lieutenant’s steady gaze flashed across the family, then settled on Jean-Paul. “The press knows about the partial body. We had to do this by the book or they’d slaughter us for protecting one of our own.”
“You should protect your own,” Damon muttered. So why weren’t they? Damon wondered. Had Antwaun made an enemy on the force, someone who wanted to see him in trouble?
Lieutenant Phelps narrowed his eyes at Antwaun.
“I’m sorry, Jean-Paul,” Antwaun said in a gravelly voice. “Please go back and finish your celebration. I’ll have this issue resolved in no time.”
“What does he need protecting from?” Jean-Paul snapped. The lieutenant opened his mouth to speak, but Jean-Paul cut him off. “Never mind. We’ll settle this at the precinct.”
The family had gathered in the hall to see what was happening, a mass of anger and bewilderment charging the air.
“We’ll need your gun,” Lieutenant Phelps ordered.
Antwaun glared at him, but Jean-Paul calmly retrieved the weapon from the locked cabinet. Damon’s heart bled for his brother. He had never quite understood Antwaun and his temper, but he was blood kin, and he loved him just the same. Nothing would be more humiliating than being treated like a criminal in front of your family.
He should know—he feared it on a daily basis.
Still, as quiet murmurs of disbelief and support rumbled through the room from various family members, his gut tightened with worry.
“Damon, Jean-Paul,” Stephanie said in a muffled voice. “What’s happening?”
“We found a woman’s body, that is, part of one, today in the bayou.” Damon turned to his family while the officers escorted Antwaun to the squad car. “It may be someone Antwaun knows. I’m sure we can clear this up. But I need to go.”
His mother pressed a hand to his back. “Yes, Damon, please go. Help your brother.”
Jean-Paul touched Britta’s cheek. “Sweetheart—”
“Shh. Go, Jean-Paul. Your maman is right. Take care of Antwaun.”
His father pasted on a confident face as he curved an arm around Daniella, though anxiety lined his mouth. Catherine and Stephanie, encircled their parents like protective watchdogs. Their father had been injured during the last big hurricane, and they all worried about his health now, especially his heart.
His sisters agreed to stay with their parents while Damon and Jean-Paul rushed out. As soon as they climbed in the sedan, Jean-Paul barked, “How bad is it, Damon?”
Damon clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. Like I said earlier, we found part of a body. A woman’s hand.” He explained about the ring and Antwaun’s connection to Kendra Yates, and they both speculated over how the police had identified her so quickly.
Jean-Paul muttered something about Antwaun always finding trouble, then turned to stare out the window, and Damon stepped on the gas, his anxiety rising with every passing second. He wanted to hear exactly what Antwaun had to say.
His brother had lied to him before. Antwaun knew more than he’d admitted about this woman, Kendra. And Damon intended to find out what Antwaun was keeping from him and why the police, his own fellow officers, suspected he might be a murderer.
A PRESS MOB AWAITED ANTWAUN at the police station, turning his steel nerves to mush. How the hell had they identified this victim and discovered his involvement with her so quickly? Cameras flashed, reporters shoved microphones toward his face, firing questions at him that blurred in a giant fog.
“Officer Dubois, were you the last person to see Kendra Yates alive?”
“Is it true that she was mauled by the gators, that only her hand was found?”
“Do you know who left her to the gators?”
“Is there another serial killer in New Orleans?”
“Did you kill her, Officer Dubois?”
Antwaun barely resisted shooting daggers at the reporters with his eyes and clamped his mouth shut, knowing anything he said might be misconstrued. Why the fuck was the press so interested in this story? Who had leaked the details of the crime scene to them?
His throat clogged with emotions at the realization that Kendra was dead. Mon coeur he had called her. She’d asked about the French Cajun term and he’d taken her hand and placed it over his chest. “My heart,” he’d said, letting her know it belonged to her.
She had been so young, so pretty, her body lithe and elegant like a dancer’s. Her hands had been like magic, those slender fingers always gliding over him, so titillating and ready to please. And that tongue—she was sharp witted and quick with words, yet in bed she’d used that mile-long tongue to bathe him in ecstasy. Hell, she’d been a pussycat, who’d lapped him up like a bowl of cream. No wonder he’d fallen for her.
His partner ushered him to the side door while the lieutenant fended off questions with a statement about releasing information as soon as it became available.
Jean-Paul and Damon arrived and wove through the crowd. One of the reporters snagged Jean-Paul by the shirtsleeve, forcing him to stop. Jean-Paul curled his hand into a fist, and Antwaun waited with bated breath, half hoping his older brother would lose his cool just once and pound the guy’s mouth shut.
“Detective Dubois?” the catty reporter snarled at Jean-Paul. “We know how the cops think. They protect their own. How can the public get justice in this case?”
Jean-Paul stabbed him with a knifelike glare, but kept his fist clenched by his side. “We are here to see that justice is served.”
“How is that possible? Antwaun Dubois is not only surrounded by his friendly police force, but you and your brother, a federal agent, are here to defend him.”
In a barely controlled move, Jean-Paul jerked the man by the tie, knotting it into his fist until the pissant coughed to get air. “My brother is here to help his fellow officers find this woman’s murderer. Now, get out of the way.”
Antwaun’s emotions boomeranged between gratitude to have his brothers on his side, and humiliation that they had to be. His partner pushed him inside the door, and Antwaun glared at a couple of rookies who watched him with lecherous expressions as if they were ready to string him up and hang him.
Clenching his jaw, he braced himself to face being seated on the other side of the table in the interrogation room. He knew how the cops would play him; he’d acted the role of bad cop a hundred times himself, although truth be told, he didn’t have to act.
At the same time, his mind spun with questions, theories, and…lies.
Had he been the last person to see Kendra alive?
“All right, Dubois.” Lieutenant Phelps spread photos of the decimated hand across the scarred wooden table. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Antwaun forced himself to remain calm. He hadn’t yet requested legal representation, but he would if needed. For now, he schooled his reactions.
