long time. Not since breaking away from her family. That spark of creativity, the urge to go with the flow and see where life led, kindled and fanned the flame of adventure.
Today was the start of a brand new day and she couldn't wait to see where she landed.
Chapter Eleven
C aptain Ronald Hilliard sat beneath the green and white awning of Café du Monde, a steaming hot cup of coffee nestled between his large-boned hands. A plate of untouched beignets sat before him, flakes of the white powdery sugar floating around in the slight breeze stirring the already warm morning. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face and he wiped it away. Where was Max? Why isn't he here yet?
Max Lamoreaux, Remy's big brother, called asking to meet him for breakfast. Called him at home before the ass-crack of dawn. This had to be about Remy, he knew it. He'd obviously heard from his brother and needed to pass along a message. Damn, he hoped Remy had gotten the girl outta the city before Dubshenko heard they were in the wind. With her protected, at least for now, the biggest job he had was trying to find Carlo. This had to be handled off the books, too, since no official crime had been committed. Unofficially, he had a couple of guys that he mostly trusted out looking for Mr. Carlo Marucci.
He'd done some research into the mysterious Carlo, Jennifer's brother. Jennifer had finally given them her real name along with her brother's. Giancarlo Marucci had a record. He'd been arrested for a string of petty crimes as a juvenile, nothing big. Shoplifting, joyriding, one arrest for possession of marijuana. Penny ante stuff. At eighteen, he'd been popped for robbing a liquor store and pled no contest, even though he hadn't actually been in on the actual liquor store holdup. He'd been in the car when the police pulled it over in Bossier City. Made him just as guilty as the one's who'd actually help up the place. Sentenced to five years. He'd been assigned a public defender who'd done a piss-poor job of advising his client. Still, from what he could tell he'd kept his nose clean in the joint, eligible for parole at 3 years, but was denied and served out his full sentence. He'd wandered around after he'd gotten out, moving from place to place.
About a year ago he'd moved to New Orleans and lived with his sister, Jennifer Marucci, or as she'd called herself at the station, Jennifer Smith. Yeah, right. Like he'd never heard that one before, although the Jennifer was a nice touch—they usually went with Jane Smith. Hadn't been long before Carlo got pulled into Dubshenko’s ring of illegal activities. The Russian mobster bought a brand new eighteen wheeler, and Carlo had driven supply runs. Never caught hauling anything not listed on his paperwork, and he'd been pulled over a few times, usually to yank a knot in Dubshenko's tail when he got too complacent.
Was he dead? His sister claimed he'd been shot smack dab in the center in the chest, had seen the blood. There wasn't any blood at her house, though there'd been evidence of a hasty cleaning effort. Funny thing, there had been a few drops of red on the floor, but it hadn't been blood. Not real blood, anyway. Synthetic, the kind used for movies and for the wanna be Goth groupies on the vampire tours down in the French Quarter. Unfortunately, they wouldn't be getting another chance to check out Jennifer Marucci's house. It had burned to the ground sometime after midnight last night.
Hilliard glanced up as Max slid into the seat across from him.
“Want coffee?”
“Is the pope Catholic? Of course, I want coffee. It's too damn early in the morning for this clandestine crap. Either that or I’m just too old for this spy stuff.” Max signaled and a fresh cup of hot black chicory bliss was placed in front of him. He waved away the offer of beignets.
“Have you heard from him?”
“Last night.”
Today was the start of a brand new day and she couldn't wait to see where she landed.
Chapter Eleven
C aptain Ronald Hilliard sat beneath the green and white awning of Café du Monde, a steaming hot cup of coffee nestled between his large-boned hands. A plate of untouched beignets sat before him, flakes of the white powdery sugar floating around in the slight breeze stirring the already warm morning. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face and he wiped it away. Where was Max? Why isn't he here yet?
Max Lamoreaux, Remy's big brother, called asking to meet him for breakfast. Called him at home before the ass-crack of dawn. This had to be about Remy, he knew it. He'd obviously heard from his brother and needed to pass along a message. Damn, he hoped Remy had gotten the girl outta the city before Dubshenko heard they were in the wind. With her protected, at least for now, the biggest job he had was trying to find Carlo. This had to be handled off the books, too, since no official crime had been committed. Unofficially, he had a couple of guys that he mostly trusted out looking for Mr. Carlo Marucci.
He'd done some research into the mysterious Carlo, Jennifer's brother. Jennifer had finally given them her real name along with her brother's. Giancarlo Marucci had a record. He'd been arrested for a string of petty crimes as a juvenile, nothing big. Shoplifting, joyriding, one arrest for possession of marijuana. Penny ante stuff. At eighteen, he'd been popped for robbing a liquor store and pled no contest, even though he hadn't actually been in on the actual liquor store holdup. He'd been in the car when the police pulled it over in Bossier City. Made him just as guilty as the one's who'd actually help up the place. Sentenced to five years. He'd been assigned a public defender who'd done a piss-poor job of advising his client. Still, from what he could tell he'd kept his nose clean in the joint, eligible for parole at 3 years, but was denied and served out his full sentence. He'd wandered around after he'd gotten out, moving from place to place.
About a year ago he'd moved to New Orleans and lived with his sister, Jennifer Marucci, or as she'd called herself at the station, Jennifer Smith. Yeah, right. Like he'd never heard that one before, although the Jennifer was a nice touch—they usually went with Jane Smith. Hadn't been long before Carlo got pulled into Dubshenko’s ring of illegal activities. The Russian mobster bought a brand new eighteen wheeler, and Carlo had driven supply runs. Never caught hauling anything not listed on his paperwork, and he'd been pulled over a few times, usually to yank a knot in Dubshenko's tail when he got too complacent.
Was he dead? His sister claimed he'd been shot smack dab in the center in the chest, had seen the blood. There wasn't any blood at her house, though there'd been evidence of a hasty cleaning effort. Funny thing, there had been a few drops of red on the floor, but it hadn't been blood. Not real blood, anyway. Synthetic, the kind used for movies and for the wanna be Goth groupies on the vampire tours down in the French Quarter. Unfortunately, they wouldn't be getting another chance to check out Jennifer Marucci's house. It had burned to the ground sometime after midnight last night.
Hilliard glanced up as Max slid into the seat across from him.
“Want coffee?”
“Is the pope Catholic? Of course, I want coffee. It's too damn early in the morning for this clandestine crap. Either that or I’m just too old for this spy stuff.” Max signaled and a fresh cup of hot black chicory bliss was placed in front of him. He waved away the offer of beignets.
“Have you heard from him?”
“Last night.”
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