Bayou Justice
Mallory Kane
Eight years ago, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, three men lost everything. Now it's time to reclaim what is theirs….In order to bring justice back to New Orleans, FBI agent Ray Storm must once again turn to Molly Hennessey for help. This time, though, convincing the gorgeous attorney to believe in him is going to take more than just one night of seduction.
Praise for reader favorite Mallory Kane
“Readers will almost taste the flavor of New Orleans in this mystery that’s never about the whodunit but about the whydunit, all handled with Kane’s deft hand at suspense.”
—RT Book Reviews on Death of a Beauty Queen
“Kane creates feisty and independent women who are more than a match for their men, and this story is a terrifically complicated thriller.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Sharpshooter’s Secret Son
About the Author
MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.
She loves romance suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.
Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com.
Bayou Justice
Mallory Kane
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Michael, for always.
Chapter One
Ray Storm dodged a pair of college girls on bikes sporting Tulane backpacks and frowned as he looked at the hamburger joint that sat exactly where his apartment had been back on August 29, 2005, the day Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. The corner of Octavia and Freret streets was almost unrecognizable. Not surprising, but disconcerting.
He’d watched the coverage 24/7, like everyone who had been in New Orleans on that day. Later, he’d watched the in-depth news stories and the TV specials, and because he’d been an FBI agent, he’d read top secret memos and reports unavailable to the general public.
Now, eight years later, he stared at where he’d lived then, struck anew by the knowledge that not only had Katrina changed New Orleans and the world forever, she had changed him, as well.
Before his brain could start down the dangerous path of how different things might have been if that particular storm hadn’t struck on that particular night in that particular city, a striking, vaguely familiar figure caught his eye. A tall woman with café au lait skin, dressed in slim jeans and red platform heels, emerged from between two massive Hollywood South eighteen-wheelers, dragging every male gaze away from the bustle of director chairs, booms and cameras in her wake. Ray shook his head in wonder at the woman he’d known eight years ago as a hopped-up C.I.
Another life changed by Katrina, that graceless lady.
Angelica DePuye didn’t stop until her nose was less than two inches from his. She propped her fists on her slim hips. “I swear to Pete. You are alive and breathing. I thought I’d gotten a call from beyond the grave.” She smiled. “You might be surprised at how often that happens these days.”
Ray put his hands on her shoulders and took a step backward, eyeing her with his brows raised. “Looks like the past eight years have been good to you, Angel.”
“Humph,” she snorted delicately and tossed her head, sending the sleek ponytail anchored at the crown of her head swishing, then kissed his cheek. “You can call me Officer DePuye,” she retorted, sliding a hand into her jeans pocket and slipping the edge of an instantly recognizable black leather case free for an instant. “But not in public. These days I’m a narc.”
Her mouth was twisted in a mocking smile, but Ray saw the pride in her dark eyes. “No way,” he said. “That’s great.”
Before Katrina, Angel had been a heroin addict and NOPD officer Mack Rivet’s confidential informant. She shrugged. “After Katrina, I lost my C.I. cred, and believe it or not, it was damned hard to find H at any price.” She shrugged as she tucked the badge case back into her pocket. “I had to do something.”
“Something,” Ray echoed, a chuckle in his voice. “Which in your case was merely to get sober and enter the police academy.”
“Well, it wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Buy me a cup of coffee,” she said, gesturing toward the café with a toss of her ponytail, “and tell me what’s brought your Yankee butt down here again.”
They went into the burger joint, where, with the exception of the scowling man behind the counter, they were the oldest by at least ten years. All the customers and most of the waitstaff had the earnest, freshly washed faces of college students.
Ray gestured for two coffees, then sat back. “A lot has changed.”
“First words out of everybody’s mouth when they come back,” Angel commented.
The waitress set the thick white cups in front of them and managed to mumble something and pop her gum at the same time.
“Might be a cliché, but it’s true,” he said, shaking his head at the girl, figuring there was a 90 percent chance she’d asked if they needed anything else. Once she’d moved on to the next table, he leaned forward. “Tell me about Mack and Remy.” Remy Comeaux and Mack Rivet were the two NOPD officers who had worked with him on the Louisiana Disaster Avoidance Task Force Investigations Team back in 2005. “The FBI pulled me out of there so fast once Katrina hit that I wasn’t able to contact either of them.”
Angel shook her head. “So you didn’t know that Lee Barnaby had ’em both arrested—”
“What?” Ray said. “I knew there were some officers who got out of line. But not Mack or Remy. Why in hell would he arrest two of the best cops he—” Ray stopped.
Angel quirked a brow. “Yep. I think you figured out the answer to that one. Probably hoping to shut them up about your sting operation. But I’m guessing Mack’s and Remy’s files say looting and assault.”
Ray was stunned. Mack and Remy were two of the most stand-up guys he’d ever known. His mentor, Mitch Stone at the FBI office in Washington, D.C., had handpicked them to work with Ray on the multiorganizational team to investigate corruption in the LDAT because of their spotless records. They’d been young, like him, but they’d already proved themselves to be detective material.
“I just read something about Barnaby. Wasn’t he ousted from his new position as police chief?”
Angel sipped her coffee. “Yep. He’s under indictment for corruption and murder. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy,” she said wryly, then smiled. “That was Remy’s doing. Oh, and Mack tracked me down a couple of months ago looking for a hacker. He wanted information about Melvin Landry’s financials as well as Mayor Barrow’s. Someone had been skimming funds from the city’s rebuilding funds and Mack was sure it was Barrow and Landry.”
“Melvin Landry. That’s Mack’s wife’s father?”
“Yes. It turned out he was innocent, but Mack was instrumental in bringing down the mayor and Tate Manning, Landry’s lawyer, for stealing the city rebuilding funds.” Angel looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get going,” Angel said. “I’ve got a sentencing hearing in an hour.”
Ray stood with her. “So Remy and Mack brought down Barnaby and Mayor Barrow.”
“You got it,” she said with a laugh. “Now, if you can get the goods on Hennessey, we’ll have ourselves a Big Easy hat trick.”
“That is exactly why I’m here,” Ray said, “and why I called you. I need to get in touch with Mack and Remy.”
“I’ve got a phone number for Remy,” she said and gave him the information. “Now, seriously, I’m going to be late.”
“Okay,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek. “Good to see you, and congratulations on the job.” He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “One last thing. How in hell does Hennessey, with his history, have the nerve to run for governor?”
Angel straightened her caramel-colored leather jacket and swiped a hand over the sleeked-back hair at her temple. Then she gave Ray an eloquent shrug and shook her head. “What can I say?” she remarked. “This is the Big Easy, cher.” She turned and walked toward the door. Ray threw some bills down on the table and followed her.
Outside, she turned to him with a knowing look. “By the way, remember Hennessey’s little sister, Molly?” she asked innocently.
Ray swallowed. He wouldn’t forget Molly Hennessey if he lived a million years, although he wasn’t going to say that to Angel. He’d been undercover as a law student doing an internship with the LDAT over the summer and Molly had been volunteering in her brother’s office during her summer vacation from Tulane Law School.
Ray had flirted with her and eventually taken her to bed. He’d gotten what he’d wanted—proof that Hennessey was skimming federal funds. Ray had set up a sting operation to catch Hennessey and several other LDAT officials who were involved, but he’d hurt Molly.
“Ray?” Angel said, snapping her fingers in front of his eyes.
“What? Yeah. Hennessey’s little sister,” he said flatly.
“Yeah. Martin Hennessey went to work as a real-estate lawyer after Katrina, working with a greasy character who’s made a fortune flipping houses and doing who knows what else. Molly took over her brother’s law practice when he decided to run for governor.”
“Who’s the greasy character?”
“Flannery Thrasher. How’s that for a ten-dollar name? Get this. He’s campaign manager for Hennessey. Word is, he’ll be secretary of state when Hennessey wins.”
Ray felt relieved. “So at least that means Molly’s not working for him.”
“That don’t mean a thing. Thrasher’s with Martin 24/7.”
“What are you saying?”
Angel shrugged. “I’m just saying Remy thought you might want to know about him, so I ran him. Turns out I couldn’t find a damn thing about Flannery Thrasher before 2005.”
Ray frowned. “That’s true of a lot of people, isn’t it? Weren’t hundreds of thousands of documents destroyed in the floods? I lost almost every piece of information I’d collected on the LDAT.”
“Sure. But New Orleans vital records for the year of Thrasher’s birth are intact, but there’s no record of anyone by that name.”
“And you did the searches yourself?”
“I damn sure did.”
“You mentioned Molly.”
Angel checked her watch again. “I met her a couple of times. She seemed like a very sweet girl. But she’s surrounded by corruption—her brother, Thrasher, who knows who else. She needs somebody to watch out for her, or she’s going to get hurt.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Ray sat in the restaurant of the Monteleone hotel looking at the newspaper. The front page had two huge headlines. Most prominent was Hennessey Receives Coveted Endorsement, accompanied by a smiling photo of him and the senior U.S. senator from Louisiana. Slightly smaller and positioned just to the right of Hennessey’s photo was the second headline. Does Corruption Extend Beyond Police Department and Mayor’s Office?
Ray chuckled, then reached around the paper to pick up his café au lait.
“I had a good laugh when I saw that this morning, too,” a familiar voice said from behind him. Remy Comeaux pulled out a chair with one hand and waved the waitress over with the other. He pointed at Ray’s mug. She nodded.
Ray set the paper aside. “Good to see you,” he said.
Remy eyed him. “Yeah, you, too. Surprised, though. What’s the occasion?”
“I just came off a deep undercover assignment and found out that you called the FBI offices looking for me a couple of months ago.”
“I wondered why you didn’t get back to me,” Remy replied. “How deep?”
Ray lifted his mug. “Four years.”
“Whoa.” Remy shook his head. “Hope it was worth it.”
“Yeah.” Ray made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It’s over now. I guess you called about Barnaby?”
The waitress set a mug in front of Remy. He nodded his thanks. “That’s right. I thought you’d want to know that things had come to a head again after all this time. By the way, Angel said y’all talked yesterday.”
“She brought me up-to-date,” Ray said.
“I gotta say, it’s nice to know all I have to do is pick up the phone and you’ll come running,” Remy said wryly.
“Anything for you, sweetheart,” Ray drawled. “But I didn’t come down here because of your phone call—figured you’d already have your problem solved. Before I went undercover, I tried to keep up with what was going on down here, especially with our four friends from LDAT. So when the assignment was over and I got the message that you’d called, I started catching up on everything I’d missed. The first thing I saw was that Hennessey was running for governor.”
“Can you believe those bastards came out of Katrina smelling like roses? I was in Houston when I saw that Barnaby had gotten the chief of police position. All I could think was he’d have even more power. So I came back to stop him.”
“Good job,” Ray said simply. “Why’d you leave in the first place? New Orleans is in your blood.”
A shadow crossed Remy’s face. “Barnaby threw Mack and me into jail for ‘looting.’ But the flooding tripped the electronic locks and I just walked out. I went to find Carlotta, but she never showed up at the hospital where she worked. I searched for weeks, but you saw how it was down here, right? So I had to accept that she was gone, along with my job and my city, so I left.”
“Oh, man, I am so sorry—” Ray started, but Remy held up his hand, grinning.
“Don’t be. Coming back here was the best thing I ever did. I came back looking for Barnaby and I found Carlotta. We’re getting married.” Remy’s normally solemn face glowed.
Ray nodded. “That’s great, man. What about Mack?”
“Same song, second verse. He walked out of the jail, too, but I had no idea where he was. Turns out he thought his wife and new baby were dead, too, so he slunk back into the bayou to nurse his wounds. Only, he still got the newspaper, so when Barnaby went down, he contacted me. He was ready to clear our names. He was staking out a party by the local elite and who does he spot alive and well? His wife, Lily. And then he helped bring down more of the players.”
“So he ended up proving that Mayor Barrow was in on the government corruption with Barnaby,” Ray filled in. “Good job, both of you. Where’s Mack now?”
“He and Lily and their son are on a long, quiet vacation at the beach, getting to know each other again.”
Ray tapped a finger on the newspaper. “What do you know about Hennessey?”
Remy drained the last of his café au lait and pushed the mug aside. “You mean, can we bring him to the party?” he asked.
Ray nodded. “We had him dead to rights.” He held up his closed fist. “We even had a plea agreement with Flay.”
“Had is right,” Remy said with a shake of his head. “Teague Fortune, a detective here in the Sixth, ran Flay for me. There’s not a damn thing on him after the storm. No credit cards, no checks. Not even a driver’s license or a tax return.”
“What does the Department of Public Records do about somebody who just disappears?”
Remy shrugged. “You kidding me? Somebody who disappeared during Katrina? Nothing.”
“So you’re telling me that Flay is missing and presumed dead?”
“Hell, Ray. It’s been eight years. Ain’t no presumed about it. Too bad we never had a chance to use that plea bargain.”
Ray muttered a few curses he’d learned at his dad’s knee. “That sucks. I was counting on Flay’s testimony. Most of my evidence was destroyed in the flood. Did you manage to salvage anything?”
Remy shook his head. “Anything that Katrina didn’t destroy Barnaby and Barrow got rid of.”
“Great,” Ray growled. “Hennessey belongs is prison, and I’m planning to put him there. There is no way he’s going to be governor if I have anything to say about it.”
“Good luck with that. You’ve only got six months.” Remy chuckled.
“Check back with me in six weeks, smart-ass.”
“I don’t know. You should have seen Hennessey when Barnaby and Barrow went down.” Remy punctuated his words by pointing at the picture of Hennessey on the newspaper’s front page. “He didn’t even blink. He acted as if he didn’t even know those two lowlifes. It’s like he’s made of Teflon.”
“We’ll see what he’s made of. So can I count on you to help me?”
Remy grinned sheepishly. “Love to, Ray, but Carlotta and I are eloping next week. She’ll kill me dead if I even look like I want to change our plans.”
“Congratulations,” Ray said, then added, “Wait a minute. You’re planning to elope? Isn’t that kind of missing the point?”
“We’re getting married in Houston, then flying to Cancun for a week. Want to put all this off for a week or two and go with us?”
“I think I’ll stay here and tackle Hennessey. I don’t want him to get one millimeter closer to the governor’s mansion.”
“You call Teague Fortune if you need anything,” Remy said. “He’s a good guy. Plays his cards close to his chest. You can trust him.” Remy gave Ray Fortune’s number, then looked at him.
“I wish I could be here, Ray, but true love wins out. Carlotta and I did our part. We took down Barnaby. I’ll be back two weeks from today if you need me then.” Remy held out his hand. “Good to see you, man.”
Ray shook Remy’s hand. “Thanks. And thanks for starting the cleanup for me. It’ll be easier now that Barnaby and Barrow are out of the way.”
“It’ll be a banner day when Hennessey goes down. Say—” Remy looked at him “—have you seen his sister, Molly, since you’ve been here?”
Ray made a show of getting out his wallet. “Nope. I just got here yesterday.”
“You ought to check on her,” Remy said. “She was nice. Too bad she’s got a son of a bitch for a brother.” He touched his forefinger to his temple. “Call me if there’s anything I can help you with over the phone.”
Ray smiled. “Will do. Thanks, Remy.”
After Remy left, Ray stared at Hennessey’s photo. Ray had been the only one on the investigative team who’d actually worked at the LDAT offices. He’d never told Remy or Mack about Molly or what he’d done, although they knew that Hennessey’s cute college-age sister was volunteering at her brother’s office. He’d never told them how he knew about the secret meeting called by Hennessey to plan the diversion of grant moneys. Afterward, when the planning meeting turned out to be a poker game, and Mack had casually mentioned Hennessey’s sister and suggested that pillow talk was never reliable, Ray had clenched his jaw and kept his mouth shut.
He didn’t have to be told that it was his fault Hennessey, Barnaby and Barrow had come through Katrina smelling like roses. Or that he was responsible for Remy and Mack losing eight years of their lives. Bringing Hennessey down would go a long way toward making it up to both of them.
Right now, though, two people had said he needed to check on Molly, and that was exactly what he was going to do.
Chapter Two
That afternoon, Ray was loitering across Canal Street from the building that housed the Hennessey law offices when Molly Hennessey walked out through the tall glass doors and turned left on Canal. She had on a short, flouncy skirt and platform heels. From his vantage point, her legs were just as long and toned and the rest of her just as slender and perfect as he remembered.
As he watched, she stopped at the corner, checked the Walk/Don’t Walk sign, sent a hurried glance up and down the street, then ran across to the neutral ground barely in time to miss the traffic.
Ray took a deep breath and stuck his phone into his pocket. He arched his neck, plastered a Me? I’m just walking down the street look on his face and set off on a collision course with her. He walked as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Just as the light changed and Molly headed across, Ray caught a glimpse of a man he’d noticed earlier hanging around the attorneys’ building. The man lumbered awkwardly into the neutral ground. Soft and sweaty, with thinning wisps of brown hair blowing straight back as he stumbled up onto the curb, he was hardly noticeable—unless you knew him.
And Ray knew him, although he couldn’t think of his name. Before Katrina, he’d been a two-bit private detective who’d done some quasi-legal work for Patrick Flay. There was no way it was a coincidence that he was tailing Molly.
Ray slowed his pace, grabbed his phone and snapped a couple of shots of the P.I. Just as he finished, he ran smack into Molly as she hopped up onto the sidewalk.
“Oh,” she cried as her purse hit the sidewalk upside down and the contents spilled everywhere. “Oh, no!”
Ray dropped to his haunches and snagged several escaping pennies, dimes and quarters. Molly crouched, too, balancing precariously on the platform heels. She grabbed the purse and righted it, shoveling as much back into it as she could.
“Sorry,” Ray muttered, not sorry at all. He hadn’t meant for her purse to spill—hadn’t meant to literally run into her, but it was better than the clumsy, choreographed collision and fake apology he’d planned. He picked up a lip gloss that rolled to rest against the toe of his shoe. The tube was pink with red letters proclaiming Sweetest Strawberry.
He stared at it, then at her lips. So that was why she’d always tasted like that. A scent memory fed him flashes of them kissing and laughing and rolling around in bed. A spear of lust hit him in the groin. He groaned.
Molly lifted her head and he fell right into her dark eyes, just as he had the first time he’d met her. He swallowed and dragged his gaze away from hers, quickly checking on the P.I. The man was waiting for the light to change with his phone next to his ear. He spoke urgently as he squinted at the two of them. When he realized Ray was looking at him, he glanced behind him, as if considering retreating. But he stayed put. Barny. The lowlife’s name was Barny Acles.
Ray turned back to Molly as her expression morphed from blank through surprise to irritation. Her head jerked slightly backward and she wavered on those silly heels.
“Ray?” she whispered, her face blanching. Then she shook her head and laughed shortly. “Sorry,” she said, closing her purse and rising. “For a moment there, I thought you looked familiar.” She slung the straps of her purse over her shoulder and smoothed the front of her skirt.
Ray stood, too. “Hi, Molly,” he said lightly. “Sorry about—” He gestured vaguely.
“Ray?” This time the word came out as a hoarse whisper. “Ray Storm?” She looked up at him as if working to convince herself that her vision wasn’t playing tricks on her.
He nodded, smiling. But inside, he steeled himself. As soon as she decided that it really was him, she was going to do one of two things: slap him or turn on her heel and walk away. Hell, she’d probably do both. “It’s me.”
She shook her head and kept on shaking it—slowly and steadily. She took a step backward and angled her head. He watched a muscle twitch in her jaw. Her pale skin began to regain its color, starting with splotches of pink in her cheeks. “So you’re not dead,” she said tightly. “I should have known.”
He held his breath. This was the deciding moment. To his surprise, she didn’t slap him. She merely executed a spectacular pirouette and walked away.
“Molly, wait.” He reached for her arm.
She jerked away and squared her shoulders. That gave him enough time to jump in front of her. “Come on, Molly. Let’s talk. Catch up.”
She whirled back to face him, the sudden dampness in her eyes catching the late-afternoon sun. He felt a pang in his chest.
“Catch up?” she echoed. “No. I don’t want to catch up with you. So if you didn’t die, I guess that means you just up and left. Went back to wherever it was your family lived. It must have been nice to have someplace to go to escape the inconvenience of Katrina.”
She swiped at her cheeks. “I’m not crying about you,” she said defiantly, her chin going up another millimeter. “It’s just—even after eight years, I still hear about someone I knew who died in the flooding. Or somebody I thought was dead shows up.”
That last had a bitter flavor to it.
She gestured, open-handed, toward her eyes. “It’s kind of an emotional roller coaster.”
“Let me buy you a cup of coffee,” he tried.
She glared at him. “Congratulations on living through the storm, Ray Storm.” With that, she turned on her heel and flounced off.
Ray watched her until she entered a drugstore. Then he looked back at the neutral ground, but Acles had disappeared.
MOLLY HENNESSEY CLOSED the front door behind her and took a deep, shaky breath. She set the bag from the drugstore on the kitchen counter along with her purse, then held out her hands and watched them quiver.
Ray Storm was the last person in the world she’d expected to see today—or ever. She still had nightmares about the last time she’d seen him—the day before the storm. The day she’d realized that the only reason he’d slept with her was to get evidence that her brother was skimming federal grant moneys from the Louisiana Disaster Avoidance Task Force, or LDAT. Stupidly, she’d given him every last bit of information she’d known.
She hadn’t heard a word from or about Ray since Katrina. She hadn’t lied when she’d said she’d thought he was dead. In the chaos that reigned once the flooding started, thousands of people were left wondering about friends, neighbors and family. A significant fraction hadn’t made it. She’d grieved for Ray until anger finally replaced the sadness. Anger at him for using her teenage rebelliousness and her self-righteous outrage at her brother’s thievery to get evidence against him. Anger at him for making her fall in love with him.
No. Not in love. She shook her head as she headed for her bedroom to change, kicking off the heels. It had been a hard lesson to learn at age eighteen that the man she’d given her virginity to had used her to get proof of the discrepancies she’d found between funds received and funds used for the LDAT program. Once he had them, he was practically out the door.
Then, as soon as Katrina had hit, he’d disappeared. She’d feared the worst. Now she knew. Of course he hadn’t died. He’d just escaped back to wherever he’d come from. He’d deserted New Orleans. He’d deserted her. He didn’t deserve her love.
But damn, he’d looked great today. Really great. Same thick black hair, same dangerously dark eyes and the same crooked smile that had never once failed to melt her heart. His lanky body had filled out in the past eight years. He was still lean, but in a hard, silk-over-steel, grown-up way.
Then he’d had the gall to offer her a cup of coffee—to catch up. Catch up! Like coworkers who’d lost touch. Her fingers curled into claws. If she had a do-over and longer fingernails, she’d claw his eyes out for walking out on the devastation and sadness of the storm. For walking out on her.
She closed her eyes and tried to banish that first shock of recognition when she’d looked up from her spilled purse. But the darkness behind her closed lids made a nice canvas on which to display his handsome face.
It had taken her a long time to get over his callous betrayal. She’d been only eighteen. He’d been her first lover. She remembered the tender surprise and chagrin on his face when he’d realized that.
She’d grown up a lot during the past eight years. She’d dated some pretty fine men, but no matter how much she cared about them, she’d never been able to commit to the long haul. The memory of Ray’s crooked, dimpled grin always got in the way.
Okay. That was enough thinking about Ray Storm. It was Wednesday night and she had a date—with herself—to watch her favorite cooking competition show. She needed something for dinner that was portable, satisfying and yet with zero calories. That was the only way she’d fit into the red designer dress she planned to wear to her brother Martin’s $500-a-plate gubernatorial campaign kickoff dinner on Friday night.
Just as she opened the refrigerator to check if the lettuce in her crisper had turned to slime, her doorbell rang. Frowning, she glanced up at the kitchen clock. It was after 7:00 p.m. She rolled her eyes. It was probably some kids selling candy for a school fundraiser or hawking subscriptions to the daily paper.
She went to the door and looked through the peephole but saw nothing. She put the chain on and opened the door a crack. “Yes?” she said, letting impatience tinge her tone.
“Molly, hi.”
The familiar voice sent a shiver up her spine. It was Ray. How had he gotten her address? As soon as the question flitted through her mind, she berated herself for her stupidity. He was an FBI agent. He probably had a file with everything from the address of her first-grade teacher to the date of her last period.
“What are you doing here?” she asked tiredly.
“Open up. I need to talk to you.”
She peered through the tiny opening allowed by the chain. He was standing a nonthreatening foot and a half away from the door. “I’m not dressed.”
That crooked smile raised the corners of his mouth. “Ha. That shouldn’t be a problem. From what I remember, you probably have two closets full of clothes in there.”
“Bite me,” she said and pushed the door closed. But she didn’t walk away. Her mistake.
“Molly, please.”
Her heart gave a little jump. He’d closed that nonthreatening eighteen inches by at least twelve. It sounded as though he’d put his mouth to the crack between the door and the facing.
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