was expensively cut to look that way, but there was no missing the quality of his running shoes, the aged patina of his wristwatch or the distrust and keep your distance shimmering the air around him.
It was hard to believe the uncomfortable boy in the Jackson family portrait had grown into this confident man. But weren’t her own middle school pictures proof that a person didn’t stay gawky, clumsy and a misfit forever?
“Mr. Jackson—”
“Landry.”
Her jaw tightened before she could stop it. “You were at your father’s house. Why didn’t you identify yourself?”
“To who?”
“The officer at the gate?”
“Why?”
“Surely you knew we would want to talk to you.”
With easy, lithe movements the failed ballerina in her envied, he pushed away from the wall and moved to stand directly behind Mary Ellen. He rested one hand on the back of her chair, the other on her shoulder, and she reached up to cling to it. “I have nothing to tell you.”
Alia ignored his flat statement. “When was the last time you saw your father?”
“A long time ago.”
“How long? A year? Two? Ten?”
Landry and Mary Ellen exchanged looks. “Twelve years.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“It was my wedding,” Mary Ellen supplied in a helpful tone. She struck Alia as the peacemaker, the giver, the one who wanted things to go smoothly for everyone else. Such a task could be exhausting work, especially with a father accustomed to command and a brother on the outs with him.
“No family Christmases since then?” Jimmy asked. “Funerals, christenings, anniversaries, birthdays?”
Landry didn’t respond. He’d given his answer and was apparently satisfied that it required no explanation.
Mary Ellen’s free hand fluttered. “Our family doesn’t... Landry isn’t big on formal events. He doesn’t care about things like holidays and birthdays, except for my girls’. He never misses my girls’ birthdays.”
But he never saw his father then. Separate occasions, Alia guessed. The grandparents one day, the uncle next. What had happened between the admiral and his son that they couldn’t set their problems aside for two hours for a child’s birthday party?
“Did your father have any enemies?” Jimmy asked.
For the first time, Scott Davison spoke. “He was an admiral in the United States Navy. You don’t reach that rank without making a few enemies along the way.”
The higher in pay grade an officer advanced, the fewer the billets, the fiercer the competition. But Jackson’s death hadn’t been caused by professional envy. It had been much too personal for that.
Beside Alia, Jimmy shifted. “You know, Mr. and Mrs. Davison, Mr. Jackson, things’ll go quicker if we talk to you separately. Why don’t we—” he gestured to the Davisons “—stay here, and maybe Special Agent Kingsley could take Mr. Jackson into another room...”
Mary Ellen was quick to agree, to start a suggestion on which room, but her brother overrode her. “You like flowers, Special Agent Kingsley? Because my sister grows some of the prettiest ones around.”
Alia glanced out the windows at the lush garden, catching a glimpse of Jimmy’s mouth twitching in the process. The sunroom was only marginally cooler than the outside temperature, though at least the ceiling fans created a breeze. Outside she would swelter—no doubt the reason Jackson had suggested it.
As she stood, he made a gesture, long lean fingers indicating a set of open doors. Fingers and hands that bore a few scars and calluses but no cuts. No injuries where a blood-slick knife had sliced through skin.
Though a killer with any sense would have worn gloves. Even a crime of passion would have allowed a few moments for finding a pair in the house.
She took the steps down onto the patio, and sweat broke out along her hairline. She loved New Orleans—even kind of loved the humidity—but this was turning out to be one of the heavy, muggy days best spent over an air-conditioning vent. Already her shirt was clinging to her body, and tiny rivulets were rolling down her spine. She swore she could feel blisters forming inside her shoes, and she was already regretting her choice of a suit this morning.
Landry crossed the patio to the yard. With the first step, Alia’s heel sank into recently watered grass. She put on her best blank expression, gritted her teeth and walked with him toward the nearest flower bed. “Do you know any of your father’s enemies?” she asked evenly.
“Twelve years since I saw him,” he reminded her. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze on flowers that were, indeed, pretty: tall, strong and healthy, vibrant colors against lush grass and graceful trees.
“What about your mother?”
He tilted his head to one side. “They were married longer than I’ve been alive. If she were going to kill him, don’t you think she would have done it sooner?”
Alia waited a beat before clarifying her question. “Where is your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Christmas.”
Six months ago. The only reason more than a week passed without Alia seeing her own mother was the thousand miles between them. She could hardly imagine living in the same town, only a few miles apart, and having virtually no contact.
“Is she on vacation? Visiting family or friends? Doing a grand tour of Europe? Volunteering in the rain forests of South America?”
That earned her a sidelong glance but nothing more.
“She must be somewhere, Mr. Jackson.”
“I don’t know where.” Before she could open her mouth again, he went on. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my parents and I aren’t close. Here’s what I know about my mother’s current whereabouts—one day about three weeks ago, Miss Viola called and asked if I knew she was gone. I didn’t. We weren’t due to see each other again until September. Mary Ellen confirmed that she was, indeed, gone, off to visit relatives. I asked her which relatives. She said the admiral hadn’t told her.” He raised both hands in a final that’s all you’re gonna get ’cause that’s all I know gesture.
Alia gazed at a giant orange zinnia so brilliant that it made her eyes hurt. So Admiral Jackson had given his daughter minimal information, and she’d accepted it. Because that was how their relationship had always been? He’d dominated and she’d accepted?
Could Camilla be dead? Were the rumors true that she’d been institutionalized or had taken off with a lover?
Feeling Landry’s gaze on her, she gently flicked a beetle from the zinnia, then resumed their
