Thigh High by Christina Dodd Page A

obviously knew his Anne Rice. “But why do you say that?”
    â€œHe sucked the life from people.”
    â€œDramatic.” Jeremiah condemned her with one word.
    â€œI’m not being dramatic. Think about it. Families with their hopes and dreams crushed, their respectability destroyed, their security stolen…what kind of monster ruthlessly steals those qualities from a family?”
    â€œOne who owns a well-run bank and recognizes the need to foreclose when, and only when, payments have been consistently missed?” Jeremiah suggested.
    â€œMr. Vycor allowed for no late payments. Ever. Even the CEO of Premier Central gives people a second chance on their loans. Of course,” she added reflectively, “those chances are mandated by the government.”
    â€œAnd it’s bad publicity for the bank if he seizes property without allowing a second chance.”
    They reached Esplanade. The traffic was thicker, pedestrians strolled the streets looking at the houses, and cabs raced past. A street musician played warm, rich jazz on his trumpet, and collected tips from the passing tourists.
    â€œDo you know Mr. MacNaught?” She picked out a cab, smiled at the driver, and waved her arm.
    The cab screeched to a halt.
    â€œYes.” Jeremiah held the door while she climbed in.
    When he’d settled himself beside her, she asked, “Is he as ruthless as they say?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGreat,” she said gloomily. “I work for the devil.”
    He turned sideways in the seat and examined her until she wanted to squirm in discomfort. “Yes,” he said. “In this case, I believe you do.”

Six
    â€œIt was three years before the flood. Before Hurricane Katrina.” Melissa Rosewell accepted the cup of decaf Jeremiah set down in front of her with a nervous smile of thanks. “I’d never been robbed before. For that matter, never been robbed since. But the bank trains tellers in what we should do. Cooperate with the thieves. If possible, activate the silent alarm. Don’t get killed. I really paid attention to the last part.”
    Nessa sat across the tiny table in the Deaux Bakery, not far from the Barracks Street branch of Premier Central, and divided her interest between Melissa and Jeremiah.
    They were as different as two people could be.
    Melissa was beautiful, full-figured, black, and a native of Shreveport, Louisiana. She had a bit of a lisp, large, soft brown eyes, and she was hugely pregnant. She was the first teller ever robbed by the Beaded Bandits, and had agreed to this interview not because she liked being the center of attention, but because Nessa had asked her to.
    She most certainly hadn’t done it for Jeremiah. Jeremiah, stern, big, and oozing authority, made Melissa shift in her seat, and look everywhere but at him.
    So Nessa reached across and patted Melissa’s hand. “You bet, honey. Staying alive is the most important part of the job.”
    Melissa focused on Nessa. “That afternoon, having to stay alive was the farthest thing from my mind.”
    â€œDo you remember what afternoon it was?” Jeremiah shoved Nessa’s café au lait across the table at her and placed a plate of beignets between the two women.
    Nessa inhaled deeply. The scent of chicory, warm fried dough, and powdered sugar made her close her eyes in delight.
    She opened them to find Jeremiah scrutinizing her, his eyes mesmerizing in a way she had not expected from the conservative Yankee investigator.
    Why did he look at her as if he knew her?
    Melissa’s voice broke them apart. “It was just a typical Friday afternoon during Mardi Gras, packed with people draped in purple, green, and gold beads. Half of them wore fancy costumes, the other half were almost naked. I…I know it’s not true, but it seemed as if all of them were drunk. For sure they were all desperate to withdraw a few bucks before the weekend. So I