Kill and Tell cs-1 Read online

  The message was probably from a salesman or a charity; she hadn't had time yet to make friends with any of her new neighbors, and all of her other friends were nurses who knew what shift she worked and wouldn't call to chat. She couldn't think of any remotely urgent reason she should listen to her messages, but still she dropped her bag and went over to the machine. She wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that red light was blinking.

  Out of habit, she picked up the notepad and pen she always kept by the phone, just in case there might actually be a call she needed to return. She punched the play button and listened to the tape rewinding. After some whirring and a couple of clicks, a drawling baritone voice broke the quiet of the room. For some reason, her breath gave a little hitch. The voice was somehow beguiling, with warm, dark, pure masculine tones that quivered along her nerve endings, almost as if she had been touched. Even disguised by the drawl, there was a hard edge of authority evident as well. He said, "Miss Whitlaw, this is Detective Marc Chastain with the New Orleans Police Department. I need to talk to you concerning your father. You can reach me at—"

  He recited the number, but Karen was so taken aback she didn't write down a single digit. Hastily, she punched the stop button, then replay. When the whirring and clicking stopped, she listened again to the brief message and once again was so distracted by his voice that she almost missed the number a second time. She scribbled it down, then stared at the pad in a fog of fatigue and bemusement. Dexter was evidently in trouble and thought she would bail him out. No, he thought Jeanette would bail him out; he couldn't know his wife had been dead for six months. Had the detective said " Miss Whitlaw" or " Mrs. Whitlaw"? His drawl had slurred the word.

  She couldn't resist. She replayed the message one more time, as much to hear that voice as to determine if he had thought he was calling her or her mother. Listening closely, she thought he said "Miss," which was politically incorrect of him, but she still wasn't certain.

  She didn't want to call. She didn't want to hear about Dexter's troubles, and she had no intention of bailing him out of anything, anyway. All she wanted to do was get off her feet and go to sleep. She thought of her mother, how Jeanette had taken him back time and again, how she was always there if he needed her. He had never been there for them , but Jeanette had never wavered in her devotion. Suddenly, Karen felt swamped by an exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical tiredness and everything to do with a lifetime of bitterness, of wariness, and these last lonely six months of grieving for her mother. She was tired of being dragged down by her father's desertion. It was done, and nothing she could do would change it. She didn't want to be one of those people who spent their entire lives whining about their past troubles, as if that excused them from responsible behavior in the present. She had loved her mother dearly, still loved her and would continue to grieve for her, but it was time to get on with life. Instead of letting the empty apartment depress her, she should get her things out of the boxes she had packed them in to move, and make a home here.

  Maybe she would take more classes, get her master's degree in nursing. She might go into the critical care field. It was challenging but fascinating for those who could stand the pressure. She was calm during emergencies, able to think fast on her feet, both necessary characteristics in a good critical care nurse. She took a deep breath. For the first time since Jeanette's death, she felt in control of herself, of her life. She had to deal with Dexter, if only for her mother's sake, so she might as well make the call. Without giving herself any time perhaps to change her mind, she picked up the receiver and punched Detective Chastain's number.

  Unconsciously, she held her breath, bracing herself to hear his voice. How silly of her, to let herself to be affected by a man's voice on the telephone, but recognizing the ridiculousness of her reaction didn't mitigate the strength of it.

  The phone rang several times, but no one answered it. Surely detectives didn't keep bankers' hours, she thought.

  She glanced at her wristwatch. Seven forty-five. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath, and hung up. Louisiana was in the central time zone, an hour behind Ohio. Detective Marc Chastain was definitely not in his office at six forty-five in the morning.

  She couldn't stay awake until a reasonable time for him to be there. She couldn't stay vertical another five minutes. Dexter would have to wait.

  But she would call. When she woke up this afternoon, she would call. That decision made, she stumbled into the bedroom. Fatigue made her clumsy as she undressed. Yawning again, she stretched out between the cool sheets and sighed with bliss, arching her aching feet and wriggling her toes. She tried to imagine how Detective Chastain looked. Voices almost never matched appearances; the detective was probably a pot-bellied good old boy, edging toward retirement, with a couple of grown kids. But he had a voice like dark honey, and it was with her as she drifted to sleep.

  The shrill ringing of the telephone jarred her awake. Confused, startled, Karen bolted upright in bed, then groaned as she realized she had forgotten to turn off the ringer before she went to sleep. The digital clock taunted her with big red numerals: nine-thirty.

  She grabbed the receiver just to silence the obnoxious noise. "Hello," she said, her voice foggy with sleep.

  "Miss Whitlaw?"

  That voice. Just two words, but recognition tingled down her spine. She cleared her throat. "Yes."

  "This is Detective Chastain, New Orleans Police Department. I left a message for you yesterday concerning your father."

  "Yes." She started to say she had intended to return his call this afternoon, but he was already speaking again, the warm tones noticeably cooler.

  "I'm sorry, Miss, but your father was killed two days ago in a street shooting." Shock made her go numb. Her hand tightened on the receiver until her knuckles turned white. "Two days?" Why hadn't someone called before?

  "He didn't have any ID on him. We identified him by his military dental records." He kept talking, saying something about her coming to New Orleans and verifying Dexter's identity. He was brisk, businesslike, and Karen fought to organize her scattered wits.

  "I'll try to catch a flight today," she finally said. "If not—"

  "The airlines have special arrangements for emergencies," he cut in. "You can be here this afternoon." If you want to. She heard his unspoken accusation in his clipped tone, and resentment stirred. This man didn't know anything about her; who was he to stand in judgment on her relationship, or lack of it, with her father?

  "I'll call you when I get there," she said, anger making her voice tight.

  "Just come to the Eighth District on Royal Street."

  Karen repeated the address, then said, "Thank you for calling." She hung up before he could say anything else.

  She pulled her legs up and rested her head on her knees. Dexter was dead. She tried to absorb the news, but it was too unreal. She knew she should be feeling something other than shock, but she was empty. How could she mourn a man she barely knew? It was his absence, not his presence, that had shaped her life.

  Throwing the sheet back, she got out of bed. She felt like a walking zombie, but she had to make some calls, arrange a flight, pack a bag. Only duty drove her, but duty carried a big whip.

  Her father was dead. The thought kept reverberating in her mind as she stood under a cold shower. She hadn't really known him, and now she never would.

  Chapter 6

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  "Karen Whitlaw, Karen Whitlaw." A man named Carl Clancy stood at the pay phone—it had taken forever to find one with a directory—and ran his finger down the tissue-thin page. It was just after noon, and the sun was baking him. He shifted position so his body blocked the glare from the paper. No Karen Whitlaw was listed, but he found a K. S. Whitlaw. He would bet that was her. Single women always used their initials; the practice was so common they might as well go ahead and have their full names printed, except for the simple precaution of protecting their full names. He dropped some change into the slot and dialed