“Ok.” He went around and opened the passenger side door. “Climb in.”
She did. A moment later, he was behind the wheel. And at that moment, she wondered if she was making a terrible mistake.
Angel hugged herself. “Just give me a lift to the streetcar stop on Broadway. I’ve got it from there.”
He looked at her. He had the strangest eyes. Oddly bright. Compelling in a way she hadn’t experienced before.
“I’ll do better than that, I’ll drive you home.”
“No, really. I’ll take the streetcar.”
“It’s nearly three A.M. I’m driving you.”
He shifted into reverse and backed out of the spot. She noticed the safety light had gone out again.
Angel clasped her hands in her lap. “Look, my mind’s probably playing tricks on me, it does that a lot. My friend ditched me for a guy and I—”
He stopped the car. His bright gaze pinned her once more. “I’m driving you home.”
Getting into a car with a stranger then giving him her address was about as stupid as it got.
But something in his gaze seemed to reach inside her.
You can trust me.
Trust me, Angel.
His voice in her head. Clearly. The same voice that had told her to run, which way to go.
She blinked. This was nuts. She’d been drugged and was hallucinating. Or was sick with fever.
It’s going to be all right, Angel. You’re safe with me.
Is this really happening? she thought.
Yes, Angel, it is.
She pressed her lips together. Who are you?
I’m Eli. One of your brothers.
Chapter One
Monday, July 8
6:25 A.M.
Detective “Micki” Dee Dare had gotten the call just as she’d been about to step into the shower. The brass wanted her downtown, ASAP. She’d been forced to resort to what her snake-bit family called a whore’s bath, then pull her unruly mass of dishwater blond hair back into a quick ponytail.
Her family. What a joke. Mama, Grandma Roberta, and Aunt Jo—all three crazy. Not certifiable. No, just deep, southern-fried nuts. Baked by the sun and awash in sweet tea and sloe gin.
And hulking Uncle Beau. Silent as he crept down the hall, given away by the smell of cheap cigars and Kentucky bourbon. The combination still had the ability to turn her stomach.
It was no wonder she was such a frickin’ mess.
“Sorry, Hank,” she muttered, her friend’s deep drawl filling her head: You’re no mess, girl. You’re a work in progress, just like the rest of us.
Hank, taken from her by a bad ticker. She’d always found his death cruelly ironic. That big, kind heart, the thing that had made him the only wholly decent person she’d ever met, was the same thing that killed him.
Micki swung her ’71 Nova 396 V into the Broad Street lot reserved for NOPD. The wheels had been Hank’s—a broken-down hulk he’d hauled home from a junk yard with the dream of restoring it to its former glory.
She had fulfilled that dream for him. And as she had, weirdly, she’d rebuilt her own life as well, with his deep, steady voice guiding her, encouraging her. It was because of him she’d become a cop.
The Nova was more than a means of transportation; it was her pride and joy. Her baby. She freaking loved this car.
Micki parked and climbed out. Her commander had sounded choked. Really off. She hoped to hell she wasn’t walking into PID ambush. The Public Integrity Division investigated claims of abuse against NOPD officers, not that she had anything to hide, but shit happened every effin’ day.
Inside headquarters, she took the lobby elevator to the third floor. Major Nichols said he’d be waiting for her in Captain Patti O’Shay’s office. She reached the office; the receptionist directed her to the war room down the hall. Feeling more than a bit queasy over the unusual turn of events, she headed that way.
Micki reached the room and stepped inside. Something was definitely up. Too many suits in the room. Some of them looking at her strangely. Very strangely.
She immediately found her superior officer. “Major Nichols, I apologize for not getting here sooner.”
“Actually, you’re right on time. You know Captain O’Shay?”
“Of course.” She nodded in the woman’s direction. “Captain.”
He ran through the introductions: Krohn, the Deputy Chief; Richards, community relations point man; and Roberts, FBI Special Agent in Charge of the New Orleans office.
The agent nodded. “Excellent to meet you, Detective.”
Okay, nobody from PID. But the Bureau? WTF?
A sinking sensation settled in the pit of her stomach. “You, too, Agent Roberts.”
Nichols motioned the chair across from his, though he didn’t meet her eyes. “Take a seat, Micki. Chief Howard should be here any moment.”
She did. Nobody spoke. A strange energy crackled in the air, and every so often she’d catch one of them looking speculatively at her.
What the hell was about to happen?
Chief Howard arrived, striding into the room—polished, confident and oddly exuberant. “Where’s Detective Dare?”