All the Queen's Men Read online

  Finally, the conveyor spit out her bag. Keeping a tight grip on her carry-on, she leaned over to grab the other bag as it trundled past. A portly, balding man standing beside her said, “I’ll get it for you,” and deftly swung the bag off the belt.

  “Thank you,” Karen said, her heartfelt gratitude evident in her voice as he set the bag at her feet.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” Nodding his head, he turned back to watch for his own bags.

  She tried to remember the last time a stranger had been so courteous, but nothing came to mind. The small act of kindness almost broke through the numbness that encased her.

  Her taxi driver was a lean young black man wearing dreadlocks and an infectious smile. “Where you goin’ this fine day?” he asked in a musical voice as he got behind the wheel after stowing her bags in the trunk.

  Fine day? Ninety-eight degrees with a matching percentage of humidity was a fine day? Still, the sky was bright blue, unclouded, and even over the reek of exhaust in this island of concrete, she could catch the scent of vegetation, fresh and sweet.

  “I don’t have a room yet,” she explained. “I need to go to the Eighth District police department on Royal Street.”

  “You don’t wanna be carryin’ your bags around in no police station,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s a bunch of hotels on Canal, just a few blocks from where you want to go. Why not check into one first, then walk on down to Royal? Or I can take you to a hotel right in the Quarter, but it might be hard to get a room there if you don’t have a reservation.”

  “I don’t,” she said. Maybe all taxi drivers gave advice to weary travelers; she didn’t know, not having traveled much. But he was right; she didn’t want to lug her bags around.

  “The bigger hotels, like the Sheraton or the Marriott, are more likely to have vacancies, but they’re gonna be more expensive.”

  Karen was so exhausted that she cared more about convenience than cost. “The Marriott,” she said. She could afford a few nights in a good hotel.

  “That’s just two blocks from Royal. When you come out of the hotel, turn right. When you get to Royal, turn right again. The police department’s a few blocks down, you can’t miss it. Big yellowish place with white columns and all the patrol cars parked out by the fence. It’s in all the TV shows about New Orleans, looks like one of them old Southern mansions. I reckon cops still work there, since the cars are still there.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the flow of words wash over her. If she could make it through the next few hours, she would go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow she would feel normal again instead of so unnervingly fragile. She didn’t like the feeling. She was a healthy, energetic, calm, and competent young woman, known on the surgical floor for her level head. She was not an emotional basket case.

  Within the hour, she was installed in a room with a huge king-size bed and a view of the Mississippi River and the French Quarter, which to her disappointment looked ramshackle, at least from the vantage point of fifteen floors up. She didn’t take the time to unpack but did splash cold water on her face and brush her hair. It must be fatigue making her so pale, she thought, staring at her reflection over the sink. Her dark brown eyes looked black in comparison with the pallor of her cheeks.

  The taxi driver’s directions made it sound easy enough to get to the police station, no more than five or six blocks, too short a distance to bother with another taxi. The walk would help clear her head.

  She almost changed her mind about walking when she stepped out into the heat. The afternoon sun burned her skin, and the thick air was difficult to breathe. She would have taken a taxi after all if the sidewalks hadn’t been buzzing with people who didn’t seem to notice the heat. Usually, heat didn’t bother her this much, either, and the nineties weren’t uncommon in Ohio during late summer.

  Her stomach roiled, and she fought back a rise of nausea. Maybe she was coming down with something, she thought. That would explain how awful she felt.

  But even with all her present stress, practically from the very moment she turned right off Canal onto Royal Street, she felt the charm for which the French Quarter was famous. The streets were narrow, and Royal was clogged with cars parked on both sides. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, the buildings old and, for the most part, dilapidated. But the doors were painted with bright, festive colors, flowers bloomed in boxes, ferns and palms turned second- and third-story balconies into gardens. Intricate wrought-iron railings and gates drew the eye, and alleys were lined with lush vegetation, hinting at the gardens beyond. She caught a variety of accents and languages as she passed other people. If the circumstances had been different, she would have loved to go into some of the exotic-looking shops.

  But today she didn’t have the energy to do more than place one foot in front of the other and hope the police station wasn’t much farther down the street. Even on the shady side of the street, the sidewalks held the day’s heat, and it was burning through the soles of her shoes.

  Finally, she saw several police cars parked in front of a stately mansion; when she got close enough, she saw the sign on one of the white columns: “New Orleans Police 8th District.” The building was a creamy shade that was too golden to be salmon and too pinkish to be tan. Black wrought-iron fencing surrounded the building and its immaculate landscaping. A genteel garden party wouldn’t have looked out of place there.

  Karen went inside the open gates and up a couple of wide, shallow steps. A massive door opened into an enormous room with blue walls and a ceiling that looked at least fifty feet high. Globed lighting fixtures, pamphlets for tourist attractions, and the general air of a museum made her wonder if she was in the right place after all.

  A female police officer was sitting behind a raised desk. She seemed to be the only other person there. Karen looked up at her. “Does a Detective Chastain work here?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he does. I’ll call and see if he’s in. What’s your name?”

  “Karen Whitlaw.”

  The officer spoke quietly into the phone, then said to Karen, “He’s in, and he said to come to his office.” She pointed in the appropriate direction and recited instructions. “Take a right, and it’s the third door on the left.”

  Ceiling fans whirled overhead as Karen followed directions; the stirring air raised chills on her arms after the furnace of the streets. She had never been in a police department before. She expected something approaching mayhem; what she found was ringing phones, people sprawled in chairs, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the odor of strong coffee. It could have been any busy, disorganized office, except for the fact that most of the people there were armed.

  She found the appropriate door and knocked on it. That smooth, dark voice she remembered so well said, “Come in.”

  She opened the door, and her stomach twisted again, this time with pure nervousness, as she looked at the man rising to his feet. Detective Chastain wasn’t what she had expected. He wasn’t middle-aged, pot-bellied, or balding. Mid-thirties, she guessed. He looked like a man who had seen too much ever to be surprised by anything again. Thick black hair was worn cropped close to his head, and he had thick eyebrows arching over narrow, glittering eyes. His skin was olive-toned, and his five o’clock shadow was heavy. A couple of inches over six feet, broad-shouldered, muscled forearms; he looked tough, maybe even mean. Something about him scared her, and she wanted to run. Only the years of discipline learned on the job kept her from doing so.

  Marc stood as Karen Whitlaw stepped into his cramped office. He had the usual cop’s talent for sizing up people, and he used it now, studying her with eyes that gave nothing away while he noted every detail about her. If she was distressed in any way by her father’s death, she didn’t show it. Her expression said that she thought this was all bullshit, but she’d get through it and then get on with her life.

  Pity, he thought, assessing her again, and this time with a man’s eye instead of a cop’s. He didn