The Suspects

Chapter 1

The hot New Orleans sun beat down on the fruit stands, beer stands and crawfish wagons that dotted the French Quarter. A saxophone wailed a lonely, sultry blues melody, and a woman's voice coaxed passers-by to buy the lady a rose. Tourists milled along in seemingly slow motion, past the waxworks, the street artist, the produce market and the countless bars and restaurants that beckoned to all who passed to stop and spend some time and some dollars.

Adrienne Hayes caught herself milling along with the crowd and winced at the thought. The last thing she wanted to say about her trip to New Orleans was that Adrienne Hayes was just another tourist in town. With new purpose, she turned down a side street. There has to be something to eat in this town besides crawfish and beignets, she thought.

Besides, she knew the sights that would be truly worth seeing were likely to be the ones most tourists never see — like that terrific little second-hand shop in Maine where she'd bought that old church bell — the one she knew she'd never sell, even though it turned out to be worth hundreds more than the $120 she'd paid for it.

Years of ferreting out feature stories for her job at the Midwest Regional Daily Crier had taught her where to look for the most interesting places and people; and they were almost never found in the heart of the tourist district. Sure, that seemed interesting, but most of the time, it was all just for show. Who knew? Maybe she'd even find some material she could used for a good column when the convention was over.

Ahh, the convention, she thought, letting out an audible sigh.

She'd arrived a day early to try to make the best of what seemed to be a sorry situation to her. She'd been stunned when her editor told her that she was to be the media advisor at a convention for police officers, where she'd be teaching a seminar on building relationships between law enforcement and the press. She'd laughed out loud — until her boss had told her he wasn't kidding. Five years of crime reporting and six awards for doing so had made her the logical choice, he'd pointed out.

Though she'd gained the respect of many law enforcement people over the years, the relationship between the press and law enforcement still could be strained, even among those who knew one another well.

And so, here she was, in New Orleans — doing her duty but determined to see some of the sights during her free time.

Absently, she walked down the street — one block, two — surveying the shop windows. As she walked, the glittery glass souvenirs became less common in those windows and slowly were replaced by local pottery and painted fabric wall hangings.

That's more like it, she said aloud. Her pace quickened.

A moment later she walked past a tiny store, then stopped and went back for a second look. Odd-looking dolls and symbols surrounded the doorway, and a bright pink and green neon sign announced that a palm reader and fortune teller could be found inside.

Curious, as usual, Adrienne stepped inside. The room was illuminated only by the glow from several odd-smelling candles scattered throughout the room and the muted sunlight that forced its way through the heavily smudged windows.

A glittering display of celestial sculptures, crystal jewelry, incense holders and a dozen other odd, probably deemed mystical items Adrienne didn't recognize filled the shelves just inside the window and spilled over into the rest of the store. The back wall was covered with shelves, too; and on them were hundreds of tiny jars, each sporting a tiny label and filled with dried plants, powders and goodness knows what else.

Oh, this is too much. Adrienne said it aloud, and as she did, she smiled inwardly at the reporter's cynicism that oozed into her voice and her mind; but she couldn't deny her reaction. The place could have come straight out of a gothic novel. In the year's she'd been a crime reporter, Adrienne had seen a lot of unusual things take place in a lot of unusual places, but even to her this little shop was exotically weird.

As she stared at an array of little molded figures on a shelf, Adrienne suddenly became aware that a woman stood beside her.

Adrienne pushed back a gasp of surprise and looked the woman up and down. She was dressed in a bright orange tank top, a pair of cut-off denim shorts and orange platform shoes with spike heels. Her skin was dark golden brown and her hair was a jet-black cascade of coarse curls that fell almost to her waist.

So you came to have your fortune told, the woman said. No Hello. No May I help you.

Adrienne bristled. Fortune-telling was ridiculous, and the woman's assumption that she'd seek it out annoyed her.

No I was just walking by, and I stopped in. I'm just looking around, Adrienne said.

Undaunted, the woman smiled and said, You are not sick, so you don't want to be healed. You don't wear jewelry. You don't like the smell of my candles — outsiders never do. So you came in because you wanted your fortune told. For $25 I will read your palm and the cards. Let me know when you're ready. I have work to do.

She went behind a counter that stood between Adrienne and the bottle-lined wall and began measuring small amounts of a dried, dark-green herb onto a scale, then transferring the dried leaves into a bottle.

Looks like pot, Adrienne thought; but she kept the words to herself.

As if she'd heard the words, anyway, the woman said, It's basil. And that's foxglove, and that's cat's claw — some are spices, some are ancient remedies. All of them are legal.

Adrienne pretended to carefully examine a small, carved figure as curiosity nagged at her.

Much as she hated to admit it, she had been thinking about having the woman tell her fortune, just for fun.

It's supposed to protect you from fire, the woman said, without looking up.

OK. What do I do? Adrienne said.

You are a storyteller.

That's not what I meant, Adrienne said.

Yes, it is. But if you are ready now, I will read your fortune. The money first.

"Because I'll be disappointed? '

Because I need the cash. Sit there.

The woman gestured toward a garish, overstuffed Louis XIV chair that faced its mirror image across a large, round table. A worn deck of Tarot cards sat on the table, along with a large glass ball that rested on a gilt, glass pedestal.

Don't tell me. You're going to gaze into the crystal ball and tell me the future. Adrienne said.

No. Your destiny is written in your palm. How you will get there is in the cards, and in your actions. The crystal ball's just for looks. The tourists like it, the woman said.

The chair creaked as Adrienne sat down, and the woman sat across from her as she dug into her purse for the required funds. Finally, she came up with two fives, a ten and five ones.

The fortune teller snatched the cash almost before it was offered and tucked it into a tiny bag at her waist with one hand as she pushed the deck of cards toward Adrienne with the other.

She instructed Adrienne to shuffle the cards and draw out the ones that would be read.

One by one, she arranged the cards on the table, face down, as Adrienne selected them.

One by one, she turned them over, pausing to interpret each one before turning over the next card.

This one shows that someone in your past is looking for you. You have great success and are surrounded by many people. Maybe too many people. These people depend on you. This one means a man is coming into your life. This man looks evil to you, but he means you no harm. He is coming to help you.

Adrienne made a face and thought Yeah. Right. And soon I'm going to meet Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome and he's going to rescue me from some terrible fate.How predictable.

Still, she didn't interrupt and the fortune telling continued.

Revealing the next card, the fortuneteller's smile faded. Almost breathlessly, she continued, You must leave this city, right away. There is great danger. I see you surrounded by fire, but it is not the fire that is the real danger. This will happen soon … you must leave the city now. Today. I can tell you no more.

With that, the fortune teller quickly rose and grabbed the figurine Adrienne had admired from the shelf.

Take this, she said. Pressing the object into Adrienne's palm, she quickly rushed through a brightly-patterned curtain at the rear of the store.

Adrienne shouted after her. Hey! That's it! For $25! Her first urge was to follow the woman and demand to know what her game was, but instead she turned and headed outdoors. At the street she turned back toward the tourist district, shoving the small figurine into her pocket as she walked. As she turned the corner onto Rue Royale, someone bumped heavily into her, and she felt the strap of her purse strain and snap.

No way, she shouted, Get back here! Hey, that guy stole my purse! she shouted.

She sprinted after the man.

He was a short man with a generous amount of belly flopping out of his overstretched Grateful Dead T-shirt; nevertheless, he was remarkably fleet of foot. How could he run like that in those outrageous sandals? Adrienne wondered.

The thief slowed at a street corner and Adrienne leaped toward him, hell-bent on bringing him down with a flying tackle. She missed, colliding hard with the ground instead; but a man who was sitting at small table at an outdoor café stuck out his foot, tripping the thief and sending him sprawling.

Adrienne hurt all over. Her ankle, her knees and the palms of her hands all hurt; but nothing stung as much as her pride. She gathered her nerves and reined in her pride; then, scooping up her purse and its scattered contents, she drew herself upright.

The purse snatcher lay on the ground, with the man who had tripped him above him, one knee firmly implanted in the small of the thief's back. The man was holding the thief's collar with his left hand and the thief's wrist with his right hand.

Wanna call 911? he said.

That won't be necessary, a voice that came from behind Adrienne announced.

Turning, Adrienne saw a woman in a blue uniform and stepped aside. The woman put handcuffs on the thief's wrists and thanked the citizen who'd foiled the thief's escape. The officer escorted the purse snatcher toward the police cruiser, instructing Adrienne and her benefactor to wait for her return, to finish the report.

While the officer secured her prisoner in the car, Adrienne took her first real look at the helpful stranger. He was about 5 feet, 11 inches tall, with thick, powerful shoulders that strained at the sleeves of a plain, light blue T-shirt. Tiny lines around his eyes revealed that he laughed a lot, and expressive deep, blue eyes contrasted with wavy dark hair that was edged with a few, bold gray hairs. Adrienne guessed he was at least 30; probably 35. The eyes were kind and intelligent, but he had a cockiness that Adrienne would have recognized anywhere. Five years earlier she would have called it confidence, but after her years of crime reporting in the field, it looked more like arrogance to her.

You're a police officer, aren't you? she asked. It was more of a statement than a question.

Does it show that much? Yeah. I'm here for a convention. My boss said I should come down here and find out that the press is my friend. See, he thinks I don't get along well enough with reporters, he said.

Oh really. Why not? she asked, smiling sweetly.

Because all they care about is their precious story. They don't care who they hurt, if they mess up our investigation, or whose way they get in to do it, he said.

Rage boiled in Adrienne's head, and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. His attitude was infuriating and she wanted nothing more than to let him know just that. But perhaps this isn't the time, she thought; and instead, she said, Some would say the same about police officers.

Yeah, but it wouldn't be true. At least, not most of the time. We're only like that in the movies; and then only when it's in the script that way, the stranger said.

And in your case? Adrienne asked, widening her eyes for effect.

In my case it would not be true, he said.

Changing the subject, he gestured toward a chair across from him.

Have a seat. I'll buy you a glass of iced tea, he said.

Adrienne shook her head, then changed her mind.

Sometimes a glass of tea is just a glass of tea, she thought.

Yes. OK. I could use a cold drink, she said.

The man waved down a waitress and ordered the tea, and the waitress produced it almost instantly.

So, what brings to you to New Orleans. You're a tourist? the man asked.

Adrienne drank deeply from the glass of tea, deciding how she would answer. She never had to answer, though, because the New Orleans policewoman was back, pen and report tablet in hand.

Adrienne focused on the officer's questions, then listened as the man who sat across from her related his own version of what had happened.

It was pretty clear what was going on, so I tripped him. Then you came and took him into custody, he said.

My hero, Adrienne said, batting her eyelashes.

Cut it out, Miss Hayes, he said.

She bristled again when he used her name, but she'd heard his, too, while the officer was taking the report.

Sorry. I couldn't resist, Sgt. Gracziano, she said.

OK: you're pretty observant. So what is it that you do when you're not tackling purse snatchers? he asked.

Oh. I'm a newspaper reporter, she said.

She again drank deeply from her glass and stood up.

Thank you for the tea, she said and abruptly turned away.

Nice to meet you. Have a nice day, he said. He watched her walk away, relieved that she'd chosen that moment to leave. If she was really a reporter, it was just as well. No reporter had ever given him reason to change his opinion before; and in all honesty, neither had this one.

Chapter 2

Back at the hotel, Adrienne swept through the lobby and into her room, slamming the door behind her. She leaned heavily against the door, pressuring the world to stay outside. The events of the afternoon had taken a toll and she looked forward to some quiet solitude.

A note on her cell phone screen proclaimed she'd missed some calls. She'd turned the ringer off while she was out, but sooner or later, she'd have to answer those calls. Probably a message from her editor, she guessed. He'd have read her story on the chemical spill, and he'd want to know why there weren't more details. She'd tell him neither the cops nor the company involved were talking, and he'd rant and rave for a half hour. She shrugged at the thought. He could rant if he wanted to. The call was on his dime. She was tempted to ignore the waiting message, but instead she sighed heavily and pressed the message key. Sure enough, there were three calls from her boss and one from her sister — something about forgetting the key she needed to feed the cat and water the plants.

Adrienne sank onto the bed to return the calls; but before she did, the thoughts of the unfinished presentation she still must have ready in just a few short hours overtook her mind and she sat, staring at the blank screen on the open laptop in front of her.

Her lecture had to be a good one; cops were a tough audience. In five years, she'd managed to get some of the local officers to talk now and then, but getting them to listen would be a whole different story.

Then there was Sgt. Joe Gracziano. With any luck he'll oversleep and miss the whole thing, she thought. If he attended her presentation, it was a safe bet the story of her