the wall, she closed her eyes. They hadn’t seen the witness or learned his name. All Eden knew was that a man had come forward after a two-day delay and announced that he could identify Maxwell Burgoyne’s murderer.
Eden also knew that thanks to her presence in the lineup he’d been unable to make good on his promise.
“Your sister’s a fortunate woman.”
The voice came from the shadowy region to her right. When she opened her eyes, she saw a tall, male silhouette lounging against one of the archway frames.
His hair, she noticed, skimmed his shoulders. While he appeared relaxed, she heard New Orleans in his voice and recognized the predator behind it. Whether she’d met him here or on a California beach, she’d have pegged him as a cop right off.
“Not in the mood to chat?” he asked when she didn’t respond.
Because it wasn’t in her nature to be rude, she murmured, “Lost in thought, I guess. It’s been a long day. I suppose she is fortunate, yes.”
Because he lingered in the shadows, she couldn’t make out his features. Except his mouth. She could see that clearly enough. “You’re Eden Bennett,” he said. “And, like your sister, you have no alibi for the night Maxwell Burgoyne was killed.”
“Exactly. No alibi, no way for your witness to be sure which one of us he thinks he saw, no charges pending against either of us at this point.”
“There will be a thorough investigation, you understand that.”
Eden drew her brows together. “We’re counting on it, Detective…”
“LaMorte,” he obliged. “Armand.”
“Are you involved in this investigation?”
“I’d be crazy to be here at this hour if I weren’t, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. You look like a night shift kind of person to me.”
“Uh-huh. Do you believe your sister’s innocent?”
The question didn’t faze her, but Eden still wished she could see him better. “Absolutely. The only things Lisa’s ever killed are aphids, and not many of those.”
“She’s a gardener.” He smiled at her speculative expression. “It’s in the report. She says she was home and working in her garden when the victim was struck. Do you like gardens, Eden?”
“I appreciate them.” She glanced at Lisa, saw the strain on her features and gave an inward sigh. “Will this take much longer?”
“I doubt it. You’re the oldest, aren’t you?”
“I’m twenty-nine,” she told him. “Lisa’s twenty-eight. Mary’s twenty-six. We were raised by three different sets of parents.”
“Did you know Maxwell as children?”
“We never even knew of him. Lisa located our birth mother, Lucille Chaney, six months before she contacted me. That was ten years ago. Lucille said she put us up for adoption when her husband died.”
“No money to raise you?”
“Among other things. Wasn’t this information in that report of yours, Detective LaMorte?”
“Some of it was. You can call me Armand.”
“Thanks, but I prefer Detective.”
He shrugged. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks, Eden.”
His words almost sent a chill down her spine. But Lisa wasn’t guilty, and Eden could hold her own with any cop, even one with a slow, sexy smile, long dark hair and—she had a fatalistic instinct about the last thing—dark eyes that were going to make her think things she shouldn’t.
“Why do I sense you want to slap me?” he asked in amusement.
“It’s been a long day. I’m tired.”
“You don’t like cops, do you?”
Now, finally, he moved—out of the deepest shadows and into the light.
Damn, she thought with a sigh. He had a face to match his voice and his smile. He also had those dark eyes she’d imagined and, for a split second, a glint inside them that made her nerves jitter.
“I was married to a cop once. It didn’t work out. He looked a little like you.” Right down to the stubble, she thought and found herself smiling at the irony of the situation. “We divorced three years ago. I’m over it.”
“Over the unpleasantness or the man?”
“Both. Our split wasn’t unpleasant, just…” Disappointing, she reflected. “Strained,” she said.
He didn’t believe her, but it didn’t matter, or at least it shouldn’t. Yes, she would see him during the course of the investigation, but she could keep her distance as well as any other woman. Better, since seeing him would remind her again and again of what she’d been through once and had no desire to go through a second time.
The smile that hovered on his lips suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I met your husband, Eden. Our paths crossed once on a rather involved drug bust.” He shrugged. “I used to work in Vice.”
Eden stood. “Then you’ll understand my reasons for saying good night.”
Instead of backing off, he moved closer. “You can’t avoid me.”
She was exhausted, out of her element, and in no mood to play games with him. “I don’t have to avoid you, Detective. You’re involved in an investigation which I have no choice but to endure. I don’t waste time worrying about things I can’t change.”
He cocked his head. “What about your sisters? Can they cope as well as you?”
Oh, he was dangerously attractive all right. She glanced through the glass door. “Lisa’s stronger than she looks. As for Mary…” She flicked a hand. “She’s not on the hook for a crime. She’ll be fine.”
“She’s at Pascoe’s as we speak.”
Eden recognized the name of the trendy Caribbean lounge. “There you go, then,” she said. “Mary’s coping as always.”
“You call drinking martinis at 1:00 a.m. coping?”
Eden found it interesting that his amusement didn’t annoy her. “It’s her way, Detective, not mine.” She switched gears to inquire, “This witness of yours, is he by any chance connected to Maxwell Burgoyne?”
Armand’s expression told her nothing, and of course he’d discovered another shadow in which to conceal himself. That the shadow happened to be less than a foot from where Eden stood didn’t improve her mood.
“Before the lineup, one of our computer artists put together a composite based on the witness’s description of the murderer. That picture
