you’re not. I know how much you loved your grandfather,” he said. “All I’m trying to do is—”
“Right. Save it for your closing arguments.” She got up and took her dishes to the sink and turned on the water.
He sat there staring at her back. He prided himself on doing a good job of easing the pain of grieving loved ones, but somehow, he’d managed to screw this up. She sounded contemptuous, just as she’d been back when they’d faced each other across the courtroom as opponents. But he’d heard a catch in her voice.
He wished...hell, he didn’t know what he wished. Maybe that she’d trust him to keep her safe and get her through the trial.
He looked at his watch. “I’m due in court soon. I’d better go.” He stood and picked up his mug, preparing to take it to the sink, but she whirled and snatched it out of his hand.
“I’ll do that.”
He pressed his lips together. “Okay. I’ll see you this evening.”
“What time?” she asked, then shook her head. “Oh, right,” she said sarcastically, “it doesn’t matter. I’ll be here.”
“It depends on when the judge in my case recesses for the day. I hope it’ll be by six at the latest. Want me to bring you something for dinner?”
She eyed him narrowly. “I’ve been craving jambalaya. And the best jambalaya in the world is Mama Pinto’s.”
“Where is that?”
“You’ve never had Mama Pinto’s jambalaya? Oh, your mouth is going to thank you! It is seriously the best in the world.”
“And it’s—?”
“Oh, just off Tremé. It’s only about three miles from here.”
“Tremé? Seriously? You want me to navigate through the area where they’re filming the TV series during rush hour? It’ll take me an hour to get from the courthouse to there and from there to here. And that’s if Hollywood South is done filming. If they’re still on-site, it’ll be longer. I tell you what. There’s a café that makes killer jambalaya about three blocks from here on Tchoupitoulas,” he said hopefully.
“Okay, never mind,” she said, her voice dripping with disappointment.
She didn’t fool him. He knew what she was doing. She was baiting him. But that was okay. He’d virtually imprisoned her. She had a right to a little revenge.
“I’ll go to Mama Pinto’s. I can’t guarantee what time I’ll be back, though.”
“Get me some wine too, please. A good Chardonnay. I’ll leave the brand to you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he retorted, and touched his forehead in a mock salute. “I’ll see you tonight.”
* * *
I T TOOK H ARTE more than an hour to drive to Mama Pinto’s, pick up two orders of jambalaya and get back to the B & B. By the time he pulled into the parking lot, the sky was dark with low black clouds. It looked as if any minute they would burst open and dump torrents of rain on the entire New Orleans area. As he reached for an umbrella from under his passenger seat, his cell phone rang.
“Delancey.”
“Harte, where y’at? It’s Dawson.”
“Hey,” he said to his cousin. “Just got to the B-and-B with a delivery of jambalaya for my witness.”
Dawson laughed. “Lucas told me you’ve got a tiger by the tail with Canto’s granddaughter.”
“She’s a little stubborn, but I’ve got it under control.” You wish, he told himself. “Got something for me?”
“Could be. My C.I. looked up a guy he knows who used to run errands for Yeoman.”
“Errands?” His brain immediately took the single word and raced through the possibilities—loan collector, drug dealer, hush money.
“My C.I. armed himself with a newspaper that had an article about your upcoming trial and used it to start a conversation about Yeoman with the errand boy at a bar. He kept buying the guy beers and finally he opened up. He ended up telling my C.I. that the biggest part of his job was delivering envelopes and packages to an aide who worked for several legislators.”
Harte’s pulse went through the roof. This could be it!
“Right. Save it for your closing arguments.” She got up and took her dishes to the sink and turned on the water.
He sat there staring at her back. He prided himself on doing a good job of easing the pain of grieving loved ones, but somehow, he’d managed to screw this up. She sounded contemptuous, just as she’d been back when they’d faced each other across the courtroom as opponents. But he’d heard a catch in her voice.
He wished...hell, he didn’t know what he wished. Maybe that she’d trust him to keep her safe and get her through the trial.
He looked at his watch. “I’m due in court soon. I’d better go.” He stood and picked up his mug, preparing to take it to the sink, but she whirled and snatched it out of his hand.
“I’ll do that.”
He pressed his lips together. “Okay. I’ll see you this evening.”
“What time?” she asked, then shook her head. “Oh, right,” she said sarcastically, “it doesn’t matter. I’ll be here.”
“It depends on when the judge in my case recesses for the day. I hope it’ll be by six at the latest. Want me to bring you something for dinner?”
She eyed him narrowly. “I’ve been craving jambalaya. And the best jambalaya in the world is Mama Pinto’s.”
“Where is that?”
“You’ve never had Mama Pinto’s jambalaya? Oh, your mouth is going to thank you! It is seriously the best in the world.”
“And it’s—?”
“Oh, just off Tremé. It’s only about three miles from here.”
“Tremé? Seriously? You want me to navigate through the area where they’re filming the TV series during rush hour? It’ll take me an hour to get from the courthouse to there and from there to here. And that’s if Hollywood South is done filming. If they’re still on-site, it’ll be longer. I tell you what. There’s a café that makes killer jambalaya about three blocks from here on Tchoupitoulas,” he said hopefully.
“Okay, never mind,” she said, her voice dripping with disappointment.
She didn’t fool him. He knew what she was doing. She was baiting him. But that was okay. He’d virtually imprisoned her. She had a right to a little revenge.
“I’ll go to Mama Pinto’s. I can’t guarantee what time I’ll be back, though.”
“Get me some wine too, please. A good Chardonnay. I’ll leave the brand to you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he retorted, and touched his forehead in a mock salute. “I’ll see you tonight.”
* * *
I T TOOK H ARTE more than an hour to drive to Mama Pinto’s, pick up two orders of jambalaya and get back to the B & B. By the time he pulled into the parking lot, the sky was dark with low black clouds. It looked as if any minute they would burst open and dump torrents of rain on the entire New Orleans area. As he reached for an umbrella from under his passenger seat, his cell phone rang.
“Delancey.”
“Harte, where y’at? It’s Dawson.”
“Hey,” he said to his cousin. “Just got to the B-and-B with a delivery of jambalaya for my witness.”
Dawson laughed. “Lucas told me you’ve got a tiger by the tail with Canto’s granddaughter.”
“She’s a little stubborn, but I’ve got it under control.” You wish, he told himself. “Got something for me?”
“Could be. My C.I. looked up a guy he knows who used to run errands for Yeoman.”
“Errands?” His brain immediately took the single word and raced through the possibilities—loan collector, drug dealer, hush money.
“My C.I. armed himself with a newspaper that had an article about your upcoming trial and used it to start a conversation about Yeoman with the errand boy at a bar. He kept buying the guy beers and finally he opened up. He ended up telling my C.I. that the biggest part of his job was delivering envelopes and packages to an aide who worked for several legislators.”
Harte’s pulse went through the roof. This could be it!
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