Читать книгу: «New Orleans Noir»
The French Kiss Killer has returned
and has his next target in sight...
Detective Hunter Bergeron has two goals: find the French Kiss Killer and keep Helena Cosworth from becoming his next victim. Hunter and Helena share a past, and close proximity now only reignites their attraction. But with New Orleans on high alert, giving in to old feelings is a distraction neither can afford. Especially in the darkest corners of the Quarter.
JOANNA WAYNE began her professional writing career in 1994. Now, more than fifty published books later, Joanna has gained a worldwide following with her cutting-edge romantic suspense and Texas family series, such as Sons of Troy Ledger and Big “D” Dads. Joanna currently resides in a small community north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. You may write to Joanna at PO Box 852, Montgomery, TX 77356, or connect with her at joannawayne.com
Also by Joanna Wayne
Riding Shotgun
Quick-Draw Cowboy
Fearless Gunfighter
Dropping the Hammer
Trumped Up Charges
Unrepentant Cowboy
Hard Ride to Dry Gulch
Midnight Rider
Showdown at Shadow Junction
Ambush at Dry Gulch
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk
New Orleans Noir
Joanna Wayne
ISBN: 978-1-474-09423-8
NEW ORLEANS NOIR
© 2019 Jo Ann Vest
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Version: 2020-03-02
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To everyone who loves a south Louisiana mystery.
To my great friends who live there and to everyone
who has ever longed to visit New Orleans.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
About the Publisher
Prologue
Friday, March 15
Elizabeth Grayson jerked forward as the car skidded to a slippery stop. The deserted dirt road that had been barely passable before had suddenly disappeared, replaced by clumps of tall grass, deeper pockets of brown water and what appeared to be a wide stretch of swampland.
Her nerves grew edgy. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere we can finally be totally alone.” He flicked off the headlights.
“It’s pitch-black out here,” she murmured.
“Are you afraid of the dark or of being alone with me?” he teased, his voice deep and sexy, almost melting her anxious vibes.
“I’m never afraid when I’m with you.”
“That’s what I like to hear, baby. You always know how to please me.”
She loved the way he talked to her, as if she were his equal though he was older and much more mature than the high school boys she’d dated back home. The sloppy kisses of teenage boys never thrilled her the way his did. She’d never melted at their touch.
He killed the motor, then stretched his arm across the back of the seat and slipped it around her shoulders. “This is a favorite place of mine when I need to get away,” he said.
“Really? It seems so isolated.”
“I see it as private and a little forbidden,” he said, “but if it makes you nervous, I can drive back into town.”
“No. I don’t want to go back,” she answered quickly.
All she’d been able to think about for the past two days was seeing him again. She craved his touch and the way her body came alive when he slid his hands beneath her blouse or when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth.
Unfortunately, their making out had been limited to what they could manage in the back seat of his sports car parked behind a sleazy bar in a part of town she hadn’t known existed until a few nights ago. Even then she’d wanted more, but he’d held back. He’d wanted to wait until everything was right.
They’d met last Saturday night when Elizabeth had been out with a girlfriend who lived in Metairie. Her friend Melinda had managed to snare fake IDs for both of them before Elizabeth had flown to New Orleans to visit her great-aunt for spring break.
Melinda had already been tipsy by the time Elizabeth noticed the hunk of a man staring at her. He nodded when they made eye contact but didn’t approach them. When he smiled and left the bar, she followed him outside.
One hello in his deep, sexy voice and she was certain he was the most gorgeous and exciting man she’d ever met. She’d whispered her phone number into his ear as he opened the door to his black sports car.
He’d called the very next day. She’d thought of nothing but him since then.
He wasn’t driving the sports car tonight, but a mud-encrusted pickup truck more suitable for the terrain. He pulled a flashlight from the truck’s console and flicked it on as he climbed from behind the wheel. He reached behind the driver’s seat and picked up what appeared to be a blanket.
Her pulse went crazy. Spring break was almost over. She’d be flying back to Tulsa on Sunday and might never see him again. Her heart would surely break but how much worse would it be if she didn’t have this time with him tonight to treasure?
Complete privacy. And a blanket. They were surely going to make love. It would be the first time for her to go all the way. He would be experienced. He’d teach her all she needed to know.
He walked around the truck, opened her door and took her hand. She quivered in anticipation, ready for this in every way.
Aunt Ella still thought of Elizabeth as a kid and constantly warned her to be careful. As much as Elizabeth had hated lying to her tonight, she’d had no choice.
If her great-aunt could see her now, she’d be horrified. She would tell Elizabeth she was tempting disaster. The thought intensified Helena’s anxiety.
“Okay. I can tell you’re not ready,” he said, dropping her hand. “I obviously misread the signs.”
“You didn’t,” she assured him. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.” That much was true.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped out of the truck. The earth was damp, sucking like quicksand. The grass was almost to her knees, hiding anything that might be crawling beneath it. Like snakes. Or tarantulas.
He put a thumb beneath her chin and nudged until she faced him. He leaned over and his lips met hers. Desire pummeled her as heated juices seeped into the silky red panties she’d worn just for him.
She’d be a fool to do anything to spoil this moment. He wasn’t the man of her dreams. She’d never had dreams this good.
They walked for ten minutes or more, dodging spreading palmetto fronds, clumps of reeds and the exposed roots of cypress trees until they reached the slippery bank of a murky bayou.
The moon finally peeked from behind the clouds, providing enough illumination that he turned off the flashlight. A few yards farther and he took a different path, not stopping until they reached a slightly higher and dryer area. He dropped her hand and her insides quaked as he spread the blanket.
He kicked out of his shoes and lay down on his side, his right elbow supporting him so that he could meet her gaze. He opened his arms for her to join him.
She hesitated and scanned the area one last time. “Are you sure there are no snakes or alligators around here?” she asked.
“I guarantee you that before this night is over, you won’t be worried at all about snakes, alligators or any other creatures of the swamp. Now undress slowly so I can watch,” he said, an authoritative bent to his voice that hadn’t been there before. By the time she was totally naked, passion enflamed her.
She lay down beside him, anticipating heaven.
Instead she fell into the depths of hell.
Chapter One
Tuesday, September 18
Helena Cosworth gathered her luggage from the taxi and walked the short distance to an intricately designed seven-foot-high metal gate. She stood there for a moment, letting the familiarity seep into her tired bones until grief-crinkled memories invaded and dampened her spirit.
The historic French Quarter carriage house just beyond the gate had been her second home for as long as she could remember. Her mother had died when she was only five.
Her dad had been an oil and gas executive who went wherever he was needed. If the location wasn’t right for raising a daughter, she went to boarding schools in the States. Even when she lived with him, she spent most summers and many holidays in New Orleans with her energetic, fun-loving grandmother Mia.
During those visits, Mia had made her the center of her life and the adventure-laden Crescent City was their playground. The zoo, Audubon Park, the bustling Mississippi River, theater, trips down St. Charles Avenue on the cable car, parades galore. And the many hours spent in museums nurturing Helena’s passion for art.
The lifestyle wasn’t ideal by everyone’s standards, but it worked for them. When her father had died from a sudden heart attack a week before her high school graduation, she moved in with Mia and began her college career the following fall at Tulane University.
Helena reached to the keypad and punched in the code for the security system Mia had installed a few years back. A twist of the handle and a firm shove and the gate squeaked open.
Heat and humidity hit like a wave of steam as she stepped inside the courtyard where the day’s fetid air seemed trapped by the surrounding walls. She was quickly revived by the fragrance of night jasmine that overflowed from a huge pot and the cooling mist from the impressive angel fountain in the middle of the spacious area.
She didn’t even glance toward the four apartments surrounding the rest of the courtyard as she made her way to the bright red door that served as the main entrance to the carriage house. The original, barn-style doors on the front of the house that had once swung open for horses and carriages had been replaced with brick walls and fake, shuttered windows years ago.
A shudder of emptiness shook Helena’s resolve not to fall into a state of teary-eyed depression. It had been just over five weeks since she’d received the heartbreaking news of Mia’s tragic accident, and although she’d been here for the funeral, the wound of grief felt fresh.
She opened the door and stepped into the marble foyer. The air conditioner was blasting away. Thankfully, she’d let Ella Grayson know when she was arriving. Ella had been one of Mia’s tenants for years and she and Mia had been fast friends. They’d become closer than ever after Ella’s great-niece, Elizabeth, had been brutally murdered last spring.
Helena parked her luggage by the door and dropped her handbag onto the antique cherrywood table before flicking on the delicate Tiffany lamp. Illumination climbed the foyer walls in enchanting patterns. Everything looked the same as it had when Mia was alive. Even the citrusy fragrance of the candles she’d burned nightly lingered in the air.
The property now belonged to Helena—at least until she found a buyer. Giving up the old carriage house would be like giving away a chunk of her soul, but her career was in Boston. She would start her new job with one of the most successful individually owned art galleries in the city on November 1. A few of her paintings already hung in the gallery.
Helena traipsed across the cozy sitting room with its worn Persian rug, comfortable furniture and shelves filled with books and framed photographs.
When she stepped into the kitchen, memories attacked full force. She’d had morning coffee at the small, round mahogany table with Mia for as long as she could remember, though when she was young, Helena’s cup was filled mostly with cold milk and a shot of honey.
They’d sipped the chicory-laden brew from dainty flowered cups while Mia filled Helena’s young head with simple answers to life’s mysteries.
Like why king cakes had plastic babies hidden inside them and why people riding floats at Mardi Gras always wore masks. And why even rich people ate po’boy sandwiches that needed to be dressed.
Heart aching, Helena finally walked to the foot of the elegant, curved staircase. The staircase where her grandmother had slipped and fallen to her death.
According to the medical examiner, a severe brain trauma caused by the fall had likely killed her within minutes. Minutes that she’d been totally alone.
Helena forced herself to go on, climbing the stairs slowly, stopping only a few seconds at the landing before making it to the second floor and the bedroom she’d always thought of as her own.
A pale orchid coverlet and countless pillows covered the four-poster bed. Beyond that, tall French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked Dumaine Street.
Helena unlatched the doors, swung them open and stepped onto the balcony.
Spicy odors of fried seafood wafted through the air and suddenly Helena was starved. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and that was only her usual yogurt and granola. It was nearly seven now.
There would be time for memories and unpacking later. A beer and a po’boy were calling her name.
Chapter Two
Alyssa Orillon rinsed her empty teacup and placed it on the countertop to be carried upstairs to her main living quarters later. The small downstairs kitchen was barely big enough for the mini-fridge, a microwave, a card table and two padded wooden chairs she’d picked up for next to nothing in a used furniture store on Magazine Street.
The remaining five hundred square feet of the home’s ground floor was dedicated to her cozy waiting room and a private counseling area. Located only two blocks from Jackson Square, she was right in the thick of the tourist pedestrian traffic, though business was slow tonight.
Not untypical for a Tuesday night. Last weekend’s convention goers had gone home. This week’s hadn’t arrived yet.
She glanced at her watch. Half past eight. Too early to call it a night—especially since she didn’t open her doors until early afternoon on weekdays.
Inconveniently, the beginning of a headache was tapping at her right temple. An uneasy feeling had been messing with her nerves all afternoon, the kind of vague sense of anxiety one might expect from a psychic—unless said psychic was a complete and total fraud—like Alyssa.
Fake, but not a rip-off artist, as some of her competitors were. Alyssa was an expert at giving customers what they wanted. Most people were fairly easy to read if you honed your skills as well as Alyssa had.
The professionally printed sign painted on her door lured in the type of customers she handled best.
Alyssa Orillon—Psychic.
Is true love in your future?
Is the man in your life right for you?
Is something wonderful about to bless your life?
The answers you desire are waiting inside.
The sparkling, crystal ball rotating in the large front window provided an additional enticement for the curious or extrasensory believer. The crimson velvet drape behind the ball blocked the view of the studio’s dimly lit interior, making it even more mysterious.
Unlike Alyssa, her grandmother Brigitte had the gift in spades. At least she had until she claimed old age weakened her powers. Before moving into an assisted living center in Covington, Brigitte had frequently told Alyssa how lucky she was not to be constantly haunted by other people’s nightmares.
Alyssa walked to the window, notched back the heavy drape and peeked out. Things were getting livelier on the street. A few more drinks and hopefully someone would knock on her door, enter her chambers and cross her palms with cash.
The only person she recognized was Andy, the scruffy young man at the curb playing his sax for tips. A nice guy, but bad luck found him at every turn. Good tippers didn’t.
Just as she started to let go of the curtain’s edge, she spotted another familiar figure. Hunter Bergeron. Tall, ruggedly handsome, with dark brown hair that always looked mussed. Alyssa suspected there were plenty of young women who’d love to run their hands through it and straighten it for him.
Had she been a decade or so younger, she might have been one of those women.
Hunter was low-key for a hard-nosed homicide detective. He could push when he had to, though. He’d proved that when questioning half the people in the French Quarter after Elizabeth Grayson’s murder.
She walked over, opened her door and tried to get his attention, just to say hello and perhaps pick his brain for a minute about the serial killer investigation. He didn’t look up, his attention focused on a stunning young woman in a bright yellow sundress, who didn’t appear to see him watching.
The young woman leaned over and dropped a bill into the musician’s open sax case. When she straightened, she turned Alyssa’s way.
Oh my God. That is Mia Cosworth’s granddaughter. She had no idea Helena was back in town.
Alyssa stepped outside, waving frantically until she got Helena’s attention. Helena smiled and began to maneuver her way around a cluster of tourists.
Seconds later, Helena stepped through the open door and threw her arms around Alyssa in the same enthusiastic way she had when Helena had been a kid and her grandmother would bring her to visit.
Good memories until...
Alyssa trembled. She pulled away from Helena and reached for the back of one of the waiting room chairs for balance.
“What’s wrong?” Helena asked.
“It’s this dreaded headache,” Alyssa lied. “I’ve been fighting it all day. I just need to sit down.”
Helena helped her into the chair. “Can I get you something for it?”
“If you don’t mind. There’s a bottle of aspirin on the table in the small kitchen and a pitcher of cold water in the fridge.” This was far more than a headache, but she needed time alone to regain her equilibrium.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. It didn’t help. Instead weird images popped into her head as if she were hallucinating. She’d experienced this before but not in years and not often.
The harder she tried to force the images from her mind, the more vivid they became. It was Helena being chased by a man who was too blurry to identify. And blood. Lots of blood, covering Helena’s clothes and her hair and part of her face.
This isn’t real. I’m not an authentic medium. This is some nightmarish trick my mind is playing on me.
But why now?
The images faded as fast as they’d come. Alyssa shuddered, determined to ignore the cold horror that rode her spine, and pulled herself together. She could not plant her groundless, horrifying hallucinations into Helena’s mind.
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