Bayou Hero. Marilyn PappanoЧитать онлайн книгу.
Junior had accepted from Landry and Mary Ellen.
Finally she got to the point of tonight’s call. “Did you know him?”
“There aren’t that many admirals. You can’t help but meet them all sooner or later.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Jerry was a good officer. Hard-nosed. Strict. By the book, but fair. He never asked more of the people under his command than he gave himself.”
“Did you ever meet his wife?”
“Hmm. Not that I can recall.”
“She and the son and daughter didn’t accompany him to any of his duty stations, but I thought maybe she’d shown up for some official functions.”
“I remember him talking about his daughter like she was the prettiest, smartest, best daughter in the world, which was ridiculous since everyone already knew that was you. But I never knew he had a son. Huh. I would have figured any son of Jeremiah Jackson would have wound up in the navy himself.”
Just like any son of Charles Kingsley’s. Alia hadn’t been willing to go quite that far, but she couldn’t deny his approval had played a role in her application to NCIS.
Though he would have loved her no matter what career path she’d chosen. Could Landry Jackson say that about his own father?
She doubted it.
“It’s gonna be one hell of a funeral,” Dad said.
“I bet it will be.” It would have been a spectacle even if he’d died peacefully in his sleep, between all the senior-ranking officers and Pentagon officials, the upper crust of New Orleans society and the city’s love of a good funeral. But with the admiral brutally murdered, his daughter in shock, his son’s presence unwilling, his wife’s whereabouts unknown and law enforcement scrutinizing everyone in attendance, it just might be a circus.
“If you weren’t working, I’d be tempted to come. Show my respects to Jerry. See New Orleans. See you. It’s been a long time.”
Alia smiled. She’d flown to California for Christmas and stayed nearly two weeks. Still, it was nice to know he missed her. “I’ll let you know all the gaudy details. Maybe someone will collapse beside the casket and confess all.”
“It would be convenient, wouldn’t it? You watch out for yourself, okay?”
“I always do, Dad.” She hung up, then unwrapped a candy bar. She bit it in half and let the chocolate slowly dissolve in her mouth while thinking about what her father had said. Jerry was a good officer. How much had Jeremiah hated being called Jerry? Likely someone who outranked him had first called him that, and others had picked up on it.
But the admiral hadn’t been murdered because he was a good officer. His death had had nothing to do with the navy and everything to do with being a privileged man who felt entitled to whatever he wanted.
So what had he wanted that led to his death?
* * *
Alia was pulling out of her driveway Tuesday morning at a quarter to eight, with an oversize travel mug of coffee in the cup holder, a .40 caliber pistol and a Taser in their holsters, and a cream cheese–slathered bagel in her left hand. It was going to be another hot and muggy day, and she expected to spend little, if any, time in the office, so she’d dressed accordingly in a sleeveless blouse and skirt with a belt to hold her badge and weapons. A jacket, to cover the weapons, sat on the passenger seat.
The neighborhood where she lived consisted of three main streets: Serenity, Divinity and Trinity. It had gone through several phases in its history, from upper middle class to mostly slum, then back to respectability. Though some houses remained shuttered and decaying, in the past ten years new owners had given most of them new life. The gangbangers had been forced out, the local church was flourishing, and the neighborhood had its own market, preschool and two restaurants. They hadn’t had a violent crime in their few blocks in three years.
Alia had talked to Jimmy while dressing, arranging to meet midmorning to trade notes from yesterday. First, though, she was going to surprise Miss Viola and find out if the old lady was any more forthcoming about the Jackson family without a Jackson in the room.
With the radio providing background noise, Alia took a bite of bagel, savored the oniony dough and the creamy cheese and wished she’d tossed a handful of candy bars into her bag. Breakfast, no matter what it was, was always more satisfying with chocolate.
Her mind wandered as she drove, mostly to the whereabouts of Camilla Kingsley. Landry had said she’d had no choice when he’d left home. He never gave any of us a choice, he’d muttered. What about now? At her age, had she earned the right to make a few decisions for herself, such as this trip out of town? When she heard the news of her husband’s death, would she return home? Was she even alive to hear the news?
Maybe Miss Viola would tell her more than she’d volunteered yesterday.
The Fulsom home looked even statelier today. The white columns and siding gleamed in the morning sun. The dew-dampened grass seemed greener, the pastels of the flowers overflowing the beds softer. Alia parked in the driveway, in the dappled shade of an oak, got out and glanced around. A tall wrought iron fence circled the backyard, and the flowering vines that grew over it blocked even a glimpse inside while perfuming the air with their sweet jasmine.
A dog barked across the street, and a lawn mower sounded nearby. A woman sat on a porch swing—mother or nanny—while a small girl played with dolls. Life as usual.
Alia climbed the steps, weaving past a pair of antique rockers, bypassing a breakfast table and two chairs, reaching the door. She would bet every area of the house, inside and out, offered little seating areas for private conversations, both good and bad.
At the door, she pressed the bell, listening to its deep tones echoing inside. She pressed her ear close to the wood of the door, straining for any answering response. No footsteps. No call for housekeeper Molly to answer the door with a plate of her famous desserts in hand.
Alia moved to the right, sliding behind a settee to look inside the nearest window of the library. Fingers cupped to the glass to deflect reflections, she noted the old oak library table, the chair where she’d sat, the shelves she’d faced. Her gaze swept to the left, through the open doors into the entryway: elegant stairs sweeping to the second floor, a painting of a Fulsom ancestor on the wall above a demilune table, a priceless chandelier casting more shadows than it banished...and a small pink-clad shape on the floor.
Her breath caught in her chest. The form was thin, tiny, the pink a robe, one slipper to match, mussed white hair. The body lay mostly on a rug at the foot of the stairs, but the pale, frail hands were on the polished floor, fingers spread wide, the ruby ring catching a ray of light.
“Aw, Miss Viola,” she whispered. “Damn...”
Turning her back on the window and retreating a few steps, she called Jimmy, then her supervisor. Maybe they would be lucky, and Miss Viola’s death would be accidental. The old lady was eighty-one. Maybe she’d fallen, her heart had stopped or she’d suffered a stroke. Maybe it had just been her time. Maybe it wasn’t related, just purely coincidental to the other murders.
But if they weren’t lucky, the body count had just reached five. Were there more deaths to come?
Letting the scene process in the back of her mind, Alia began a walk around the house, looking for any signs of forced entry. Locating an unsecured gate into the backyard, she went through it, cell phone in one hand, pistol in the other.
She’d expected small elaborate gardens, an enormous swimming pool, a cabana or two, sprawling seating for fifty, a tiled or wood platform to support Miss Viola’s favorite string quartet or for speech-giving at political fund-raisers.
The space was lovely, but beyond a modest red-brick patio down a few steps from the veranda, it was all garden: vegetable, shade, orchard and flowers. Standing on the patio, she identified