God, life was so easy when we were kids. We had no responsibilities, no parents hassling us or getting in our way—they were always happy to have us gone, too caught up in their own problems to deal with us—and no Charlie. I hadn’t yet made any mistakes. Except maybe for that one big mistake I made not sticking with the buck-toothed nerd. He showed a lot of promise, even then.
He taps my leg with the back of his arm. “What are you thinking?”
“I was just thinking how life was so much easier back then, and how I wish I could start over.”
“We can start over. You and me. Let’s have a do-over.”
I smile again, transported back to the memories of kickball. Same dirt lot, same group of friends. “Do-overs. Those were awesome. You could totally screw up and just yell Do-over! and if everybody agreed, you did it—erased the mistake and tried again.” If we had only known the true power of the do-over back then and appreciated the fact that we couldn’t carry it with us into the real world, we probably never would’ve grown up. “But we don’t get do-overs as adults,” I say. “When you do something, it’s done, and then you have to live with the consequences.” My words pull me back to the present. I look down at Lucky. “What are we going to do if I’m pregnant? Seriously.”
He struggles to sit up until he’s resting his back against the headboard right next to me. He takes my hand in his and laces our fingers together. We both stare straight ahead at the wall opposite us.
“It’s going to be fine,” he says. “You’re not pregnant. But even if you were, we’d handle it. Just like we’ve handled everything else growing up together. Just like we handled Charlie, just like we handled Sunny. We’re a team. We’re going to be fine.”
“We’re not going to get any do-overs.” Not for life and not for our relationship. What’s done is done; we are who we are.
“No, no do-overs. But we don’t need ’em. Moving forward won’t be such a bad thing—I promise. Just wait and see. I’m almost never wrong.”
I look over at him, tears shining in my eyes. “It’s that almost that scares me.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
One of the many things I love about my job is the fact that sometimes we get so busy, time flies and entire weeks can go by in the blink of an eye. I come in on a Monday and I work crazy hours until Friday, and then I’m relaxing in my living room on a Saturday morning with the newspaper—the entire week is a blur. Lucky and I may have a lot of things to talk about, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Not with this job taking up all of our head space. He’s been buried in computer work with Jenny. I heard through May that they’ve been pulling all-nighters, which is fine by me. I’m not really looking forward to our next conversation; it’s bound to be awkward after all that oversharing we did.
A full week and a half has gone by since Lucky and I have had more than two minutes together. I’m in the back of the surveillance truck with May, and we’re sitting a few blocks away from a location that is believed to host several members of the gang we’re monitoring. We got this data from some of the tweets being shared between gangbangers. Jenny and Lucky are picking up on some of their code-words, apparently.
“Good,” May says. “We’re alone and there’s nothing going on. Now we can finally talk about my wedding plans.”
I’m hunched over the laptop computer screen, trying to figure out if I should focus our drone’s camera in a little tighter on the backyard it’s surveilling.
“Oh, goody,” I say in a flat tone.
Most people would take my obvious lack of enthusiasm as a sign that they should change subjects, but not May.
“I was thinking we would keep it simple. Just the team and my mother, of course. Maybe a couple of other friends. What do you think? Do you think Ozzie would want to keep it small?”
I don’t even look up at her. “I’m sure he’s already told you what he wants. You should just listen to him.”
“Yeah, but you know how men sometimes say one thing but mean another? I’m not sure I believe him.”
“You should believe him.” I look up at her. “He’s going to want something really small. You should probably just elope.” Please, just elope.
May shakes her head. “I know, right? That’s what I was thinking.”
I stop working. “I don’t get it.” I search her expression, looking for the joke that I assume is hidden in there somewhere, but all she does is shrug.
“He told me he wants to invite the police chief, and the chief’s family, and a bunch of officers and commissioners.” She rolls her eyes. “What am I supposed to do? The entire church is going to be lopsided.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“But I am.”
“He really said that? That he wants to invite all those people?”
She uses her first finger to draw a cross over her heart and then pokes that finger toward her left eye. “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. It’s weird, right? Maybe I should just ignore it. Or maybe I should put my foot down and tell him no.”
I want to agree with her, but my first loyalty will always be to Ozzie. Besides, it’s his funeral, not mine. “He’s paying for it, isn’t he?”
“Well, yeah, but . . . I’d rather spend the money on a honeymoon than a wedding, wouldn’t you?”
I go back to the computer, not in the mood to deal with this nonsense. “I couldn’t say.”
She keeps yammering on while I work on getting a better view with our camera. I hear her mention something about bridesmaids’ dresses when something flickers on the screen.
I hold up a hand to stop her. “Shush.”
She leans in close enough that I can smell her bubblegum-scented breath. “What do you see?”
“I’m not sure. It’s somebody.” We’re looking for David Doucet’s brother, Marc. He’s rumored to be staying in this particular house, but we haven’t caught any sign of him yet. He’s younger than his brother, the guy otherwise known as May’s attempted killer who’s now in prison, and he’s more interested in using technology and social media to work the business than the older generation was. He’s smart and a threat to the entire city the way he’s able to keep his business hidden from prying eyes. If we can at least confirm that he’s here in this place, we can put some better surveillance in position and maybe hear something that can help the police department with their investigation. Hopefully it’ll help Lucky and Jenny with what they’re doing, too.
“Do you need me to do anything with the Parrot?” May asks.
“I don’t think so.” I use the arrow keys on the laptop to move the drone’s eye. That’s when I realize why I can’t get the best picture. “Dammit.”
“What’s wrong?” May is leaning in so closely, she’s blocking the whole screen.
I reach up and put my hand on the side of her head, pushing it gently to the left. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, sorry. What’s wrong? I don’t see anything.”
“That’s the problem. There’s something on the lens. Did you clean it before you sent it up there?”
She turns to me and frowns. “Of course I cleaned it. I’m a photographer. A professional photographer.” She goes back to looking at the screen. “You’re right, though—there is something there. I think it’s a bug’s butt. Here . . . maybe this will fix it.” She reaches up and hits the screen capture button several times, shooting off several pictures in a row. The bug that had planted its rear end on top of our lens disappears, frightened away by the movement beneath it.
May never ceases to surprise me. One minute she’s talking about silly wedding plans and the next she’s doing her new job like it’s second nature to her. I try not to be jealous of that. I still suck at flying the damn drone and I’ve been practicing for more than a year.
May turns and smiles at me, all bright and cheery again. “See? You’ve got problems, I’ve got solutions.”
“Good job.” I’ve got to give credit where credit is due. I can definitely
see better, and there’s clearly someone coming out the front door. He looks to be about five foot ten, the same height as the guy we’re looking for.
I point at the screen. “I think that’s him. What do you think?”
May holds up a photograph that we received courtesy of the New Orleans Police Department, a booking shot taken maybe a year ago.
“It could be him. The jawline is good. His hair has changed a lot. Is that a new scar?”
I shake my head. “I can’t see that. How are you seeing that?”
“It’s right there.” She points to the screen.
When I lean in and get really close, I see a hint of what she might be talking about. “Maybe.”
“I’ll get some better shots with the camera,” May says.
I nod. “Good idea.”
She goes into the very back end of the van and retrieves a camera and our biggest telephoto lens from the heavy, high-density plastic case that holds all the photographic and video equipment. Using the small window cut out of the blackout curtain separating the front of the van from the back, she slides the lens through so she can take photographs of the suspect, who’s three blocks away.
“Yeah, it’s definitely him,” she says, shooting off a few frames. “I can see him clear as day. He’s getting closer.”
“What do you mean he’s getting closer?” I look at the computer screen, and sure enough, he’s walking in our direction.
“I mean what I said. He’s walking this way.” Her shutter is going like crazy, taking photo after photo. “He does have a new scar. It’s really big. And fresh. Still red. Gross. I wonder who cut him. Whoever it was, he was no surgeon, I can tell you that much.” She snorts at her own joke.
“How close is he?” He’s walked out of the view of the Parrot, and I don’t want to change its angle and risk having him hear the electronics moving around above his head. Our surveillance drone is attached to a power pole not far from where he is.
Her voice is incredibly calm. “I don’t know. It’s difficult to say from behind the camera.”
I grit my teeth a little to keep my voice steady. “Can you line him up with a landmark and maybe give me an idea?”
“Uhhh . . . I think . . . he’s about one block away now.”
I grab her shoulder and pull her back, slapping the cover over the surveillance camera hole. My voice drops to a whisper. “Get back. He’s probably figured out we’re in here or he’s at least curious. Just chill out for a little bit.”
“Maybe he’s going for a walk.”
“Guys like him don’t go for walks. Just shush.”
My computer screen lights up the space. In the dim glow, I can see May’s expression. She’s finally registering the fact that this is not good for us.
“What are we going to do?” she asks in a normal tone of voice.
I slap my hand over her mouth and bug my eyes out at her, wishing I could scream, but whispering instead. “Would you be quiet, please?”
May nods her head and reaches up to take my hand off her mouth.
I let her, against my better judgment. I wish I could duct tape her trap closed until we’re back at the warehouse.
Her next comment is whispered. “Are we going to try to drive away, or are we going to wait this out?”
“Just wait.” I shake my head at her to discourage any further conversation.
I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. In several years of doing surveillance with Bourbon Street Boys, I’ve had a few run-ins with various neighborhood people who saw the truck and were curious enough to investigate, but I’ve never had an actual target approach me. Of course we’ve trained for the eventuality, but as we’ve all learned at one point or another in our careers, training can only approximate the real deal. There’s always a lot more adrenaline pumping through the veins when a truly bad guy is walking up to your hiding spot.
Gravel and sand crunch under his feet. I’m silently praying that his footsteps are going to just keep on going by, but of course my bad luck holds, and they don’t. He stops just next to the front seat area. At first there’s nothing, but then there’s a tapping on the glass.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
May grabs onto my wrist and squeezes for all she’s worth. Six months ago that wouldn’t have meant much because her grip was equal to that of a four-year-old’s, but today, it means a lot. She’s been doing a ton of weight training with Dev. I have to pry her hand off with my fingernails. At the same time, I’m shooting daggers at her with my eyes, telling her she’d better not dare answer him or whine about me forcing her hand off me.
Her head swings left and then right.
I know the fight-or-flight instinct when I see it, and she’s ready to fly. I put my hands on either side of her face and stare into her eyes. Shaking my head very slowly, I say as softly as possible, “Don’t . . . do . . . anything.”
May blinks a few times and then seems to get a grip on herself. She nods, her expression a little less panicky.
When I’m certain I can trust her to keep her damn trap shut, I let go of her face.
Another sound comes at the window, this time more insistent. “Knock, knock! I know you’re in there!”
May opens her mouth, but I put my finger over the gaping hole in front of her teeth and shake my head. Speaking in a low volume, I say, “Let me handle this.”
May has had a lot of training, but I still don’t really trust her at crunch time. Maybe I never will. Ozzie would never forgive me if I let something happen to her while we were out on a job together. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t like having her on the team; when she’s along, none of us can function autonomously or without worry. I always feel like I’m babysitting, because if she gets hurt, I’ll get blamed. And what Ozzie thinks and cares about is important to me.
I stand, hunched over, moving to the back of the van. Our target is at the front, and I don’t want him to see what we have inside, even though to him it won’t look like much . . . just a big case and a computer on a desk. My plan is to jump out the back door and lock up before he has a chance to see anything. And then somehow I’m going to talk my way out of this shitstorm we’ve found ourselves in the middle of. I have no idea how, though. Hopefully, inspiration will strike.
I lean toward May so I can whisper in her ear. “I’m going out the back. Lock the door behind me.”
May grabs me, shaking her head vigorously, but I push her away. If we don’t answer this guy, he’s going to start damaging the van, and I know Thibault would appreciate me avoiding that if possible. He’s always bitching about keeping our unnecessary expenses down.
We’ve got our surveillance in place here now, and anything else we do for this case won’t require that I be seen, since all of our surveillance is being done online and via bugs, so I’m not worried about blowing my cover. And I don’t want to just take off and lay rubber behind because then the gang will know someone’s watching and it’ll ruin everything. No, this is my only option. I take a deep breath and make my move.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I go quickly, certain that if I delay, May will give me more trouble. I’m out the back door and shutting it behind me in less than five seconds. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I hear our target moving. I’m just pulling my hair out of its ponytail when Marc appears around the back bumper of the van.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He looks me up and down like I’m a big, fat, juicy steak, and he’s a really hungry paleo dieter. “Look what rolled into my neighborhood.”
I lift my chin at him. “What’s up?” I stick my hands into my front pockets, doing my best to look like a homegirl. My dark hair and olive skin allow me to blend into a lot of places. Obviously, he knows I’m not from his neighborhood, but New Orleans is a big place.
Marc looks at my van and then at me. “What’re you doin’ here on my street, chica? You spyin’ on me?”
I smile and laugh a little. “Why would I want to do that? You somebo
dy special, Hollywood?”
He shrugs, moving a little closer. “I don’t know. Maybe I am. Maybe you’re with the po-lice.” Both of his hands go behind his back, where I’m certain he has a gun tucked into his waistband. I left my weapon in the van, knowing he’d see it on me and take it as a threat. He needs to believe I’m not here to ask for trouble, and I need to get away before something stupid happens.
“Police?” I snort indelicately. “Please. I served my time. I ain’t nobody’s snitch.”
His eyes narrow on me. “You served time? Where? When?”
I shrug. “Saint Gabe. Manslaughter. Couple years ago. I don’t like to talk about it.” I lift my chin at him again. “You live here?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Who’s asking?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I never get the words out. Suddenly there are three of us outside. May has decided to join us after stepping out of the driver’s-side door and coming around to the back of the van.
My heart drops into my toes as she practically skips over, wearing the ridiculous black boots that she’s convinced are great for fighting. That’s what she said when she wore them the first day. She held them up at me and said, “Look, Toni! Now we both wear butt-kicking boots!” Hers have pink flowers embroidered on the sides.
I drop my gaze to the ground and shake my head, letting out a long sigh. Now we’re in deep shit, and I have no idea what to do from here. I’m going to kill her when we’re alone again. Hopefully she won’t be dead already.
“Hey, guys! What’s going on?” May puts her hand on my shoulder. “Did you ask him? About the reception hall?”
I look up at her with my jaw falling open. I have absolutely no clue where she’s going with this.
May waves a hand in the space between the three of us. “Oh my god, my friend is so silly.” She sticks her hand out at Marc. “My name is Allison. I like to tell people my name is Alice Inwonderland but it’s not. It’s Allison Guckenburger.” She rolls her eyes. “I know. Crazy name, right? But the good news is I’m getting married, and I’m going to trade that name in for a brand-new one.” She giggles, leaving her hand dangling in the air in front of the gangster who’s probably trying to decide whether to shoot her now or wait to see what other ridiculous things she’s going to say first.