Downtown Debutante

“So there’s no way out?”

“I have to find the stolen jewelry.” The more she talked, the more depressed she felt about her situation. “Let’s keep working the stores. Somebody, somewhere in this town knows Marvin.”

HEATH DIDN’T KNOW what to think about Brenna. Her parents hadn’t mentioned anything about a degree from the Kansas City Art Institute, and it hadn’t shown up on a background check. That was a pretty decent school. The way the elder Thompsons had presented Brenna, she’d sounded like a dabbler, a hobbyist. But she didn’t strike him as that way now.

Then again, what did he know about the jewelry trade?

Fueled by caffeine and sugar, Heath and Brenna visited several more jewelers. But Brenna’s enthusiasm waned as afternoon wore into evening. No one recognized Marvin, and there was no sign of the stolen loot.

“Are you ready to go back to your hotel?” Heath asked.

“Yeah. My feet are killing me. Where are you staying? Somewhere fancy? Our tax dollars at work?”

“Actually, I’m in the room next door to yours.” But he would probably spend most of the night in his car, alternating shifts with Grif—who was, speak of the devil, sitting down at a table uncomfortably close, his ubiquitous newspaper in hand. Brenna’s back was to Grif, so he grinned and waved at Heath.

Heath suppressed his urge to grin back. Grif was a good guy, fresh out of the academy and still having fun with the job. Heath sighed quietly, remembering when he was like that.

“Gee, and I was going to offer to let you sleep in Sonya’s bed,” Brenna said breezily. “Without Sonya, I mean. Since she’s gone. We could have split the cost of the room.”

Heath’s breath caught in his throat. Share a room with Brenna? Oh, yeah, that would be a smart move.

“Why would you offer me a place to sleep? I thought you didn’t like me.”

She batted her eyelashes in that flirty way she had that was starting to drive him crazy. “Well, I would like to know whether you wear that tie to bed.”

He knew she was flirting to throw him off balance. He clearly wasn’t her type. Her father had said she usually dated “long-haired artistic hippie types.”

“I don’t think the Bureau would go for me sharing a room with a…with a crime victim and potential witness.” Damn, he’d almost used the word suspect.

“Probably just as well you have your own room.” She grinned. “Staying with me, you’d be overwhelmed by my potent sexuality.”

She probably had no idea how close to the truth she was.

BRENNA STOPPED OFF at her room to change clothes. The weather in Cottonwood, Texas, had been briskly cool when she and Sonya had taken off last night, but it had degenerated into a muggy eighty degrees in southern Louisiana, unusually warm for November even in New Orleans. Her tank top was damp. She thought about taking a shower, then decided she was too hungry. She’d been ravenous the past few days, even for her.

Heath had suggested she go incognito to the jewelry show, in case Marvin was actually there. The last thing they wanted to do was spook him. She didn’t really think Marvin would be dumb enough to show his face at such a public event when he knew he was wanted. He would con someone else—perhaps Miss FrenchQuarterChic—to sell his stuff. Still, after donning a black denim miniskirt and a purple crop top, she tucked her frosted hair into a baseball cap and put on a pair of nonprescription glasses with pale purple lenses, which she sometimes used as eye protection when working with her jewelry. She slid her feet into a pair of platform sandals and freshened her strawberry lip gloss, then left the room.

Heath was waiting for her. Still in his suit. She thought his eyes shone with a strange light when he first looked at her, but then it disappeared—if it was ever there.

“Oh, you look real unobtrusive,” she said. “Only maybe four out of five people would guess you were a cop in the first thirty seconds.”

He arched one eyebrow at her. “And I suppose you dressed to blend in? Good Lord, have you never heard of a neutral color?”

“I don’t own neutral colors. And I’ve never been the kind to blend. You don’t think the hat and glasses are enough? As long as Marvin doesn’t get a close look at me, I should be fine.”

Heath looked doubtful about that, but he didn’t make her change. They set out toward the New Orleans Convention Center, which was on the river just west of the French Quarter and fortunately only a few blocks from their guest house.

“Where should we go for dinner?” Brenna asked brightly.

“You’re hungry again?”

“Those beignets were mostly air. Anyway, you must be starving. Hey, how about that place?” She pointed to a dimly lit bar with a corner doorway that looked as if it hadn’t changed for fifty years. Smoky jazz filtered out into the street.

“Big Daddy’s Oyster Bar?”

“It looks like the sort of place that’s not written up in the tourist guides.”

“There’s probably a reason it’s not written up,” Heath said dubiously.

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure? This place is just overflowing with local color.”

They entered the dark, smoky bar, which listed every kind of oyster dish imaginable on a chalkboard menu as well as boiled crawfish, fried catfish and a bunch of dishes Brenna didn’t even recognize.

“Just have a seat any ol’ place,” the bartender yelled at them. He was an enormous man with a huge belly who could easily have been Big Daddy. “Cherie’ll be around to get your order.”

Brenna led the way to a cozy booth in a corner, where they had a view of the street as darkness fell. A blues trio played in the back, the smoky strains of bass and guitar wafting through the bar, just loud enough that they could still converse easily.

A beautiful woman with toffee-colored skin and a dress short enough to get her arrested sauntered up to their table. Her hair was done up in an elaborate style that resembled a pineapple. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have the oyster variety platter and a cold Beck’s, if you have one,” Brenna said decisively.

The waitress looked at Heath. She licked her lips unconsciously. “How about you, Mr. Cop?”

Heath looked startled, but Brenna just laughed. “Told ya.”

“I’ll have the étouffée and a Pepsi.”

Brenna snorted. “Pepsi?”

“Can’t drink on the job, huh?” the waitress said. “You must not be a New Orleans cop, then.” She sauntered away, hips swaying.

“You really know how to have fun,” Brenna grumbled.

HER COMMENT shouldn’t have stung, but it did. Heath used to know how to have fun. He used to have a reputation as laid-back, always ready with a smart comment. He’d shared a great relationship with his fellow agents back in Baltimore. They’d played together in a summer softball league, invited each other over for backyard barbecues.

He’d never been a renegade, exactly, but he hadn’t been as worried about the rules as he was now. He’d been the guy people could count on, the one everyone wanted guarding their backs. He’d had a solid reputation for being cool under pressure and closing cases others had given up on.

That was BCA. Before Christine’s Arrest.

Now it felt like he was constantly walking on a fragile spiderweb. One false move, and he would break through and plunge into the abyss, or wherever it was that ex-FBI agents went. That, or he would become hopelessly entangled.

He’d made up his mind as soon as he’d learned that his transfer to Dallas was going through—he wasn’t going to make that false move. His image at the Bureau was in tatters, and there was only one way to rebuild it, and that was one brick at a time. One arrest, then another. One case solved, then another, and no controversy.

Brenna Thompson was walking controversy. Her irreverence appealed to the old Heath, but that was someone he could no longer afford to be.

He should arrest her and be done with it, he thought for the zillionth time since he’d met her. But that would be too easy. He needed Brenna, Marvin and the Picasso.

He had no illusions about what would happen tonight. Brenna wasn’t about to knowingly lead him to her accomplice. But she might be planning to make contact, to get a message to Marvin somehow. Heath would be there when she did.