“That’s great,” Emma said, trying not to think about all the times she’d Skyped with David. All the emotions she felt seeing her husband so far away and in a war zone. Back then, she couldn’t wait to see him again. Now she was afraid she’d never stop seeing him.

Jeremy shut her door and stepped back from the car. She tried to start the car, but it didn’t make a sound. She tried again. Nothing. She opened the door and stepped out. “It won’t start.”

“Probably your battery,” Jeremy said, “which would explain the remote not working. Pop your hood and I’ll take a look.”

She reached back into the car and released the hood latch. Jeremy lifted the hood and shone his flashlight onto the battery cables.

“One of your cables is loose,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any pliers?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“No worries. I can get it fixed up well enough to get you home. You got pliers there?”

“If I don’t, I can get them.”

Jeremy pulled a package of gum from his pocket and popped a piece in his mouth. He offered Emma one but she declined, then watched in confusion as he carefully folded the foil wrapper. Her confusion cleared when he stuffed the wrapper in between the terminal and the wire cap to hold it in place.

“It will conduct power because it’s metal,” she said. “Ingenious.”

“Done it more times than you can guess. Probably still carry gum because of it. Don’t chew it much anymore because of my dentures. Go ahead and try her again.”

Emma hopped into the car and gave it another try. The engine roared to life and she grinned at Jeremy as he closed the hood. “Lifesaver,” she said.

Jeremy smiled. “All this flattery is going to ruin me.”

“I’ve never had that happen before,” Emma said. “Is it common?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s common, but it happens. When was the last time you had the car in for service?”

“Last month. They did an oil change and the usual once-over.”

Jeremy nodded. “Most likely, it got knocked loose. Or someone removed the terminal and didn’t tighten it well when he put it back on. Make sure you get that tightened before you drive it anywhere else.”

“Absolutely! Thanks again, for everything.”

“You have a nice night, Miss Frederick. What’s left of it.”

Emma shut the car door and backed out of the space. She could see Jeremy in her rearview mirror, still standing where she’d left him, watching her drive away. As soon as she rounded the corner, the smile she’d forced for the old security guard vanished and her anxiety shot up another notch.

Maybe Jeremy was right and the terminal was loosened during her last service, but she didn’t really believe that. The service had been over a month ago. What were the chances that it just happened to pick now to pop off? Emma had never been a big believer in coincidence.

It was him.

Clutching the steering wheel, she fought back the anxiety that threatened to take over. She had to remain calm. Scared people made mistakes, and she wasn’t about to become the ditzy heroine who ran back into the spooky house.

Still, when she got to the hotel, she would valet her car. Damn the twenty dollars a day plus tip.

She refused to be scared. But she was going to be careful.

Chapter Four

Shaye hesitated in front of the door to the police station. The morning work crowd hustled down the sidewalks, hurrying to make the nine o’clock shift. Artists, toting their wares, made their way toward Jackson Square, hoping to make some money off the tourists. Everything was so normal, except for the part where she was standing in front of the police station.

Shaye hadn’t been in this building for nine years, and if she was being honest, she didn’t really want to go inside now. But that same honesty forced her to admit that she’d accepted long ago that if she hung her hat out as a private investigator, the odds of her needing to pay the occasional visit to the New Orleans police was going to be high. Before she could find a reason to put it off until after lunch, Shaye pushed the door open and stepped inside.

A bench sat against the wall on the left side. A reception desk stretched across the right side, separating the tiny lobby from a sea of desks occupied by police officers. A lot of New Orleans may be just going to work, but the police station was already jumping. Three drunken young men sat at one desk, their fraternity letters emblazoned on their shirts. One of them caught sight of her and nudged the others, causing them to break out into “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.” Clearly they’d seen Top Gun one too many times.

Two women, either prostitutes or exotic dancers, sat at another desk, their expressions shifting between anger and boredom. At some desks, people talked in raised voices, maybe a decibel below screaming, while others leaned across the desk, whispering and looking embarrassed.

Shaye scanned the faces for the policeman she’d come to see, but she couldn’t locate him.

An older man with silver hair, what was left of it, studied her over the reception desk. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yes,” Shaye said. “I’d like to speak to Detective Beaumont.”

“A lot of people would, but he retired last year.”

“Oh.” Shaye was a bit taken aback at first, then she chided herself. Detective Beaumont had sported a full head of gray nine years ago. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’d retired. Unfortunately, that left her with no one to talk to…no one she trusted, anyway.

“Would you like to talk to someone else?” the sergeant asked.

“I guess so. I’m looking for someone who can talk to me about David Grange’s murder.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You with the paper? Because we don’t just hand out information to reporters.”

“No. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by the deceased’s wife.”

The sergeant raised one eyebrow, his expression clearly shouting “bullshit.”

Shaye reached for her purse and fumbled with her wallet, trying to pull out her ID. Finally, she managed to get the identification out and presented it to him. The sergeant leaned over to look at the card, then looked back up at Shaye.

“You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I’m twenty-four. Some might consider that young, but I’m legit.”

The man shook his head. “Pretty girl like you…why would you want to be a PI? Chasing down cheating husbands and insurance fakers? It’s a thankless job.”

“I’m not looking for thanks. I’m looking for the truth.”

He snorted. “Girl, you got a lot to learn, and I’m betting it’s going to be a bumpy ride. But what the hell do I know? Thirty-two years at this job and I still get up and drive to work every day. I’ll get you someone to talk to.”

He turned around in his chair and yelled, “Vincent! Someone here needs to talk to you.”

A heavyset man with short silver hair and glasses looked over at Shaye and frowned. “Send her back!”

The sergeant turned back around. “That’s Detective Vincent. He was the senior officer on the Grange murder. I’m sure he can help you.” But his tone when he delivered the last statement didn’t instill confidence.

Shaye took a deep breath and walked past the reception desk and into the sea of police officers and criminals, preparing herself for the complete waste of time that talking to Detective Vincent was probably going to be.

As she approached his desk, he grabbed a stack of folders in one of the metal chairs and shoved them into the only bare corner of his desk. He motioned for her to take the seat and plopped back into his chair, glancing at his watch and then his computer screen.

“I’m Detective Vincent,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Shaye Archer. I’m a private investigator, and I was recently hired by Emma Frederick to look into some things concerning her late husband, David Grange.”