Heather Graham by Down in New Orleans

he’d bled all over the hospital as well. And she didn’t know why they wanted his fingerprints from her doorway—no one was denying that he’d been there.
    “Procedure,” a pleasant, but firm, officer had told her. “We always have to go by the book, no matter how silly it seems.”
    “But you are done here,” she persisted.
    “Yes.”
    An officer remained in the hallway beyond the door.
    For her “protection,” she had been told.
    Fine. She did feel a little spooked. Because the eagle-eyed cop had been right on the money about one thing. If Jon was innocent—which he had to be—then someone else had attacked him and the poor dead girl.
    Annabella’s.
    The name he had whispered. The name of the club—the strip joint—where Gina had worked, where most of his “ladies” had worked.
    I didn’t do it, God, I didn’t do it...
    Annabella’s...
    She hurried on into the kitchen, automatically reaching for the coffeepot. It was morning.
    She hadn’t slept, she reminded herself. She was keyed to the breaking point. She didn’t need coffee. She needed a big glass of wine.
    She found a bottle of chablis in the refrigerator. She didn’t bother with her delicate-stemmed wineglasses—she went straight for a water tumbler. She poured herself the wine and wandered back out to the French doors that had been left ajar and stepped out onto her balcony.
    I didn’t do it, oh, God, I didn’t do it...
    Annabella’s...
    “I didn’t do it; Annabella’s!” she breathed aloud. “Damn you, Jon!” she muttered with greater force. “Why didn’t you give me a little more than that. Like the name of the person who did do it, maybe!”
    She swallowed down a large gulp of wine; then, through her upraised glass, she saw a car parked across the narrow street. A man was leaned against it, looking up at her.
    Not a man.
    The man.
    The cop. Eagle eye. Lieutenant What’s-His-Name.
    A warning sizzle swept through her torso and limbs, leaving her feeling oddly breathless. He wasn’t the enemy, she tried to tell herself. She didn’t need to be afraid. He was a cop. A good guy.
    Bullshit. He was after Jon. He didn’t intend to give Jon the benefit of any doubt whatsoever.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Marcel,” he called up to her.
    “Officer,” she acknowledged.
    “Lieutenant,” he reminded her pleasantly.
    “Lieutenant.”
    He smiled, gray eyes already hidden by sunglasses, despite the fact that it was barely morning. He lifted a hand, indicating her wineglass. “Interesting morning brew. Even for New Orleans.”
    She didn’t owe him any explanations regarding her choice of beverage; despite that, Ann found a flush rushing to her cheeks, and to her horror, she was explaining. “I haven’t been to sleep yet, Lieutenant, and it has been a harrowing night.”
    “Drinking your way into oblivion, eh?”
    “You might be doing the populace you serve a favor by doing something similar at this point, Lieutenant.”
    His lips curved into a wry half smile. He could be very handsome, she decided. And darned irritating—and perhaps incredibly dangerous as well. To Jon.
    He was suspicious. Honestly, openly, regarding Jon.
    But did he think that she was hiding something as well? He was parked in front of her house, watching her.
    “I would do the populace a favor...,” he repeated, his head cocking as he looked up at her. “Are you inviting me up for a drink?” he asked, his smile broadening.
    She didn’t reply to his question. “Lieutenant, what are you doing down there, staring at my house?”
    He shrugged. “Just making sure that everything is okay.”
    “I see. You’re there for my protection?”
    “Something like that,” he said, glancing toward the rising sun, then back to her. “No, quite frankly, I’m here because my car just seemed to bring me here, Mrs. Marcel. After I stopped by the alley where Gina was found.”
    “Gina?”
    “Miss L’Aveau. The woman who was murdered last night.”
    “I see,” Ann said.