Page 28 of Shadows Redeemed
As they pulled into the police station parking lot, she took a deep breath, centering herself. Whatever her personal thoughts, she had a job to do. Lives were at stake, and she couldn’t afford to let her emotions cloud her judgment.
“Ready?” Dane asked as they exited the car.
She nodded, her face a mask of professional determination. “Let’s see what we can ferret out from these two.”
Elvis leaned on the car, his hands clasped as he rested them on the roof. “Any memory of what these two hound dogs were like the first time around?”
She sighed as she slipped her hands to her hips and turned toward the station, a scowl twisting her features. “They were pompous asses, from what I recall. I had run-ins with them on afew of my cases, and they always came across as smug bastards.” She turned back to the others, furrowing her brows. “They were slick, but more like oil slick, if you know what I mean.”
Dane nodded. “So don’t trust them. Good to know.” He glanced over at her, a slim smile on his lips. “Let’s get some background on these two first.” He snatched his phone from his back pocket. The next thing Sage heard was him giving Blaze orders to dig into the two detectives, and to be careful in doing it. They were still cops, after all.
When he shoved the phone back into his pocket, he merely shrugged. “It always pays to know who you’re dealing with.”
Sage nodded and then stepped in behind him as they headed for the front doors.
As they walked into the station, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu. How many times had she walked these halls, chasing leads and seeking justice? But this time felt different. The stakes were higher, the lines blurrier. This time, it was personal.
She thought of Parker, of the way he looked at her with those intense, understanding eyes. She thought of Jacob’s warning, of the potential danger lurking around every corner. And she thought of Marissa’s words, urging her to listen to her heart. But what if her heart was just as confused as her head?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE GUILT GNAWED AT Parker’s insides as he trudged through the French Quarter, his mind replaying the events of the past few hours on an endless loop. He couldn’t shake the image of Luc Broussard’s face, twisted with rage and hungry for revenge, as Parker inadvertently led him straight to Jacob. The confrontation in the alleyway flashed before his eyes—the glint of steel from the knife he barely avoided, the sound of flesh pounding flesh, his brother telling him to run.
His stomach churned, hoping Jacob had managed to escape. He knew he had made the best call. If they both darted off in separate directions, it gave Broussard and his men more to chase, hopefully giving them a chance to both get away. But he worried his brother laid in some dingy back alley, bleeding out because his younger brother couldn’t keep a better lookout on his surroundings. He clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palms. No, Jacob was too smart, too resourceful to go down that easily. Parker had to believe that. His brother had survived this far—he could do it a while longer.
But now… Now Parker found himself truly alone. Jacob had made it clear he wanted Parker to stay out of whatever mess he’d gotten himself into. And Sage… Parker’s chest tightened at thethought of her. She had sided with Jacob over him, choosing the one she had loved a couple of years ago over the one she slept with last night. He should have known better. And it shouldn’t surprise him. She had history with Jacob. They were together a long time, so it stood to reason that she would listen to him, even after everything he did.
Fine. If they didn’t want his help, he’d find answers on his own.
His steps took on a new purpose as he wove through the crowded streets, and as he did, the death of Jacob’s handler, Eric Fontaine, gnawed at the edges of his mind. It made no sense, and thus, it was the puzzle piece he decided to focus on first. He could go to Nealey and Sullivan, but they’d give him nothing but a hard time. He chuckled as he ran a hand through his hair.Nealey and Sullivan. Sounds like some music team, even though they act more like clowns.
As he ambled the cobblestone streets, his footsteps echoed off the centuries-old buildings. The air hung heavy with humidity, carrying the mingled scents of jasmine, bourbon, and sizzling Cajun spices.
He swiped his bangs out of his eyes as he navigated the narrow sidewalks, his shirt clinging to his skin in the sultry afternoon heat, making him absently pull at his collar. Around him, wrought-iron balconies dripped with lush ferns and colorful bougainvillea, their intricate designs telling silent stories of the Quarter’s storied past, stories to which he wished he had the time to sit and listen.
As he passed Preservation Hall, the mournful wail of a trumpet drifted through the open windows, its bluesy notes seeming to give voice to the very soul of New Orleans. He paused for a moment, tapping his foot in time with the syncopated rhythm before hurrying on his way. There was something about New Orleans’ music that always made him pause, no matterwhat. It had a way of calming a person. Or making them shake their ass. Right then, he needed that calming power.
He sidestepped a fortune teller’s table on the corner, her cards spread out like a roadmap to unseen futures. The woman’s kohl-rimmed eyes met his for a moment, and he felt a shiver despite the warmth of the day, almost as if she could see through him to whatever laid ahead. Perhaps he should stop and ask her what his luck was in surviving this mess.
Raucous laugher spilled from a nearby bar, where tourists and locals alike sought refuge from the heat in frosty glasses of Sazerac and Hurricanes. He only wished he had time to join them for a drink, but not now. Now he had to save his brother’s ass.
As he rounded the corner onto Bourbon Street, the cacophony of music, loud voices, and clinking glasses washed over him. Neon signs flickered to life in the gathering dusk, their gaudy colors a stark contrast to the Quarter’s old-world charm.
Stepping off the main walkway, he found a quiet corner and leaned against a sun-warmed brick wall. He then pulled out his phone to review what he knew about his brother’s situation so far. Eric Fontaine, a respected officer, killed execution-style. No signs of struggle, no robbery. Professional hit, the police said. But why? Who would want Jacob’s handler dead? Besides Jacob, that is.
If Parker followed the train of thought that Jacob killed him, then that meant Jacob was indeed dirty, and Eric more than likely discovered his criminal behavior causing Jacob to kill him to protect himself. Parker had a hard time believing that, though. He had no delusions that Jacob could be a scoundrel at times and crossed the lines when it suited his needs, but murder? Drugs? That seemed too farfetched. No, that line of thought was a waste of time.
So then who?
He went down the list of suspects. Luc Broussard and his family seemed the likeliest possibilities. It was their drugs, after all. Their money that was lost. They could have stumbled across Eric at some point, realized he was a cop, and had him killed before he could arrest him. But did that mean the Broussards knew Jacob was a cop before Sage gave Luc that little tidbit? He doubted it. His brother was too damn good at what he did. And if they had discovered it, why didn’t they kill him at the same time they killed Eric? No. He didn’t like that trail either. So far, it stood to reason that up until that morning they believed Jacob was merely someone who had double-crossed them and wanted to make him pay for it.
So who killed Eric?
Parker blew out a breath as he ran a hand through his hair. None of this made sense. If the Broussards knew Eric was a cop, then they knew Jacob was one as well, but by Luc’s reaction, it seemed they had been clueless, thank god. So that meant they would have had no reason to kill Jacob’s handler, which meant it had to be a third party.
Then his eyes went wide as everything made a foggy sort of sense. Whoever stole the drugs and money killed Eric and framed Jacob, and Parker doubted it was a rival of the Broussards. It could only be someone who knew about Eric Fontaine’s involvement as Jacob’s handler, which meant it had to be a cop.
“Holy shit.” He felt his heart pounding harder as it all started to make sense. Eric Fontaine had to have discovered cops were involved, but did he tell Jacob? Parker had to guess not because his brother would have mentioned that by now. It wasn’t the entire NOPD after Jacob, but a corrupt cop who would have had the means to frame him.
