Don't Say a Word

“Damon, Jean-Paul,” Stephanie said in a muffled voice. “What’s happening?”

“We found a woman’s body, that is, part of one, today in the bayou.” Damon turned to his family while the officers escorted Antwaun to the squad car. “It may be someone Antwaun knows. I’m sure we can clear this up. But I need to go.”

His mother pressed a hand to his back. “Yes, Damon, please go. Help your brother.”

Jean-Paul touched Britta’s cheek. “Sweetheart—”

“Shh. Go, Jean-Paul. Your maman is right. Take care of Antwaun.”

His father pasted on a confident face as he curved an arm around Daniella, though anxiety lined his mouth. Catherine and Stephanie, encircled their parents like protective watchdogs. Their father had been injured during the last big hurricane, and they all worried about his health now, especially his heart.

His sisters agreed to stay with their parents while Damon and Jean-Paul rushed out. As soon as they climbed in the sedan, Jean-Paul barked, “How bad is it, Damon?”

Damon clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. Like I said earlier, we found part of a body. A woman’s hand.” He explained about the ring and Antwaun’s connection to Kendra Yates, and they both speculated over how the police had identified her so quickly.

Jean-Paul muttered something about Antwaun always finding trouble, then turned to stare out the window, and Damon stepped on the gas, his anxiety rising with every passing second. He wanted to hear exactly what Antwaun had to say.

His brother had lied to him before. Antwaun knew more than he’d admitted about this woman, Kendra. And Damon intended to find out what Antwaun was keeping from him and why the police, his own fellow officers, suspected he might be a murderer.

A PRESS MOB AWAITED ANTWAUN at the police station, turning his steel nerves to mush. How the hell had they identified this victim and discovered his involvement with her so quickly? Cameras flashed, reporters shoved microphones toward his face, firing questions at him that blurred in a giant fog.

“Officer Dubois, were you the last person to see Kendra Yates alive?”

“Is it true that she was mauled by the gators, that only her hand was found?”

“Do you know who left her to the gators?”

“Is there another serial killer in New Orleans?”

“Did you kill her, Officer Dubois?”

Antwaun barely resisted shooting daggers at the reporters with his eyes and clamped his mouth shut, knowing anything he said might be misconstrued. Why the fuck was the press so interested in this story? Who had leaked the details of the crime scene to them?

His throat clogged with emotions at the realization that Kendra was dead. Mon coeur he had called her. She’d asked about the French Cajun term and he’d taken her hand and placed it over his chest. “My heart,” he’d said, letting her know it belonged to her.

She had been so young, so pretty, her body lithe and elegant like a dancer’s. Her hands had been like magic, those slender fingers always gliding over him, so titillating and ready to please. And that tongue—she was sharp witted and quick with words, yet in bed she’d used that mile-long tongue to bathe him in ecstasy. Hell, she’d been a pussycat, who’d lapped him up like a bowl of cream. No wonder he’d fallen for her.

His partner ushered him to the side door while the lieutenant fended off questions with a statement about releasing information as soon as it became available.

Jean-Paul and Damon arrived and wove through the crowd. One of the reporters snagged Jean-Paul by the shirtsleeve, forcing him to stop. Jean-Paul curled his hand into a fist, and Antwaun waited with bated breath, half hoping his older brother would lose his cool just once and pound the guy’s mouth shut.

“Detective Dubois?” the catty reporter snarled at Jean-Paul. “We know how the cops think. They protect their own. How can the public get justice in this case?”

Jean-Paul stabbed him with a knifelike glare, but kept his fist clenched by his side. “We are here to see that justice is served.”

“How is that possible? Antwaun Dubois is not only surrounded by his friendly police force, but you and your brother, a federal agent, are here to defend him.”

In a barely controlled move, Jean-Paul jerked the man by the tie, knotting it into his fist until the pissant coughed to get air. “My brother is here to help his fellow officers find this woman’s murderer. Now, get out of the way.”

Antwaun’s emotions boomeranged between gratitude to have his brothers on his side, and humiliation that they had to be. His partner pushed him inside the door, and Antwaun glared at a couple of rookies who watched him with lecherous expressions as if they were ready to string him up and hang him.

Clenching his jaw, he braced himself to face being seated on the other side of the table in the interrogation room. He knew how the cops would play him; he’d acted the role of bad cop a hundred times himself, although truth be told, he didn’t have to act.

At the same time, his mind spun with questions, theories, and…lies.

Had he been the last person to see Kendra alive?

“All right, Dubois.” Lieutenant Phelps spread photos of the decimated hand across the scarred wooden table. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Antwaun forced himself to remain calm. He hadn’t yet requested legal representation, but he would if needed. For now, he schooled his reactions. He didn’t want to antagonize his superior, and calling in his union rep or a lawyer would do that. So would being a smart-ass. He’d had that lesson pounded into him in the military more times than he could count.

“It’s a hand, Lieutenant. A very decomposed one at that,” he said quietly. “I can’t say with any certainty that I know who it belonged to, not without forensic reports.” He paused, leaned back in his chair. Knew his brothers were watching from the other side of the two-way glass. If ever he’d wanted to impress them by being cool and professional, it was now.

But sweat rolled down his back, soaking his shirt and making it stick to the cheap vinyl chair. A droplet tickled his scalp, slowly making its way down his crown. The next thing he knew it would be trickling down into his eye. He’d wipe it, the cops would see that he was nervous, then they’d pounce like vultures hunting prey. Even aware of the goddamn drill, he still couldn’t stop the flow of nervous energy seeping through his veins.

“Who do you think this woman is? And do you have proof?” Antwaun asked.

“We checked fingerprints. Her name is Kendra Yates,” Lieutenant Phelps said with no inflection in his voice. “We also know that you and she dated. That the ring on the finger of the woman’s hand we found was bought by you.”

Antwaun schooled his reaction. They’d done their homework, and very quickly. “So. I haven’t seen her in months.”

“You were working undercover at the time?”

He nodded. “I thought she might have a connection to Karl Swafford.”

“And what had you discovered about him?”

This was all in his report, but again, he wrestled his anger under control. He had to go through the motions. “Since Katrina, Karl Swafford has spent millions of dollars rebuilding the casinos. He was being investigated for possible connections to the mob, embezzlement, money laundering and murder.”

“You suspected Miss Yates was involved with him?”

“Yes.”

“What made you suspect they had a relationship?”

Antwaun hesitated. Kendra had no idea how he’d first seen her. What he’d thought. “I was doing surveillance on Swafford. I saw her in bed with the man.” In fact, he’d watched her perform a very seductive strip show for the bastard. Had seen her give Swafford a blow job that had made Antwaun want her mouth wrapped around him. Then he’d watched Swafford run his fingers over her naked body, throw her down on the bed and bang her with such force that Antwaun had nearly ground his molars down to nubs with envy…and disgust.

When Swafford had crawled off her, he’d noticed the tears in Kendra’s eyes. He’d never quite understood them, but that one glimpse of her vulnerability had twisted at heartstrings he hadn’t even known he possessed.

But he was all about the job, and like a good cop, he’d cozied up to her to use her.

Then he’d been the recipient of that mouth, and he’d fallen in love.

No, lust. He might have mistaken the two a couple of times, but never again.

“You began seeing Miss Yates, hoping she’d squeal on Swafford?”

He nodded. He’d thought he could seduce her into talking. “But it didn’t pan out. Turns out she was just a dancer who hooked up with him one night.”