Heather Graham by Down in New Orleans Page A

She swallowed hard. She hadn’t had much time to think about the fact that a girl was dead. Gina L’Aveau. She knew the name. Jon hadn’t finished his painting of her yet; he’d still been working on it. He’d talked about Gina several times, though. “You have to meet her, Annie. She’s great. I mean, normally, you’d probably never get to know one another. That’s the whole strange thing about our society. We’re judgmental. We fall into little cliques. Good people, bad people. Clean people, dirty people. But in truth, in essence maybe, we’re all really alike. You’ll meet her for me, won’t you?” he’d demanded, and of course, she’d said that she would.
    She’d never meet Gina now.
    The cop was still staring at her. Glasses in place. But she knew what lurked behind the dark lenses. Those silver-gray, all-knowing, far-too-piercing eyes. She stepped back. “Well, Lieutenant, I’m very tired. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some sleep.”
    “You do that.”
    “And you’re just going to stay there? Staring up at my house?”
    “Something like that.”
    Ann started inside, then turned back. “Are you waiting for nine A.M. to roll around? Are you planning to go to the D.A. for a search warrant for my house?”
    He smiled. “The wheels of justice may turn slowly, Mrs. Marcel, but I do have probable cause, don’t you think?”
    “The police were in here half the night.”
    “So I imagine. The tech boys must have been.”
    Aggravated, Ann grated her teeth. “Good night, Lieutenant,” she said again.
    “Have a nice sleep.”
    She was tired. So tired that her tumblerful of wine now seemed to be racing hotly through her body. That had to be her only excuse for what she was about to do.
    Know your enemy. Face him! she thought, and she continued to stare down at the man. “If you want to see the place, Lieutenant, do come on up. Have a morning cup of wine.”
    He arched a brow to her. “You’re really inviting me up, Mrs. Marcel?”
    She was insane. He was definitely the enemy. He probably thought she was concealing the murder weapon under her robe.
    “Yes, Lieutenant, I am inviting you up.”
    Idiot! she charged herself.
    He hesitated just a second, eagle eyes hidden by his Ray-Bans. He shrugged, another of his wry smiles curving his lips.
    And he started toward her door.
    Panic seized Ann as she stared down at the street, at the spot where he had just been. What the hell was she doing? She stood there frozen as she heard him enter the main door, heard his footsteps on the stairs. Heard his voice, low, husky, well-modulated, definitely tinged with a subtle native drawl, as he spoke with the uniformed officer in the hallway.
    Then he was knocking at her door.
    What in God’s name was she doing?
    Making a big mistake. All she had to do was tell him to go away, she told herself. Tell him that she had made a mistake. Babble something about not talking to him without her attorney present.
    Oh, good. Great. Make him really suspicious. Wind up getting herself arrested on the spot.
    “Mrs. Marcel?” he asked from beyond the front door.
    She found movement at last, spinning from the balcony and back into the house, then across the living room to the door. She opened it cautiously. Her mouth opened. Words half formed in her throat, but didn’t quite make it to her lips.
    He slipped off the glasses. His eyes still seemed as sharp as an eagle’s—despite the fact that they were bloodshot and red-rimmed. He was exhausted, she thought. His casual suit was now somewhat rumpled, and he was gaining a hint of five o’clock about the jaw. It made him look all the more menacing, somehow. Larger. More macho-masculine. More dangerous. His mood, she thought, was as worn and reckless as her own.
    “I think—” she began.
    “You did invite me up,” he reminded her, and before she could say more, he took matters—and the door—into his own hands.
    He stepped determinedly past her, and into the living