“You’ll have it today,” Alyssa grated into the phone as she typed away on her laptop, clicking filling the room. “I’ll get an interview with his opponent as soon as I can to get a rebuttal article.”
“Good job, kiddo. If you can dig up and prove the allegation this Lewis is making about Mouton, I’ll run it front page.” Simon rarely made such declarations.
Despite the bitter taste in her mouth, Alyssa’s heartbeat quickened. “I’m also working on another piece.”
“Something hot, I hope. Don’t want you wasting your time.”
If she told her editor the truth, he’d blow her off again. She couldn’t chance that. Not with Marlee nipping at her career’s heels. “I’m actually working with a reporter from the Times-Picayune on a story.”
“What reporter?”
“A Jackson Devereaux. Ever heard of him?”
“Have I ever, kid. He’s got a nose for sniffing out scandals.” Glee laced Simon’s tone before he sobered. “Don’t let him get the scoop on you about Mouton.”
Jackson wouldn’t do that. Would he? He was, first and foremost, a reporter.
“He doesn’t even know I’m working the angle.” She rolled her shoulders, pushing the tension into her lower back. “Besides, the senator hasn’t granted anyone else an interview.”
“Keep it that way, or your article will be just one of many.”
A cardinal sin in the journalism business. Sometimes the industry slap wore her out.
“Sure, boss.”
Simon let out a long breath. She could picture him, sitting at his desk, cigar burning in the ashtray while he gnawed on a ratty toothpick. In the years she’d worked at the Shreveport paper, she’d never seen him actually smoke the cigar burning continuously at his hand.
“And get that rebuttal interview with Lewis.”
“I’m on it.”
The phone connection broke. Alyssa clicked the phone off and went back to her laptop. She scanned the information she’d already written. After pulling up every available interview she could find on Senator Mouton, she realized none had been invited into the sanctuary of the Mouton home. Another edge to her article—the description of his personal space.
She opened her Internet browser and did a search on Warren Lewis, the upstart candidate opposing Senator Mouton. Within moments, she had his office phone number. She lifted the cordless and punched the series of seven digits. When she told the chipper woman her name and what she wanted, they put her right through to Mr. Lewis.
“Ms. LeBlanc, how nice to hear from you.” His tone suggested his eagerness to talk to the press.
“Mr. Lewis, I’ve just concluded an interview with Senator Mouton regarding the forthcoming election. I’d like to offer you the opportunity to respond.”
“That old goat denying my accusations?”
She inhaled slowly. Old goat? Senator Mouton had been one of the speakers at her parents’ funeral, giving a beautiful eulogy to her mother’s memory. She didn’t think him capable of being an old goat. Dirty politics at its best, and she didn’t like Mr. Lewis’s attitude. While she’d like to just hang up the phone, Simon’s constant insistence of putting aside personal feelings drummed in her ears. She clutched the phone tighter. “I’d really like to meet with you and ask a few questions.”
“Sure, come on down to campaign headquarters, and I’ll answer any question that cooyon threw out.”
She flinched. “What time is good for you?”
“Come by now. I’m curious to hear what he had to say.”
Hadn’t he heard that curiosity killed the cat?
“I’m on my way.”
She hung up the phone and went back to her article. She gave it a final read-through, satisfied she’d painted a strong picture. Then she opened her e-mail program. She fired off a quick message to Simon, letting him know she would have a rebuttal interview available tomorrow, attached her article on the senator and hit Send. She shut her laptop and stood, stretching. Tension weighted every muscle in her back and shoulders.
Sometimes, her job wore her out. While she loved the written word and enjoyed the rush of scoping out a good story, the truth was that she’d become to be quite disenchanted with reporting itself and the politics of the industry.
Grabbing her briefcase, she headed out the front door toward her car. If only she could report the good side of things, the better view of people. But those types of feel-good stories didn’t win awards.
Would the sun ever shine where her mother’s shadow hovered? How had Claire LeBlanc done it? Portraying emotions on film, uncovering a wealth of injustice, and still beloved by all. Maybe Alyssa would never have what it took.
No, she wouldn’t allow her thoughts to drag her down. She would succeed—she’d worked too hard not to.
The noonday sun blazed in the sky, as Alyssa steered her car toward downtown Lagniappe. She flipped on the vent, only to be blasted by warm air. Ugh. The swampland coated the area in heat and mugginess. She pressed the button to turn on the air conditioner.
After parking in front of the strip center, which housed the temporary campaign office for Warren Lewis, Alyssa straightened her skirt, grabbed her briefcase and strode purposefully to the door. A gust of cool air greeted her.
About ten people were packed into the small space. If she did have claustrophobia, this place would send her into a tailspin. A middle-aged woman sitting at a desk answered the phone. A stack of old textbooks filled the gap for a missing leg on a battered desk. Two banquet-length folding tables filled the room, manned by people writing on posterboards or stuffing envelopes.
A young man stood. “Hi, there. How can we help you?”
“I’m looking for Warren Lewis. I’m Alyssa LeBlanc, here for an interview.”
“Ah, you made it,” said a booming voice from a door in the back of the room. “Come on back.”
She wove around the table and desk, all the while taking stock of Mr. Lewis. Younger than Mouton by probably twenty years, Warren had the working-man look down pat. His hair had yet to be speckled by signs of graying. His skin had a sun-kissed glow, but its texture resembled worn leather. He wore blue jeans and a pullover. Nothing about his appearance set him apart from the rest of the workers.
Until she drew closer.
A long scar marred the entire left side of his face. Puckered and pink, but not recent. Alyssa knew the signs only too well. She rubbed her own scar, then stiffened her back and offered her hand. “Mr. Lewis.”
“Thank you for coming down here so quickly. I appreciate it.” He waved her toward the doorway. “Let’s talk in my office.”
An office? The room he indicated looked no bigger than a walk-in closet. A shabby desk sat against a wall, with two facing chairs. At least the desk had all four legs. He motioned her to sit. “Sorry it’s not as nice as where Mouton held his interview, but I’m a working man. No silver spoon ever passed my lips.”
She refrained from commenting. What could she say? This place couldn’t even compare with the trash bin at the Mouton estate. She dropped into one of the chairs. The wood creaked in protest. Alyssa scooted closer to the edge of the seat.
Mr. Lewis took the other chair and slapped his thigh. “So, what’d old Mouton have to say about me now?”
She’d learned early in her reporting career not to allow herself to be badgered, but to take control of each and every interview. She placed her tape recorder on the edge of the desk while settling her notebook in her lap. Pen poised, Alyssa smiled. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, she plunged ahead with the questions she’d already formed. “What made you decide to run for senator, Mr. Lewis? Especially against such a popular incumbent?”
“I didn’t like the way Mouton did the job. I uncovered some discrepancies in his actions. When I called him on them, he blew me off. That told me right then and there the man had something to hide.”
“What sort of discrepancies?”
“Little things at first. Like unqualified people getting jobs over better-suited candidates.”
“But that happens all the time, Mr. Lewis.”
“Not as consistently as with Mouton. And his committees. He appointed people who had no clue. They did what he told them. Pigeons, that’s what they are.”
“Isn’t that the function of a committee? To carry out the wishes of the person overseeing it?”
“Not like this. For instance, I found out some shipments left the port without going through an inspection. That’s against federal guidelines for intercoastal ports. When I brought the situation into the open, Mouton formed an overseeing committee to audit the inspectors’ books.”
“Doesn’t that imply he was concerned about the allegations and set out to research the facts?”
Mr. Lewis snorted. “His so-called committee consisted of one of the rice plant managers, a deputy and a dock manager—all Mouton flunkies. I’d hardly call that being concerned.”
“But did this committee find any basis for your allegations?”
“You don’t get it, Ms. LeBlanc. Those were all people on Mouton’s payroll. Of course they didn’t find anything amiss.”
“Are you implying Senator Mouton instructed the members of the committee to look the other way with regard to federal guidelines?”
“I’m not implying it, Ms. LeBlanc. I’m out-and-out stating it.”
Alyssa took a moment to gather her thoughts. “If what you say is true, what could possibly be the reason?”
“That’s what I don’t know. Why I’m running to find out. Something’s going on out there at the port, right under the authorities’ noses, and Mouton’s got people covering it up.”
“What’s the benefit of shipments not going through inspections?”
“Lots of reasons. The load is heavier than the bill of lading declares, which would be more freight cost. Shipments not containing what they’ve listed on the sheets. Could be a number of things.”
This man was adamant, and in a strange way, he made sense. But for Senator Mouton to be involved? The facts and the man who’d given such a moving speech at her parents’ funeral didn’t compute.
Time to change tactics.
“How’d you get that scar, Mr. Lewis?”
He hesitated, absently running a finger along the jagged skin. A habit Alyssa herself employed.
“I got mugged. This was the result.”
“I’m so sorry.” And she truly meant it. She hated using shock tactics, but she had a job to do. “I would think you’d be campaigning more on a platform of crime.”
His smile turned into a sneer. “In a way, I am. You see, Ms. LeBlanc, I was assaulted four years ago. Back when I began asking questions about what was going on.”
What could she be doing in town?
Jackson paused at his truck, watching Alyssa stride to her Honda across the street. She’d come out of one of those holes-in-the-wall. What was she up to?
And why did she look so good?
He chewed his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes. She carried a briefcase and wore a straight skirt and blouse. Her short hair glistened in the sun. She must use that gel that made hair look wet even when dry.
Enough wondering. Jackson made clean steps across the parking lot to her car. She caught sight of him before he reached her. She tossed her briefcase into the passenger’s seat and turned to face him. “How’d your date with Missy go?”
Ah, the green-eyed monster did stir within her. How promising.
“Just fine.” He wouldn’t let her know that the woman bored him beyond tears. “What’re you doing in town?”
Her gaze darted to the building, then back to him quicker than a tornado could spin. “I had an errand to run. Did you find out anything interesting?”
So she wanted to play the avoidance game, did she? Okay. “Actually, I did.”
“Do tell.” Sauciness dripped from her words. “I found out something, too.”
“Really?”
“Yep. From Deputy Anderson.”
My, she had been busy today.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“What?”
“Lunch? You know, one of the three squares, commonly eaten around now.”
“I know what it means. No, I haven’t.”
“Let’s grab a bite and update one another on our findings.”
She nodded. “Where?”
He gestured toward the little diner sitting at the end of the town square. “How about there?”
“Sounds good.”
“Want to walk?”
She rubbed that spot under her lip. “It’s awfully sticky out.”
“Come on.” He took a gentle hold of her elbow. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Back in the air-conditioning,” she mumbled as she shut and locked her car.
He noticed her walking with a bit of hesitation. Not a limp exactly, more like when he’d bought a new pair of shoes and wore them without breaking them in slowly. She wore fancy pointy-toed heels.
“Are your shoes hurting your feet?” he blurted out.
She faltered, but recovered quickly. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
Answering a question with a question—bull’s-eye.
“You’re walking funny.”
Alyssa stiffened under his touch and jerked her arm free from his grasp. “I am not. I’m just trying to be more dignified than your strut.”
Strut?
“Men don’t strut, chère, they saunter. Watch your verb usage.”
“Oh, please. Must you be so annoying?”
“Must you be so amusing?”
Her lips formed a tight line.
He focused on that little circle. “Is that a birthmark?”
She snapped her gaze to his. “What?”
Heat fanned his face. Had he really asked that aloud? How incredibly rude, but the question couldn’t be unasked now.
“That pink circle beneath your lip.”
Her face lost all expression and her hand immediately went to the mark. She widened her eyes. Her nostrils flared. “It’s a scar, not that it’s any of your business.”
Now he felt lower than the bottom of a quicksand pit.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Wasn’t your fault.” Her steps punctuated her words. Sharp. Curt. Precise.
They’d almost reached the diner’s front door when guilt assailed him. He took her hand and jerked her back toward him.
She glared openly. “What?”
“A scar from what?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“But it’s attractive, it draws my attention, and I want to know.” Had he really just said that?
A myriad of emotions crossed her face, seeming to battle for dominance. Finally, dejection appeared to win. “A car accident when I was a young teen. A piece of hot metal adhered itself to my lip.”
“I’m so sorry, Alyssa. Was anyone else hurt?”
Tears welled in her round eyes, twisting his gut.
“They were killed.”