squawk overhead.”
For most men, that wasn’t much to ask. Nick planned to do everything in his power to see that Elton had the chance to live that dream before he died.
“Any word from your attorney on the parole hearing?”
“I’m nowhere near the top of the list. But if I do get out of here, we’re going to take that fishing trip.”
“I’ll be ready,” Nick said.
“I want me some boiled crawfish, too. Some days I can almost smell them.” Elton smiled. “Course it always turns out it’s just the spices in the heartburn chow I’m smelling.”
Elton sat up straight again. “You know what else I’d like?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“To touch a woman, a real woman with curves and soft skin and hair that smells like flowers in springtime. You know the kind of woman I’m talking about?”
An image of Jacinth slipped into Nick’s consciousness. A Villaré—of all people to think of here in this place. “Yeah, I know the kind of woman you mean. They usually spell trouble.”
“Just a thought,” Elton said, this time chuckling into the phone. “Hell, even if I had a woman like that I probably couldn’t get it up with all this chemo they’re shooting into me.”
Probably not the best place to go with this conversation. “Did you give any more thought to what I asked you about last time I was here?” Nick asked.
Elton rubbed his jaw as all sign of his forced smile vanished.
“I’ve thought about it for the last twenty-two years. I’ve come up with a thousand different theories about who might have killed Micah, but none of them holds water. Truth is, with all the scenarios I’ve considered, I don’t even trust my memories any longer. But it’s all in the trial notes.”
Notes that Nick had been over a thousand times before and gotten nowhere with. But the trial had been manipulated by lawyers and layered with rules, objections and emotions. Truth could get tangled up in that.
“Just think about it again, Dad.”
“It won’t help. I don’t have anything new to tell you, son. I wish I did.”
But Nick was not about to give up, not while his father had a breath left in his cancer-wracked body.
Someone had gotten away with murder and his father was paying for the crime. He had a good idea who that someone was.
But he needed more than supposition. He needed proof. That’s where Jacinth came in.
RON GREENE WOULD NEVER be cast as the lead on a TV detective show. His face was pocked and treaded, likely the result of teenage acne gone mad and apparently untreated. His scowl was perpetual, the lines in his brow permanent, the wrinkles deeply furrowed though he was probably no more than mid-fifties.
But he definitely had that detective air about him, authoritative and intimidating. Even Sin had gone into hiding when he showed up.
That was two hours ago. Now the CSU was done and gone, leaving Ron Greene time to focus all his attention on Jacinth.
Just looking into his piercing eyes inspired guilt and gave her a compelling desire to confess something. The worst offense she could think of was running a yellow light on her way to work last Tuesday. She doubted the detective would be impressed.
She led him to the kitchen for the interrogation, or chat as he referred to it. The parlor with its uncomfortable antique seating seemed a poor fit for his six-foot-plus frame. The den seemed too cozy.
He turned down her offer of coffee and asked for water as he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Mind if I tape our conversation?” he asked.
“No, why would I?”
“No reason, but I’m required to ask.” He took a small recorder from his shirt pocket, set it on the table in front of him and pushed a button.
A green light flashed and suddenly she grew nervous, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if he could possibly consider her a suspect. Or could he?
Nonetheless, she was only telling the truth and that wouldn’t change. So why worry that it was being taped?
“Some of this is in the police report,” the detective said, “but I’ll have you restate it for my records.”
She nodded.
“Will you state your full name and age?”
“Jacinth Elizabeth Villaré. I’m twenty-four years old.”
“Single?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you lived at this address?”
“Eleven months.” She went over the details of the inheritance once again—explaining how she and Caitlyn had come down to New Orleans from Ohio with the intention of picking up the keys from the estate attorney and listing the house with a real estate company.
“What made you decide to stay?” Greene asked.
Admitting they’d fallen in love with the house and felt it was calling to them sounded far too corny to share with the blunt detective. “We found the city intriguing and Tulane University offered the graduate program I was looking for.”
“What program would that be?”
“American Cultural History.”
“It says in the police report that you work at Tulane.”
“I have a teaching assistantship while I complete my doctorate. I don’t see how these questions are going to help you find out what happened to the woman who lost her head.”
“I’m just trying to get a timeline here. What I’m going to need from you are the names of anyone who had access to the house after it was deeded to you. Construction workers, friends, cleaning staff, anyone who had a key or had one in his possession long enough to have one made.”
“I’ll have to give that some thought.” Unfortunately, there had been a constant stream of workers in those first few weeks after she and Caitlyn had moved in.
“I’d like to have the list by tonight. You can always add names later as you think of them. I’ll give you my card and you can fax the names to me.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m going to need as much information as I can get on your late grandmother’s lifestyle. Names of her caretakers. Whether or not she had renters or frequent visitors. Names of her friends.”
“I won’t be much help to you there. I didn’t have a relationship with my grandmother. The last contact I had with her was when I was two years old.”
Detective Greene shot her a look of undisguised skepticism. “So how did you
