But even with all her present stress, practically from the very moment she turned right off Canal onto Royal Street, she felt the charm for which the French Quarter was famous. The streets were narrow, and Royal was clogged with cars parked on both sides. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, the buildings old and, for the most part, dilapidated. But the doors were painted with bright, festive colors, flowers bloomed in boxes, ferns and palms turned second-and third-story balconies into gardens. Intricate wrought-iron railings and gates drew the eye, and alleys were lined with lush vegetation, hinting at the gardens beyond. She caught a variety of accents and languages as she passed other people. If the circumstances had been different, she would have loved to go into some of the exotic-looking shops. But today she didn't have the energy to do more than place one foot in front of the other and hope the police station wasn't much farther down the street.
Even on the shady side of the street, the sidewalks held the day's heat, and it was burning through the soles of her shoes.
Finally, she saw several police cars parked in front of a stately mansion; when she got close enough, she saw the sign on one of the white columns: "New Orleans Police 8th District." The building was a creamy shade that was too golden to be salmon and too pinkish to be tan. Black wrought-iron fencing surrounded the building and its immaculate landscaping. A genteel garden party wouldn't have looked out of place there.
Karen went inside the open gates and up a couple of wide, shallow steps. A massive door opened into an enormous room with blue walls and a ceiling that looked at least fifty feet high. Globed lighting fixtures,
pamphlets for tourist attractions, and the general air of a museum made her wonder if she was in the right place after all.
A female police officer was sitting behind a raised desk. She seemed to be the only other person there. Karen looked up at her. "Does a Detective Chastain work here?"
"Yes, Ma'am, he does. I'll call and see if he's in. What's your name?"
"Karen Whitlaw."
The officer spoke quietly into the phone, then said to Karen, "He's in, and he said to come to his office." She pointed in the appropriate direction and recited instructions. "Take a right, and it's the third door on the left."
Ceiling fans whirled overhead as Karen followed directions; the stirring air raised chills on her arms after the furnace of the streets. She had never been in a police department before. She expected something approaching mayhem; what she found was ringing phones, people sprawled in chairs, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the odor of strong coffee. It could have been any busy, disorganized office, except for the fact that most of the people there were armed.
She found the appropriate door and knocked on it. That smooth, dark voice she remembered so well said, "Come in."
She opened the door, and her stomach twisted again, this time with pure nervousness, as she looked at the man rising to his feet. Detective Chastain wasn't what she had expected. He wasn't middle-aged, pot-bellied, or balding. Mid-thirties, she guessed. He looked like a man who had seen too much ever to be surprised by anything again. Thick black hair was worn cropped close to his head, and he had thick eyebrows arching over narrow, glittering eyes. His skin was olive-toned, and his five o'clock shadow was heavy. A couple of inches over six feet, broad-shouldered, muscled forearms; he looked tough, maybe even mean. Something about him scared her, and she wanted to run. Only the years of discipline learned on the job kept her from doing so.
Marc stood as Karen Whitlaw stepped into his cramped office. He had the usual cop's talent for sizing up people, and he used it now, studying her with eyes that gave nothing away while he noted every detail about her. If she was distressed in any way by her father's death, she didn't show it. Her expression said that she thought this was all bullshit, but she'd get through it and then get on with her life. Pity, he thought, assessing her again, and this time with a man's eye instead of a cop's. He didn't have much use for coldhearted people, but she was a pretty woman. Mid-to late twenties, with a face that managed to be both exotic and all-American, clearly shaped but with a slant to her cheekbones, an intriguing sultriness to her dark, slightly deep-set eyes. Better than pretty, he thought, revising his opinion. She was understated, so her looks didn't jump out at a man, but she was definitely worth a second look. Nice shape, too; medium height, slim, with high round breasts that hadn't jiggled at all when she walked. That meant they were either very firm or she wore a killer bra. On a purely physical level, he would like to find out which it was. Steadily increasing pressure in his groin told him he would like that very much. He gave a mental shrug. It happened sometimes; he'd have a strong sexual reaction to a woman he didn't even like. Mostly he ignored the urge, because the payoff wasn't worth the cost. He held out his hand to her. "I'm Detective Chastain."
"Karen Whitlaw." Her voice was a little throaty but as composed as her face. Her fingers were cool, her hand delicate in his, her handshake brief and firm. She had beautiful hands, he noticed, with long tapered fingers and short, unpolished, oval-shaped nails. No rings. No jewelry at all except for a serviceable wristwatch and a pair of small gold balls stuck in her earlobes. Miss Whitlaw obviously didn't believe in gilding the lily, but then she really didn't have to.
Her hair was as dark as her eyes, brushed back simply from her face. It hit her shoulders with a slight undercurl. She was neat. Businesslike. Unemotional.
It was the unemotional part he didn't like. He hadn't expected her to be sobbing, but people usually exhibited some sign of grief or shock, however controlled, at the death of a family member, estranged or not. Regret usually caused a few tears even if there was no genuine grief. He couldn't see either in this self-possessed woman.