secretary. Nat Jennings was in line for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. Cops had motive. They had her fingerprints on the knife. They got a doc out of 'Nawlins to say her wounds could have been self-inflicted. She claimed the intruder had come in through her son's bedroom window. But the knife that had been used to cut the screen was her own. And the screen had been cut from the inside, not the outside."
"Pretty damning evidence," Nick said.
"I'll say. Whole damn town was divided. I mean, you see that sweet face of hers and you think she couldn't possibly have done it. But you look at the evidence, and you're not so sure."
"So how did she get out of it?"
"She didn't, really. Alcee Martin arrested her the day they put her husband and baby in the ground. Cops pounded her all day and half the night. When they finally put her in a cage, she took a piece of tile and cut her wrists. Got the artery, too. Almost died, that one. Poor Alcee found her, carried her to his car, and drove her to the hospital hisself. But she lost so much blood she had some kind of stroke and went into a coma. I swear, Alcee ain't been the same since. He went above and beyond to make things right when he testified 'fore the grand jury."
It was the first time Nick had heard the story, and it shocked him. "Jesus."
"Can't figure why she's back, though. If I was her, Bellerose is the last place I'd want to be."
Nick thought about that. For a moment he considered confiding in Pequinot about the alleged witness she claimed to have with regard to his own son's death, but decided against it.
"If you want to go on home, Rita and I can close up."
Nick was tired. He'd been working nights at me bar and getting up at dawn, trying to work the farm back into shape. There was hay to be cut and baled, but the baler was on its last leg. He'd be lucky if he could get the damn thing running . . .
He'd just stepped out from behind the bar when the door swung open. A quiver of uneasiness went through him when Chief of Police Alcee Martin strode in looking like someone . had just killed his dog. His uniform was military neat. His boots polished to a high sheen. His Glock tucked neatly into its glossy leather holster.
His gaze swept the room, stopping on Pequinot, who'd stopped counting cash and looked up. "Mike."
"Alcee," Pequinot drawled. "Get you a beer?"
''Not tonight." Martin looked around the bar, his gaze lingering on Nick an instant too long before going back to Pequinot. "I got a missing child on my hands. I wanted to let y'all know. We're putting together search parties. We can use all the help we can get."
Pequinot came around the bar, his expression concerned. "Whose kid?"
"Becky and Jim Arnaud's boy. Ricky. I think he's their oldest, seven or eight years old,"
" Le Bon Dieu mait la main ." God help. "How long's he been gone?"
"Since about eight o'clock this evenin'. He was visiting little Jamie Beckett. Usually cuts through old man Gray's cornfield on the way home. Mama says he's always home before dark. But he never made it." Martin's gaze landed on Nick. "Gray's place is right next to your daddy's farm,"
Another wave of uneasiness swept through Nick. Six years ago he would have laughed at the suspicion on Alcee Martin's face. But experience had taught him that Lady Justice was not only blind, but cruel.
"Can you account for your whereabouts this evening?" Martin asked.
Pequinot put his hand down hard on the bar. " C'est tout du dregaille ." That's all trash.
Martin looked uncomfortable. “I gotta ask, Mike. He's an ex-con. People are going to want to know."
Fury swept through Nick at the implication, a blowtorch burning him from the inside out. A child, Christ. "You know I didn't have a damn thing to do with that boy's disappearance."
"For chrissake, Alcee, Nick was here behind the bar all night!'
Martin stared hard at him. Nick stared back, aware that his blood was pumping hard. A lost child. How could anyone think he
"Pretty damning evidence," Nick said.
"I'll say. Whole damn town was divided. I mean, you see that sweet face of hers and you think she couldn't possibly have done it. But you look at the evidence, and you're not so sure."
"So how did she get out of it?"
"She didn't, really. Alcee Martin arrested her the day they put her husband and baby in the ground. Cops pounded her all day and half the night. When they finally put her in a cage, she took a piece of tile and cut her wrists. Got the artery, too. Almost died, that one. Poor Alcee found her, carried her to his car, and drove her to the hospital hisself. But she lost so much blood she had some kind of stroke and went into a coma. I swear, Alcee ain't been the same since. He went above and beyond to make things right when he testified 'fore the grand jury."
It was the first time Nick had heard the story, and it shocked him. "Jesus."
"Can't figure why she's back, though. If I was her, Bellerose is the last place I'd want to be."
Nick thought about that. For a moment he considered confiding in Pequinot about the alleged witness she claimed to have with regard to his own son's death, but decided against it.
"If you want to go on home, Rita and I can close up."
Nick was tired. He'd been working nights at me bar and getting up at dawn, trying to work the farm back into shape. There was hay to be cut and baled, but the baler was on its last leg. He'd be lucky if he could get the damn thing running . . .
He'd just stepped out from behind the bar when the door swung open. A quiver of uneasiness went through him when Chief of Police Alcee Martin strode in looking like someone . had just killed his dog. His uniform was military neat. His boots polished to a high sheen. His Glock tucked neatly into its glossy leather holster.
His gaze swept the room, stopping on Pequinot, who'd stopped counting cash and looked up. "Mike."
"Alcee," Pequinot drawled. "Get you a beer?"
''Not tonight." Martin looked around the bar, his gaze lingering on Nick an instant too long before going back to Pequinot. "I got a missing child on my hands. I wanted to let y'all know. We're putting together search parties. We can use all the help we can get."
Pequinot came around the bar, his expression concerned. "Whose kid?"
"Becky and Jim Arnaud's boy. Ricky. I think he's their oldest, seven or eight years old,"
" Le Bon Dieu mait la main ." God help. "How long's he been gone?"
"Since about eight o'clock this evenin'. He was visiting little Jamie Beckett. Usually cuts through old man Gray's cornfield on the way home. Mama says he's always home before dark. But he never made it." Martin's gaze landed on Nick. "Gray's place is right next to your daddy's farm,"
Another wave of uneasiness swept through Nick. Six years ago he would have laughed at the suspicion on Alcee Martin's face. But experience had taught him that Lady Justice was not only blind, but cruel.
"Can you account for your whereabouts this evening?" Martin asked.
Pequinot put his hand down hard on the bar. " C'est tout du dregaille ." That's all trash.
Martin looked uncomfortable. “I gotta ask, Mike. He's an ex-con. People are going to want to know."
Fury swept through Nick at the implication, a blowtorch burning him from the inside out. A child, Christ. "You know I didn't have a damn thing to do with that boy's disappearance."
"For chrissake, Alcee, Nick was here behind the bar all night!'
Martin stared hard at him. Nick stared back, aware that his blood was pumping hard. A lost child. How could anyone think he
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