Behind the Mask

“Yes,” she admitted, reluctantly. She didn’t want to argue with the doctor, but she was getting out of here. Now. Or at least as soon as she located some clothes.

“The drugs appear to be wearing off fast, but I think you’ll feel a lot better for the night’s rest. You gave your young friends quite a scare when you started hallucinating.”

Brigit smiled at the doctor in conspiratorial fashion as she backed away from the bed.

“But I told them we’d see what some sleep would do for you,” the doctor continued. “I’m glad I gave you the shot before the officer showed up. If I hadn’t, I’m afraid our determined man in blue would have harassed you half the night. And you weren’t ready for that.”

Harassed? What was it with these people? Did she look like a basket case, or were murders just so commonplace in the Big Easy that nobody even bothered to report them anymore?

“I appreciate your concern, Dr. Benson, but I must talk to the police at once. Coherently. A young woman was murdered last night, and I may well be the only witness.” She turned to Brigit for support, but she had conveniently disappeared through the open door. “For all I know, the killer is still on the loose, doing who knows what,” Lindsey continued. “Running for his life. Maybe even killing again.”

The doctor flashed a patronizing smile, but his words were stopped short by a strident voice from the hall.

“You’ll have to wait. Dr. Benson would have my hide if he knew I’d let you in last night after he specified no visitors. Though personally I don’t see why he’s so worried about just another girl who overpartied. Mardi Gras! I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

Two sets of footsteps, one heavy, one barely discernible, moved closer to the door.

“I have to agree with you on that. But I’m just doing my job, ma’am. Just like you’re doing yours.”

A man’s voice. Strong and husky. And familiar, like an old love song. Lindsey struggled for air. It couldn’t be Graham. She was losing it, imagining things. Maybe the doctor was right. If her mind was playing tricks on her now, how could she be sure it had been any different last night on the float?

She waited, her body tense, as the heavy footsteps grew closer. Waited until a tall figure stepped inside, smiling uncertainly, his eyes riveted on her.

Her breath caught, settling in her throat like hot coals. She’d known this day would come eventually, but not now. Not like this.

“Hello, Lindsey.”

That was it. Two simple words. Years had come and gone since their last meeting. Ten long years, and now it all came down to a simple hello.

“Hello, Graham,” she answered, her shaky voice little more than a whisper. A thousand sleepless nights she’d wondered if her memories were accurate. If his smile was really that captivating, if his hair actually fell in lush, dark waves about his high forehead, framing his classic features. Now she knew just how deceptive memories could be. They hadn’t done him justice.

“Detective Graham Dufour, homicide,” he announced, flashing his badge for her and the others to see. His voice had almost broken on the simple hello, but it was all business now—and that was a message she needed to heed. Whatever they had once shared had died a long time ago. At least it had for him.

“I’m Dr. Benson.” The doctor broke the painful silence. He extended his hand, but the warmth he’d flashed at Lindsey was missing in his greeting to Graham. “It appears you’ve already met Miss Latham.”

“Yes. Lindsey and I are...old friends.”

Suspicion pulled at the lines of the doctor’s smile. “I’m going to let you have a few minutes with my patient. If she’s ready to see you, that is. But I want you out of here in ten minutes. She needs rest. So ask your questions fast and be on your way.”

“I’ll be fine, Doctor.” Somehow Lindsey managed a reassuring smile.

Graham’s gaze traveled over her, scrutinizing her face, her eyes, the outline of her body beneath the revealing covers of the hospital bedding. She pulled the sheet higher and raked her fingers through her long brown hair, pushing the wispy curls away from her face.

The doctor stepped to the door, then stopped. “When you’ve had enough, Miss Latham, just push that button on the edge of your bed. We’ll escort your young detective out of here.”

He pulled the door to, leaving behind a cloud of silence that threatened to suffocate her. She struggled for composure. She didn’t dare sit up, didn’t want to deal with Graham in her weakened condition. He’d surely notice the dizziness that once again had the room spinning unmercifully. He’d seen her weak and vulnerable before. He wouldn’t get that chance again.

She turned to slide the pillow higher, needing the added support.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

He stepped beside her. The smell of him assaulted her senses. A clean smell, soap and after-shave, and something more. That unmistakable musk that had always clung to him like a personal aura, a permanent badge of his masculinity.

“No, that’s okay. I can get it.”

“Of course. You always could take care of yourself, couldn’t you?”

“I manage.” At least she had been managing. Suddenly all her independence was going up in smoke. Her body longed to reach out to Graham, to bury itself in his strong arms, the way it had done last night in her dreams.

“So, what brings the famous Nashville research doctor back to old New Orleans? Surely not Mardi Gras. You were never one to mingle with the poor masses. This was always your week for skiing in the Alps.”

Sarcasm edged his voice and hardened the lines in his face. Nothing had changed in the ten years since she’d seen him. Nothing ever would. Those were the facts she needed to keep in front of her, not some romantic fantasy from her dreams.

“This isn’t about me, Graham. Things will go better for both of us if we just keep to the reason you’re here.”

“You’re right. So tell me what happened, before the good doctor runs me out.”

“I witnessed a murder last night. A young woman.”

“And where were you when this happened?” he asked, his expression cold and stony, successfully masking all feeling.

“I was on a float, in the Minerva parade.” The words came slowly, rolling off a tongue that felt too big for her mouth. No doubt another side effect of the drugs. “We had stopped. The crowds were pushing closer and closer. I backed away, against the support frame. I was just staring into the horde of spectators.”

Graham pulled up a chair and straddled it, his long legs stretching to the edge of her bed. “And you think you saw someone murdered in the crowd?” he asked, doubt clearly written in his face. “But no one else saw it?”

“No. I don’t think anything. I saw a murder.”

“Point made. And taken.” He settled in his chair.

Lindsey chose her words carefully. She needed to be as accurate as possible, in spite of the drugs. “I’m not sure where we were exactly, the route was so long. But it was somewhere in the Uptown section.”

“Was it near the beginning of the route?”

“We were about an hour into the parade, but we were moving slowly. I know we were on one of the avenues. There was a grassy neutral ground separating the two sides of the street. Almost all of the houses were huge, and they had balconies loaded with people,” she continued. “But not this one. It was dark as night, except for a sliver of light from an upstairs window. The window and room were rounded, like a turret, jutting out from the rest of the house.”

Lindsey tried hard to concentrate on her story. But everything seemed hazy. She wished she could blame it solely on the drugs, but she couldn’t deny the effect seeing Graham again was having on her senses. And the way he was staring at her now was definitely not helpful.

Detective Graham Dufour. He’d always talked of joining the police force, and she’d thought his aspirations far too limiting. But she’d been only seventeen. What had she known then of life...or love?

“And you saw something in this window,” he offered, keeping her on track like a good detective.

“Yes. A young couple, in costume.”

“A soldier and a Southern belle?”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“It was in the report from the hospital. A patient named Lindsey Latham admitted for treatment. Slightly inebriated and talking out of her head, mumbling incoherently about the dashing soldier who’d stabbed the beautiful Southern belle.”