Showdown in Mudbug (Ghost-in-Law, #3)(7)

He jumped back as if he’d been shot, and it was all Raissa could do not to laugh. His expression went from horrified to guilty to aggravated faster than a race car shifting gears. Raissa stepped outside and stared at him, her eyes wide with faked surprise. “Why Detective! I didn’t know you were still here.” She glanced at the handle, covered with fingerprint powder, then back at Zach, who slipped his hand with the brush behind his back.

“I appreciate the care of my door handle, but it only requires a good moisturizer. Powder really isn’t necessary.” She locked the door behind her and gave him a big smile, waving one gloved hand as she walked out into the hot summer evening.






It was almost eleven p.m. before Raissa finished her business and headed back to her apartment. The street from the parking lot to her shop was dimly lit, and Raissa stayed alert, knowing that anything was possible on a dark New Orleans street. Normally, she tried to limit her nightly excursions, but the people she needed to see didn’t do daytime. Unfortunately, her investigative trip hadn’t yielded her the information she’d hoped for.

She was certain she knew who had taken those girls but had never been able to prove it. She’d been close, so close, to the answer—or so she believed—when everything had fallen apart. She’d tried for years to shut those bright blue eyes from her mind, but in her dreams they still haunted her. Why were they taken, and what horrible things had happened to them that they couldn’t remember?

But even though Melissa Franco’s disappearance was exactly the same as the others, no one had seen the man she suspected. Not for at least six months, best she could figure, which troubled Raissa more than she wanted to admit. Granted, New Orleans wasn’t his territory, but he had family here and was the lead man in Baton Rouge for Louisiana’s most notorious mobster. Sonny Hebert valued trust above everything else. If no one had seen Monk in six months, then what did that mean? She could think of only one possibility, and it involved a trash bag, rocks, and the Mississippi River.

She was half a block from her shop when she saw a shadow move in front of the alley. She stopped for a moment and studied the street, looking for another sign of movement in the shadows, listening for a sound that might tell her whether it had been animal or human.

There was nothing but silence.

You’re overly alert. But even thinking it didn’t alleviate the uneasy feeling she had as she studied the alley. And since that uneasy feeling had saved her butt more times than she could count, she wasn’t about to start ignoring it now.

She slipped her pistol from the holster on her ankle and edged closer to the building, silently creeping toward the alley. It seemed even her breathing echoed in the stale night air, and she paused just long enough to control her breaths. Five more steps.

She eased up to the corner and studied the shadows that stretched out onto the sidewalk in front of the opening. No movement. Then she focused all her attention on listening, trying to decipher any noise that might indicate the threat her body so clearly felt was there. She waited five seconds, six seconds, seven—and then she heard it. The tiny shuffle of feet on the cement. Barely a whisper. But unmistakable.

She gripped her pistol with both hands and lifted it to her shoulder. Taking one deep, silent breath, she whirled around the corner and came pistol to face with a man.

He threw his hands in the air as soon as he saw her gun, and the sheer terror on his face made Raissa wonder if she’d mistaken a simple bum for a professional killer. But a quick glance disqualified the bum theory. Blue jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes weren’t exactly a tuxedo, but they were clean and the man’s hair was short, his face completely shaven. This was no bum.

He stared at her, his eyes wide, and finally tried to speak. “Raissa? Raissa Bordeaux…right?”

She studied him for a moment. Something about him looked familiar, but she was certain she’d never met him before. She never forgot a face. “Who are you and how do you know my name?”

The man’s eyes widened even more and he swallowed. “My name’s Hank. Hank Henry.”

And suddenly Raissa realized that she’d seen a picture of him in the Mudbug newspaper. Hank Henry—the disappearing ex-husband of her friend Maryse and son of the recently risen Helena Henry—was a legend in Mudbug. Mostly for being a coward and an idiot, not exactly the sort of legacy most people wanted to leave behind. Good-looking, smooth talking, and utterly useless was exactly how Maryse had described her ex, and taking a closer look at him, Raissa decided she’d probably agree with the “good-looking” assessment, but the smooth talking was nowhere in sight.

Apparently pistols pointed at his head gave Hank stage fright.

But then, given his propensity for activities that were not necessarily legal and his never-ending shortage of cash, Raissa wasn’t convinced that his lurking in the alley was benign. After all, he’d been hiding out for years, and his mother’s death had only profited charities and not her wayward son. Why show up now? “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s important. I…well, I…I think you might be in danger.”

Raissa narrowed her eyes at him. “From who?”

Hank’s gaze darted between the gun and Raissa. He swallowed again and looked at her. “Sonny Hebert,” he whispered.

Raissa sucked in a breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced behind her, then back at Hank. Whatever else Hank Henry might be, the one thing Raissa was certain about was that he wasn’t a killer. “I think you better come with me.” She tucked the gun in her waistband and motioned for Hank to follow. He gave her a nod and fell in behind her.