chortling, the fury in Dante’s black eyes sent a bolt of primal fear through Clay.

“I do own you, mon.” He grabbed Clay’s crotch, his big hand engulfing his penis. A knowing smile creased Dante’s lips, then vanished as he squeezed. “All of you.”

Dante laughed again, a low, mean snicker. “De TV in Maree’s bedroom. D’ere’s a camera inside it.”

Shit! A hidden camera. Clay’s bowels cramped, and for a moment he thought he was going to lose it.

“I have tapes. How you say? Insurance.” He squeezed again, harder this time. “You dump me. I dump on you.”

“You’re bluffing,” Clay responded to keep up a good front.

“Try me, mon. Try me.”

Dante released him, and Clay dropped back into his chair. Without another word, the psychic walked out the door. Clay slumped in his seat.

He could imagine what would happen if anyone found out. It had been a ménage à trois, that’s all. Who wouldn’t experiment if they had the chance? But if anyone saw those tapes, they would misinterpret them and think he and Dante had a thing for each other.

What was he going to do now?

He leaned back and studied the ceiling, thinking. He refused to let Dante hold his business, his life, hostage. If he did, this would just be the beginning. No telling were it would go next.

Cheating the IRS was a national pastime, but dealing drugs was something else. He had a name, an image to protect. He’d made a critical mistake, but he could rectify it now.

He had no choice but to get rid of Dante. If the psychic was killed, Clay would have to deal with Maree. Maybe he could arrange for it to look like an accident, then Maree wouldn’t be suspicious.

He stood up and started to walk down the long hall to Wyatt’s office. He stopped before he left the cubbyhole where he’d shoehorned in his computer and files. He wasn’t sure he wanted to discuss this with Wyatt.

Clay wasn’t sure how he’d explain his relationship with Dante to his brother-in-law. He might have to take care of Dante himself. A wave of apprehension swept through him as he imagined coming face to face with Dante. No way. He’d have to shoot Dante when he wasn’t looking.

“You’re a crack shot,” Clay whispered to himself. He silently blessed his father for all the times Nelson Duvall had insisted they go hunting. It was a Southern tradition Clay had dreaded. Now his experience with guns was going to pay off.

Thinking of his father reminded Clay that he’d promised to meet him for lunch. Afterward they were going over to help Hattie LeCroix finalize funeral arrangements. Clay couldn’t imagine what was left to discuss, but his father was a Southern gentleman to the core. Ladies always needed help.

Alyssa walked into the Mayfair Club’s dining room and looked around the room filled with businessmen. She didn’t see Gordon. Of course, he was home with Hattie. With the funeral two days away, it stood to reason he wouldn’t be out in public.

She spotted Clay in a corner booth with his father. He didn’t see her, and she turned to leave before he noticed her and she had to deal with him. She rushed out of the building into the stifling, moist heat of a spring day that felt more like summer.

“Alyssa, Alyssa,” a man called.

She stopped, shading her eyes with her hand. Gordon LeCroix walked toward her. He was dressed in a gray business suit and crisp white shirt. He appeared to be oblivious to the heat, but lines of worry etched his brow.

“I heard the police released you,” he said, his voice pitched lower than usual. “Are you all right?”

For a moment, she was tempted to tell him the truth, but resisted the impulse. She was positive her father hadn’t murdered Phoebe, but the killer might be someone he knew. She didn’t want that person to think she was still under investigation.

“I’m fine, really. They don’t have any evidence against me, so I’m free.”

“Never a doubt,” he replied, but he didn’t sound upbeat. “Are you meeting someone?”

“No. Actually, I was looking for you.”

“You’ve heard.”

What now? She swallowed with difficulty, then found her voice. “Heard what?”

“Ravelle has managed to find out what I told the police. She called Hattie a little while ago to warn her. On the five o’clock news, she’ll announce you’re my daughter.”

She couldn’t ignore the urge to put her arm around him. “Hattie was devastated. She took it out on you, didn’t she?”

“She tried, but I walked out. I’ve had it.” His lips thinned with irritation. “Do you have time to have lunch and talk?”

Feeling awkward, she casually dropped her arm, saying, “Sure.”

Inside, they were told they’d have to wait a few minutes. There were no free tables. Clay and Nelson Duvall saw them, and Clay walked over, beaming.

“Would you like to join us?”

Inwardly, Alyssa groaned and tried to come up with an excuse. Everyone in the room was watching them.

“Thanks, but we need a little private time together,” her father said.

“Oh, a-a-ah, sure. Dad and I are coming over to the house later,” Clay said to her father, but his eyes were on her. He returned to the corner booth, smiling and greeting men he knew.

“I’ve never liked him. It was Hattie who wanted Phoebe to many into the Duvall family.”

“Do you think it’s possible”—Alyssa lowered her voice—“Clay killed Phoebe?”

“Maybe. Stay away from him, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.” She laughed but couldn’t help asking herself where this man had been when she was growing up. Despite the past, she liked him, really liked him.

The waiter showed them to a table that had been vacated and reset. Alyssa was aware of the people tracking them with their eyes, but her father seemed oblivious.

“I’m getting a divorce as soon as the funeral is over,” he said when they were seated. “I should have done it years ago. Hattie is unstable and getting worse. She sees a psychiatrist, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. I can’t take much more.”

“There’s nothing like finding someone who loves you,” she said, a catch in her voice. “You’re still young. You could be very happy.”

“Does Jake Williams make you happy?”

She saw no reason not to be honest with him about this. “I love him.” She shook her head, disgusted with herself. “You know, I have no idea what I saw in Clay.”