“If it’s okay with you, I’ll go out and check for footprints,” Zach said.

Maddy smiled as she arched her neck and massaged it. “Sure,” she said. “Why are you asking my permission?”

He snorted. “Are you kidding me? You told me in no uncertain terms that you were in charge here.”

She eyed him with a raised brow. “You’re telling me you’re ready to take charge now?”

Zach felt as though her gaze were singeing his skin. He swallowed and shifted slightly, surprised that his body was straining in reaction to her teasing words. For someone who was not his type, she could take him from zero to uh-oh in no time flat. He forced himself to speak lightly, with no trace in his voice of the struggle he was waging to keep himself in check.

“Madeleine Tierney. When I’m ready to take charge, believe me, you will know it.”

Under

Suspicion

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MALLORY KANE has two great reasons for loving to write. Her mother, a librarian, taught her to love and respect books. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. His oral histories are chronicled in numerous places, including the Library of Congress Veterans’ History Project. He was always her biggest fan. To learn more about Mallory, visit her online at www.mallorykane.com.

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For Michael. Love you.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The rain had finally stopped. Zachary Winter turned off the windshield wipers of his rental car as he passed the city limits sign for Bonne Chance, Louisiana. Now that the sun had come out, steam rose like tendrils of smoke from the blacktop road and clung to the windshield like shower spray on a mirror. He put the wipers on Intermittent. Rain in south Louisiana was seldom a relief, no matter what the season. Even in April, when most of the country was experiencing spring weather, an afternoon thunderstorm might cool the heat-soaked roads enough for steam to rise, but the tepid, humid air never seemed to change.

The last time he’d been here, in his hometown of Bonne Chance, was more than a decade ago. The name Bonne Chance was French for Good Luck. His mouth twisted with irony. Had his sad little hometown ever been good luck for anybody? He’d certainly never intended to come back. And the reason he was here now was not his choice.

He drove past two national chain grocery stores and a Walmart. “Well, Bonne Chance,” he muttered, “I guess you’ve arrived if Walmart thinks you’re worthy of notice.”

As he turned onto Parish Road 1991, better known as Cemetery Road, a pang hit his chest, part anxiety, part grief and part dread. He’d intended to get into town in time for Tristan DuChaud’s funeral. Tristan had been his best friend since before first grade.

As he rounded a curve, he spotted the dark green canopy that contrasted with the dull granite of the aboveground tombs peculiar to south Louisiana. From this distance, he couldn’t read the white letters on the canopy, but he knew what they said: CARVER FUNERAL HOME, Serving Bonne Chance for Over Forty Years.

He parked on the shoulder of the road, glanced at his watch, then lowered the driver’s-side window. The air that immediately swirled around his head and filled the car was suffocatingly familiar, superheated and supersaturated from the rain.

One hundred percent humidity. Now, there was a hard concept to explain to someone who’d never been to the Deep South. How the air could be completely saturated with water and yet no rain would fall. He usually described it as similar to breathing in a sauna. But that wasn’t even close. The air down here felt heavy and thick. Within seconds, a combination of sweat and a strange, invisible mist made everything you wore and everything you touched damp. And with the sun out and drawing steam from people as well as roads and metal surfaces, it could be disturbingly hard to breathe.

Getting out of the car, Zach shrugged his shoulders, trying to peel the damp material of his white cotton shirt away from his skin, but he knew that within seconds it would be stuck again. Then he took off his sunglasses. They had fogged up immediately when the damp heat hit them. Without their protection, however, the sun’s glare made it almost impossible to see. He shaded his eyes and squinted at the small group of people who were gathered around the funeral home’s canopy. Most of them were dressed in black. The men had removed their jackets and hung them over the backs of the metal folding chairs set up under the canopy.

He wished he could leave his jacket in the car but that was out of the question. He’d always found it more efficient to travel armed, in his official capacity as a National Security Agency investigative agent. Today, though, a storm had hit New Orleans about a half hour before the plane’s arrival time and not even his high-security clearance could clear the runway in time for him to rent a car and make it to Bonne Chance for Tristan’s funeral service. It looked as though he’d barely made it to the graveside in time.

He grabbed the jacket and put it on, then blew on the sunglasses to dry the condensation. He held them up to the light for inspection and put them back on.

As he walked toward the stately aboveground tomb that held at least three generations of the DuChaud family, he tried to sort out the people gathered there. Townspeople, family, friends like himself. But his sunglasses were fogging up again.

He approached slowly, breathing in the smell of freshly turned earth that mixed with the fishy, slightly moldy smell of the bayou, an unforgettable odor he’d grown up with and hadn’t missed for one second in the thirteen years since he’d been gone.

Zach had pushed the speed limit as much as he could, considering what he knew about speed traps in south Louisiana, and still he’d not only missed Tristan’s funeral, he’d almost missed the graveside service. It was just as well, he supposed. He’d dreaded seeing his classmates, most of whom had settled down in Bonne Chance like Tristan, and spent their lives working on oil rigs or fishing. He hadn’t looked forward to answering their half-deriding questions about life in the big city.

Tristan DuChaud. His best friend, for as long as he could remember, was one of the finest people Zach had ever known. Maybe the finest. His gaze went to the carved stone of the tomb, its thick walls and ornate steeple soaking up all the warmth and sunlight and leaving Tristan’s final resting place cold and dank.

It was strange and sad to be here, knowing his friend was gone. Especially since their last conversation had been a fight, about Sandy, of course. It had occurred two days before Zach, his older sister, Zoe, and their mom moved from Bonne Chance to Houston three days before Zach’s fifteenth birthday. Sandy was mad at Tristan for some reason and she’d come to Zach’s house to talk, just as she’d always done.

Tristan and Sandy had liked each other ever since third grade and everybody knew they’d get married one day. They were that couple, the one that would be together forever. But Tristan had always had a jealous streak, and that irritated Sandy to no end. Sometimes she’d egg him on by flirting with Zach, which infuriated Tristan, even though, or maybe because, he and Zach were best friends.

As Zach got closer to the grave site, the formless figures shimmering in the heat began to coalesce into recognizable people. The stocky man holding the Bible was, of course, Michael Duffy. His thick shock of light brown hair looked a little out of place above the black suit and white priest’s collar he wore. Zach had heard from his mother that Duff had become a priest after the awful accident the night of Zoe’s graduation, but he’d found it hard to believe that the fun-loving, hard-partying Duff was now a priest.

Duff raised his hand and the small group of people moved to sit in the folding chairs. Zach finally spotted Sandy, Tristan’s wife—or widow. She looked as though she was doing okay, but for some reason, she was being led to the first chair by a woman he didn’t recognize.

He studied the woman. She was about the same size as Sandy—maybe more slender. He couldn’t place her. Was she a relative of Sandy’s? Of Tristan’s? He didn’t remember ever seeing her before, and he would have remembered her. She had an intensity that he wasn’t sure he’d ever noticed in a woman before.

The woman got Sandy settled then straightened and glanced around. She didn’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular, but the tension that wafted from her like heat still reached out to him. He watched her, his interest piqued, not so much by her appearance, although she was attractive. He was interested in what she was doing.

Surveillance. The word popped out of his subconscious. He rolled it on his tongue. Surveillance. The woman was doing surveillance of the area.

As the woman checked the perimeter of the grave site, Zach noticed a subtle shift in her demeanor. She hadn’t moved, but something about her had changed. When he’d first noticed her, she’d been alert, but she’d reminded him a bit of a mother hen, scurrying to keep up with Sandy, her chick. That impression had faded when she’d begun surveying the area.

Now there was nothing left of the mother hen. The woman was poised and taut in a way she hadn’t been before. As he watched, she straightened, her entire focus as sharp and unwavering as an eagle that has spotted its prey.

As Zach watched her transform from protector to predator, an electric hum vibrated along his nerve endings. He felt attuned to her, as though he knew what she was thinking, what she was planning. She stepped closer to Sandy, her weight evenly balanced between her feet, her focus unwavering.

He followed her line of vision and saw two men. Like many of the others, they were dressed in slacks and a shirt with no tie, as if they’d taken off their jackets because of the heat. But these two stood at the edge of the canopy with their hands in their pockets rather than sitting and they seemed to avoid looking at anyone directly.

Zach thought there was a family resemblance between the two, although the younger one looked as though he might still be in high school. So they were probably father and son.

He glanced back at the woman. He couldn’t tell if she knew them, but he could tell that she was expecting trouble.

Her intensity fed his. His scalp began to burn. His senses focused to a razor-honed sharpness as time seemed to slow down. His entire body tightened and he instinctively shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. An almost imperceptible vibration hummed through his muscles and tendons.

At that instant, as if his energy had reached her, the woman looked directly at him. A knife edge of caution sliced into his chest. He’d never seen her before, but in that instant when her gaze met his through the shimmering heat, he had a sinking feeling that before this day was over, he was going to wish he hadn’t seen her now.

Her gaze slid away from him and back to the man and boy. Again, Zach looked, too. The boy was whispering to his father. He nodded in the direction of the woman and Sandy, and the older man shook his head no. He urged the son closer to the lined-up chairs as Duff called for everyone to bow their heads for prayer.

Duff began his supplication to the Lord without bowing his own head. As he spoke, he looked Zach up and down, nodded in recognition and tilted his head disapprovingly all at the same time. Zach stood still, clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head. But he couldn’t close his eyes. He kept the two men in his peripheral vision. If they moved suddenly, he wanted to know.

Once Duff said amen and raised his head, he held out a hand to Sandy to approach the dully gleaming casket, which was sitting on a wheeled cart, waiting to be placed into the DuChaud vault. Sandy stood, and her companion started to stand beside her, but Sandy stopped her with a small gesture. Alone, she approached the casket and laid a white rose on top, bowed her head for a brief moment, then turned and started back toward her chair. Then she saw him.

Her face, which had been set determinedly, dissolved into anguish at the sight of him, and tears filled and overflowed her eyes. “Zach,” she whispered. “Oh, Zach, he’s gone. Our Tristan is gone.”

Zach took two long strides and gathered her gently into his arms. He closed his eyes and hugged her to him as if she were his long-lost sister. She clung to him the same way, and her slender shoulders shook as she cried silently. Zach held her while Duff gestured to Tristan’s mother to come forward and lay a white rose next to Sandy’s. After Mrs. DuChaud sat, the priest led the pallbearers past the casket to lay red roses on top, one by one, and back to their seats.

Then the priest laid his left hand on Sandy’s shoulder and held out his right toward Zach. “Zachary Winter,” he said. “I thought you swore you’d never come back here.”

“There’s only one reason I would, Duff. I mean, Father...” Zach had no idea what to call him.

Duff smiled and said, “It’s Father Michael, but Duff is fine. Nobody around here dares to call me that.”

Zach nodded uncomfortably, then leaned in closer to the other man as a couple came up to offer Sandy their condolences.

“What happened?” he asked in a low tone. “How did Tristan die?”

“From what I understand, he was walking along the catwalk on the bottom level of the oil platform with one of the Vietnamese roughnecks and he fell into the water near the drill mechanism.”

“Oil platform?” Zach said in surprise as a knot formed in his stomach. “He was on an oil rig? What was he doing there?”

Duff’s gray brows rose. “You don’t know? Have you not talked to Tristan in all these years?”

Zach shrugged, embarrassed. “Not really. We didn’t talk to anybody after we moved. You know, with Zoe being involved in the accident.”

Duff grimaced briefly as he nodded.

“Nothing more than an email at Christmas. A comment on Facebook. You know.”

“His dad was killed on a rig about two months before Tristan’s high school graduation, so he dropped out and went to work on the oil rig to help his mother.”

“But he was going to LSU. He was going to be a veterinarian. How could two months have made a difference?”

Duff nodded grimly. “I talked to him, but he was determined. He saw it as a choice. Taking care of his family—he and Sandy were planning to get married right after graduation—or taking care of himself. He chose his family.”

“Right.” Zach’s throat closed up. He felt sad and angry. Tristan had given up his education and the opportunity for a great career so he could go to work right away. The thought made Zach feel sick as he thought of all Tristan had given up. And for what? To end up dead at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico?

“Wait a minute, Duff. Tristan had lived on boats and docks and floating logs on the Mississippi River and on the Gulf his whole life. He was the strongest swimmer I’ve ever seen. He couldn’t have fallen overboard and drowned if he tried. What happened out there?”

“I wish I could tell you more but I can’t,” Duff said. “He went over with another guy, a roughneck. Maybe they were arguing or even fighting. Maybe they ran into each other in the dark.”

“You know as well as I do it’s never dark on an oil rig. What’d the autopsy say?”

Duff looked surprised. “The autopsy?”

Zach thought he’d hesitated for an instant. “The autopsy. Who did it?”

“I guess that would have been the ME, John Bookman. He’s the medical examiner for the parish and chief of emergency medicine at the Terrebonne Parish Hospital in Houma.”

“Okay. Houma is about twenty-five miles north of here, right?” Zach asked.

The priest nodded, then gestured with his head. “See Angel?”

Zach followed his gesture and saw Angel DuChaud, Tristan’s ne’er-do-well cousin, talking to a small wiry man. Again, he was surprised. Three years older than he and Tristan, Angel had been the stereotypical bad boy all their lives. But he cleaned up nicely. His hair was styled and his suit fit impeccably, and hid his tattoos.

“The man he’s talking to,” Duff said, “is the parish medical examiner.”

At that moment, Sandy turned around and took Zach’s arm. He smiled at her and patted her hand.

“It’s so good of you to come, Zach,” she said.

“You know nothing could keep me from being here,” he replied.

Duff took Sandy’s hand from Zach’s arm. “Sandy, walk with me over here. I want you to meet—”

Zach silently thanked Duff for distracting Sandy. He hadn’t expected the parish medical examiner to be at Tristan’s funeral, but he was grateful for the opportunity to ask him some questions. He walked toward Angel and, eventually, Tristan’s cousin saw him.

When Angel spotted him, he waved. Zach sketched a half wave in the air and walked over to where Angel and the ME stood. Angel made casual introductions.

“You’re the ME,” Zach said to Dr. John Bookman. “Call me Zach. I was Tristan’s best friend in school.”

“I’m sorry. Terrible thing that happened to Tristan,” the doctor said.

“Do you live here in Bonne Chance?”

“No,” the doctor answered, eyeing Zach narrowly. “I live in Houma. Didn’t Father Michael tell you that?”

Angel wandered away toward the DuChaud family crypt. Zach was glad. He didn’t want him to overhear his next question. “I want to ask you about Tristan DuChaud’s death.”

Bookman’s eyes shifted toward the casket, which was still sitting in front of the vault. But now the vault door was open. “I don’t discuss my work, certainly not at a funeral.”

“I understand. If I may...” Zach paused, wondering if what he was about to do was a mistake. After all, he was here not in his official capacity but just to mourn the death of his best friend and to show his respect for his widow. He decided it didn’t matter whether it was a mistake. He needed to do it, for Tristan.

The question of what his boss would say flitted into his mind but he chased it out again. He’d worry about that later, if it came up.

He leaned in, close to the doctor’s ear. “I’m with the National Security Agency.” That was true. “We’re investigating possible terrorist activity in the area.” That was sort of true but not really. They were picking up chatter in the area around New Orleans and Galveston.

He went on. “I need to know what the cause of death was for Tristan DuChaud. Was foul play involved in his death?”

Dr. Bookman’s eyes went wide, then narrowed again. He took a half step backward and studied Zach as if he were a slide under a microscope. After a moment, he asked quietly, “Did you say NSA? Shouldn’t you be talking to the Coast Guard? They’re in charge of the recovery.”

“I need this information, Dr. Bookman.”

Dr. Bookman fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable. “Do you have ID?”

Zach groaned but pulled his badge holder and ID out of his back pocket and handed it to the doctor and waited. The doctor discreetly glanced at it, looked at it again for a beat longer and then handed it back.

“You might want to meet me at the parish morgue after the service,” he said quietly.

“No,” Zach said. “I need to know now.” He looked over at the groundskeeper, who was standing behind the cart that held Tristan’s casket. “After the service could be too late.”

Bookman followed his gaze. “I’m not comfortable with this. We should talk in my office.”

Zach shook his head.

“Okay, but please remember that you are at the funeral of your best friend, and don’t create a scene.”

The medical examiner took a step away from the crowd. Zach followed him, his scalp burning at the doctor’s statement. Don’t create a scene.

“We don’t have a cause of death,” Bookman said.

“You what?”

“Lower your voice, Mr.—or is it Agent—Winter? You don’t want to upset Sandy.”

“Why don’t you?” Zach asked quietly, afraid he knew the answer.

“Because we don’t have a body.”

Zach stared at him, then darted a glance at the casket.

“That’s right. That casket contains no human remains.”

“Son of a—” Zach stopped himself and rubbed his face. “You didn’t recover the body?”

Bookman sighed. “I have remains.”

“I don’t understand,” Zach persisted.

Bookman looked across the crowd at Sandy. Zach followed his gaze. “It’s pretty simple. There’s not enough of Tristan DuChaud to put in a casket.”

“Not enough—” Zach felt queasy. He’d known that was the answer, but to hear it stated like that, in no uncertain terms, stripped him raw. “What do you mean, not enough?” he growled.

Dr. Bookman searched his face for a moment. “A rather substantial piece of calf muscle, a piece of scalp with hair intact and...that’s about it. Barely enough to provide identification. I can’t afford to waste any of it by burying it in the ground. Now understand, I haven’t positively identified these remains with DNA. I’ve sent the samples off, but it generally takes weeks, if not months, to get DNA back.”

The doctor might as well have sucker punched him. The idea that all that was left of Tristan was a little muscle and a bit of hair. The back of his throat burned with nausea. “What about the other man?”

Bookman nodded. “He was pretty chewed up. There were several schools of sharks in the area.”

Several schools of sharks. Zach tried to erase that phrase from his mind. “But you can identify the difference between him and Tristan, right?”

“On a superficial level, yes. I can. From physical attributes mostly. The Vietnamese man, according to his employment records, was five inches shorter than DuChaud. I would expect his torso, parts of which we recovered, to be smaller than DuChaud’s. I would also expect the typical Asian features, whereas DuChaud was Caucasian. I’m relatively sure that the calf muscle tissue and the scalp with light brown hair belong to DuChaud.”

“What’s your conclusion? Any sign of foul play?”

“I can’t answer that question. Right now, what I can say with relative certainty is that I have the remains of two men, one Caucasian, one Asian. There is enough of the Asian’s torso present to be certain that he perished. The meager remains we collected for DuChaud are not conclusive at all, but judging from the damage to the Vietnamese man’s body, it would be difficult to imagine that DuChaud could have survived.”

Zach swallowed hard. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You said difficult, not impossible. Are you saying there’s a chance he could be alive?”

Bookman shook his head. “No. I’m not. The remains we have are not conclusive, but the men went overboard in a place and a situation that doesn’t support survival. Not only was the drill mechanism and a large diesel motor right there, practically beneath them, but as I mentioned, there were sharks, too.”

Behind Zach, the groundskeeper pushed the cart that held Tristan’s casket. One wheel was rickety and it creaked with every inch of movement. He turned.

Sandy, who was standing next to Duff, started to turn around as well, but the priest kept his hand on her shoulder. With his eyes, he beckoned Zach.

“The Coast Guard has captured several of the sharks,” Dr. Bookman went on. “They’re sending me the stomach contents to see what additional remains I might be able to recover.”

The queasiness rose in the back of Zach’s throat again.

“Sorry about your friend,” Dr. Bookman said.

Zach thanked him. He stepped quickly over to Sandy’s side. He wanted to watch until the groundskeeper slammed the stone door and locked the bolt.

Actually, that wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to run over to the casket and rip it open. He wanted to see with his own eyes just exactly what was inside, if it wasn’t his friend’s body. But of course, he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. Sandy was there and he’d rather die than let her know that her husband’s body was never recovered.

“Sandy,” Duff said, “wasn’t Zach one of Tristan’s best friends?”

She glanced at him, not fooled for a moment, but allowing him to distract her from the sight of her husband’s casket being pushed into the vault. “His best friend,” she corrected, smiling at Zach.

He smiled back at her, and his conscious brain picked up on what he’d been aware of subconsciously since he’d first seen her. Sandy had always been slender, but the black dress she wore was formfitting and hugged a small but obvious baby bump. Tristan’s widow was pregnant. His eyes burned and his heart felt broken into pieces. Tristan had a child.

Sandy’s hand moved to rest on her belly protectively, and Zach realized he was staring. He looked up to see her smiling sadly at him. He opened his mouth to apologize or console her or something, but she shook her head. “It’s okay, Zach,” she murmured. “I’m doing okay. I’m about three and a half months along,” she said, her voice quivering. “Tristan knew. He was sure it’s a boy.”

As he struggled for the right thing to say, he felt a presence behind him.

“Sandy,” a voice said. It was the woman. “We need to get back to the house.” She sounded exactly as he’d figured she would. She had a city accent. Maybe New Orleans, maybe another large metropolitan area. But one thing was for sure, it was certainly not a south Louisiana–bayou accent.

Turning, Zach met her gaze and saw for the first time that her eyes were blue. It didn’t really surprise him. He didn’t trust blue eyes.

Chapter Two

Her manner was no longer hostile, but it was decidedly chilly. Then she turned toward Sandy and within less than a heartbeat, her entire demeanor changed. A tenderness melted the ice in her eyes and her stiff shoulders relaxed. Zach shivered as the chill she’d aimed at him dissolved in the afternoon sun.

“You should lie down for at least a half hour while I put out the food and get ready for people to come by. Mrs. Pennebaker told me just now that she’d taken three more pies over and two buckets of chicken.” She took Sandy’s elbow and began to guide her away from Zach and Duff.

Sandy groaned. “How much do they think I can eat?” she said.

Zach was sure he’d heard a spark of amusement lighten her subdued tone for a second. Maybe she actually was all right. Or at least better than she looked, because she looked exhausted, crushed and on the verge of fainting, if he could tell anything by the paleness of her face.

“They know you’re going to need lots of food, not only for yourself and the baby. Don’t forget all the people who are going to be stopping by,” the woman said.

“I know that. And I don’t need to lie down. I’m fine.” As the woman led her away, Sandy turned back, reaching out to Zach. He took her hand.

“Come by, please? We— I haven’t seen you for such a long time. You’re not leaving right away, are you? And bring your bags. You’re staying with me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Zach saw the woman frown. That stopped the polite protest on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he nodded. “Thanks, Sandy. I’d be happy to.” He shot the woman a sidelong glance.

“Oh, Zach, this is Madeleine Tierney,” Sandy said, then turned to the woman. “I’m so sorry, Maddy. I forgot all about introducing you.”

Madeleine Tierney nodded at him without offering her hand.

“This is Zachary Winter. He’s Tristan’s oldest and dearest friend, practically since they were born.”

Zach nodded back at her. “I’ll see you at the house, Sandy,” he said.

As the two women walked away, he took a few seconds to study Madeleine Tierney. She had on a dark jacket and skirt that was a little loose. Her shoes were plain and black with a medium heel. Her clothes seemed designed to keep people from noticing her.

While she waited for Sandy to get into the passenger side of a rental car, she swept the dwindling crowd one more time. She spotted the two men she’d been watching earlier. Zach checked them out again, too. They were walking down Cemetery Road toward town. When they passed the last parked car, Zach narrowed his gaze.

“See those two guys, Duff?” he asked. “Oh, sorry, Father Michael.”

Duff waved his hand. “Don’t worry so much about what to call me. I’m fine with Duff, except in church,” he said. “What two guys?”

Zach nodded toward the men walking toward town.

Duff squinted at them for a few seconds. “Oh. Right. That’s Murray Cho and his son. Pat, I think is his name. Why?”

“Were they at the church service earlier?”

“I’m sure they were. I don’t remember seeing them, though.” He frowned at Zach. “What’s bothering you?”

“Just wondering how they knew Tristan.”

“From what I recall, when they first moved here, Tristan let them use his dock. They’re small-time fishermen.”

“Commercial?” Zach asked.

Duff nodded. “They bought the seafood-processing warehouse from Frank Beltaine. I’m not sure if they’ve gotten their commercial license yet, but they’re working on getting freezers installed. I understand they’re going to start selling to the locals soon.”

So the two men were part of the community. If they just got started, they probably didn’t have much money. Maybe they were walking because they didn’t own a car.

Zach thought about Madeleine Tierney, who had fed his suspicion of the two men. “So, who is this Madeleine Tierney? And why is she yanking Sandy around as if she was an untrained pup?”

“She’s not yanking Sandy around. She’s been renting a room at Sandy and Tristan’s for the past few weeks.” Duff used air quotes around the word renting. “Since Sandy’s been pregnant, Tristan was working more and more hours on the rig. He was spending two, three weeks offshore and sometimes only a week at home.”

“Aren’t there regulations that control how much they can work?”

Duff nodded. “Usually, sure. But I’ve heard the rig is shorthanded right now because of some virus going around, and the crews can work overtime if needed. Tristan was trying to save money so he could quit offshore and go to work as a veterinary assistant. Madeleine and Sandy struck up a friendship and Tristan thought it was a great idea for Madeleine to stay with her because he didn’t like her being there alone.”

“So who is she and where’s she from?” Zach asked.

Duff shook his head. “I understand that she’s an oil rig inspector who’s been—”

“A what?” Zach was stunned.

“An oil rig inspector. Her dad was an inspector until he retired. Seems like I kind of remember a kid going on inspections with her dad. But I never paid much attention to the oil rigs before the British Petroleum spill.”

Zach nodded. He understood. Bonne Chance was like many of the towns and villages along the Louisiana Gulf Coast between Mississippi and Texas. The townspeople were a mix of fishermen and oil rig workers, and the two sides had a kind of love/hate relationship with each other. The oil rigs attracted big fish, including sharks, but they were a strain on the delicate ecosystem of the sea. Plus, everyone was supersensitive since the BP oil spill, which nearly wiped out the entire fishing industry along the Gulf Coast.

Zach hated the rigs. His dad had worked the rigs until the day he apparently got sick of work and marriage and took off when Zach was around eight years old, leaving his mother and him behind. Now a rig had taken the life of his best friend. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seen Tristan in thirteen years. The hole left in Zach’s heart hurt just as much as if they’d never been apart.

“Zach?” Duff said, drawing his attention back to the present. “I’ll be at Sandy’s in about twenty minutes, after I change clothes.”

Zach nodded. Duff headed toward a new Mini Cooper. Zach turned his attention back to Madeleine Tierney, who was still hovering solicitously beside Sandy. She was looking up the road after the two men. As she watched them, she fiddled with the cross-body strap of the leather purse she carried. Something familiar in the subtle gesture, combined with the way she checked the clasp on the purse, stopped him cold.

He’d seen that exact set of gestures before. His weapons-training class with the NSA had included two women with whom he’d worked every day for twelve weeks. He’d watched them tuck their weapon into a specially made handbag and retrieve it time and time again. They had developed the habit of subtly locking and releasing the clasp of the bag, just as Madeleine Tierney was doing.

There was a concealed weapon in that bag. He’d bet a month’s salary on it. He’d throw in another month’s salary if carrying a concealed weapon were standard practice for rig inspectors.

Who the hell was she and what was her relationship with Sandy and Tristan? Judging by the bag and her handling of it, plus the way she’d kept an eye out for anyone suspicious, his guess was that she was a federal agent. Duff said she’d been here more than a month. Tristan had died five days ago, so she wasn’t here because of his death.

Until he knew for certain who she was and why she’d gone to Tristan DuChaud’s funeral packing a weapon, he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. She could be the key that would unlock the truth about Tristan’s death. Even if that chance was one in a million, he couldn’t afford not to take it. He’d stick with her until he knew everything about her.

He waited until she and Sandy drove away before he headed for his car, planning to follow them out to Sandy’s house. But he stopped. No. There was one thing he needed to do first. He turned and looked at the grave site. Most of the people had gone. The casket was on a wheeled cart and the caretaker was just about to roll it into the open DuChaud vault.

Taking a deep breath, he walked over and asked the man if he could have a moment. The man stepped a few feet away. Zach bowed his head and put his hand on the cold metal of the casket. He knew it was empty, and yet it seemed appropriate to touch it as he said the only goodbye he might ever get to say to his oldest friend.

* * *

MADELEINE TIERNEY WAITED as the Cajun woman who had stayed at Sandy’s house during the funeral fussed at Sandy. She turned the coverlet back on the bed. “Now you get under that cover, you,” the gnarled little woman said. “And I’ll tuck you in.”

“I’m not sick, Marie Belle,” Sandy had snapped irritably, but she lay down and let the woman tuck the coverlet around her.

Maddy had gladly stepped aside and let Marie Belle handle Sandy. Maddy hadn’t had much luck convincing Sandy that she needed to rest for a while. On the other hand, even though Sandy argued, she listened to the little Cajun woman. And it was obvious by her pinched nostrils, pale face and sunken cheeks how exhausted she was. Her too-bright eyes were proof of the shattering grief that weighed her down, and the way her eyelids drooped was a definite indication that she needed a nap. She needed all the rest she could get, for the sake of the baby, if not for herself, Marie Belle told her. Meekly, Sandy agreed.

Meeting Marie Belle had given Maddy hope that she wouldn’t have to deal with all the food that neighbors, friends and family had brought over. But no such luck. The Cajun woman needed to get home in time to boil a chicken for dinner.

Maddy told her to take some food with her, but the woman had shaken her head. “This food for Miss Sandy, yeah. T’ain’t for me. You take care of that girl now. She needs rest.”

Now, left alone in the kitchen, with Sandy resting in the master bedroom at the end of the hall, Maddy stared at counters stacked with pies, both homemade and bought, casseroles, bread and crackers and soft drinks and fruit. She opened the refrigerator even though she already knew it was full to bursting. She had no idea what she was supposed to do with all the food. She just hoped it was already cooked, because cooking was not her superpower. Sandy had taught her the basics of making scrambled eggs, but her best dish was still Marie Callendar’s Fettuccini Alfredo with extra Parmesan cheese. The extra Parm was her special touch.

Cursing whoever had come up with the brilliant idea of sending food to mourners then showing up to eat it all, she checked the front door to be sure it was locked. She didn’t want people coming into the house through two different entrances.

As soon as Marie Belle left, Maddy had gone into the guest bedroom and removed her Sig from her bag and placed it in the roomy pocket of her skirt, under the boxy jacket. An experienced law enforcement official or a seasoned agent might be able to tell that she was carrying a weapon, but it was unlikely that any of these folks could. She’d stowed her purse in the closet and headed back into the kitchen.

She was at a loss for what she could do to get ready for the onslaught of people who were on their way to Sandy’s house. As she looked around helplessly, her thoughts went to the two men who’d shown up at the graveside service, dressed in clean, pressed slacks and shirts and yet looking out of place. Sandy had told her they were a local fisherman and his son, Murray and Patrick Cho. What bothered Maddy about them hadn’t been their looks or their clothes. It was their attitudes that had worried her.

They’d avoided eye contact, seeming uncomfortable and yet almost defiant, as if they were expecting someone to ask them to leave. The son, Patrick, had stared at Sandy a lot. Once or twice his father had whispered something in his ear and Patrick had reacted with a sharp retort.

Thinking about them made her think about the other man who’d shown up at the graveside service but hadn’t been at the funeral. The man with the sunglasses and the intense green eyes. She’d noticed him as soon as he’d taken his sunglasses off, while he was still standing next to his car. He was one of those people who command attention no matter where they go. He was tall, with dark hair and a lean runner’s body. Just the type of body Maddy preferred in a lover. At least in a fantasy lover. She’d never dated a man with a body like that.

She blinked and shook her head. What had made her drift off into la-la land? She was on assignment—her first assignment. She hadn’t anticipated that babysitting a pregnant widow and serving pounds of food would be part of the job, but she was a professional and she could handle anything that came her way.

Maddy glanced at her watch. Speaking of her job, maybe she had time to check in with her handler before all the people started arriving. She pulled out her phone. As she waited for Brock to answer, she spotted several stacks of red plastic cups someone had brought and left on the counter. She pulled one of the stacks toward her and twisted the tie that held the wrapper closed, but she couldn’t get a good grip on it with one hand, so she stuck the package under her arm to hold it steady.

“Maddy, hi. How’s it going?” Brock said. She knew very little about him, other than after military service he’d been in the CIA and had worked for an antiterrorist undercover agency for several years out in Wyoming after he retired from government service. She didn’t know how he’d gotten from Wyoming to Washington, DC, or how he, as a federal retiree, could be working as a handler for Homeland Security undercover agents, but she did know she could trust him with her life, and that was enough.

“Hi. The funeral’s over. That’s the good news. The bad news is I have to be hostess for the entire town while they eat all the food they brought to Sandy’s house.” While she talked, she grasped the cups’ packaging in both hands and tried to rip it, since she’d failed at getting the twist tie open.

“Right,” he said. “You grew up in New Orleans. You ought to know Southern traditions,” Brock said.

“I know them. I don’t necessarily like them.” With a frustrated grunt, Maddy ripped the plastic bag with her teeth. It tore straight down the middle and sent red cups rocketing across the kitchen island and onto the tile floor.

“Damn it,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“Oh, sorry, Brock. I was trying to open a bag of plastic cups and they just went sailing across the room.”

“Do you have a report?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, then took a breath. “Of course, I don’t know everyone in town by name, but I do know their faces. I saw four people at the funeral that I’d never seen before.” She bent over and snagged a small stack of cups that had landed right side up next to the refrigerator.

“Your assessment?”

“Sandy knew them. They were all members of the DuChaud family. She introduced me.” Maddy rubbed her face and neck with her free hand. Tristan DuChaud’s death hadn’t left her unaffected. Although he was working undercover for Homeland Security just as she was, she’d never met him prior to coming to Bonne Chance.

After Tristan had reported that his cover may have been compromised and requested backup and protection for his wife, she’d been sent to arrange a spot inspection of the oil rig the Pleiades Seagull and slip him a secure satellite phone. But when she’d approached the rig’s captain, he’d put her off, claiming a stomach virus outbreak making them too shorthanded.

While it left Maddy with her hands tied, it worked in Tristan’s favor, as he could stay on the rig and work as much overtime as he could get, thereby having more time to eavesdrop on transmissions between the captain and his superiors and verify their conversations against the chatter the Department of Homeland Security had picked up about planned terrorist activity in the Gulf of Mexico.

It had already been established that much of the chatter originated from the Pleiades Seagull. On a rare week home with Sandy, Tristan had talked to his handler, citing several specific matches between unidentified chatter and telephone conversations that took place between the captain and an unidentified satellite phone.

His reports had prompted sending Maddy. By the time Maddy got there, Tristan was working practically nonstop aboard the rig. Once it was obvious that the captain was not going to allow Maddy on board, Brock had given her the alternate assignment of bodyguarding Tristan’s wife, Sandy, cautioning her and Tristan not to let Sandy know that she was anything more than a new friend.

Maddy had been there nearly four weeks by the time Tristan finally got a week off. Between them, they’d convinced Sandy to let Maddy stay with her while he was working offshore. Tristan was happy because he wanted protection for his pregnant wife.

Maddy was not as happy. This was her first field mission and she wanted to be on the oil rig, in the middle of the action. She approached the captain a second time about a spot inspection. But again, he’d put her off.

Now Tristan was dead, and Maddy felt responsible. She blinked angrily at her stinging eyes. Stupid tears. She had always struggled with her weak side. The side of her that sniffled at funerals and weddings, and sometimes even Hallmark commercials.

“Maddy?” Brock said. “Continue.”

“Right,” she replied, blotting the dampness from her eyes with her fingertips, then grabbing for two cups that were slowly rolling toward the edge of the island. “There were fewer people at the graveside service. I saw three men who were not at the funeral. Two are Vietnamese fishermen, a man and his son, whom I had not seen before. Nor had I ever seen the third man.” She stopped.

The third man. Once again, his image rose before her inner vision. His runner’s body unfolding from the BMW. The sunglasses that he’d removed to reveal green eyes. According to Sandy, his name was Zach.

“Assessment?”

“Oh, right,” she said, pushing thoughts of Zach out of her mind. “As I said, two of them were local fishermen, according to Sandy. Their names are Murray and Patrick Cho. They were respectful and dressed appropriately but seemed uncomfortable and somewhat belligerent, as if they were expecting to be grilled about why they were there.”

“Did you get a photo of them or their vehicle? A license? Make? Model?”

“They didn’t have a vehicle, at least not at the grave site. They walked back to town. And the entire time they were there, they didn’t speak to anyone. They just stood and watched. A time or two they whispered to each other. Once, the younger one, the son, pointed at Sandy.”

“Okay. Text me their names. I’ll have them traced. What about the third man?”

“He was well-dressed and driving a BMW. I suspect it was a rental.”

“So we can get ID on him.”

“Absolutely. His name is Zachary Winter and apparently he’s an old friend of Sandy’s and Tristan’s.”

“Did you get a photo?”

Her hand tightened on the phone. “No. He was watching me the whole time. Sandy obviously cares a lot about him, but I don’t think he’s just a friend, though. He was too alert, too ready...”

“Ready for what?”

“Anything,” she said as her imagination pitted Zach against a burly gunman, whom he took down with his bare hands as a single drop of sweat slid from his hairline down his temple. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked. Brock had said something else but she hadn’t caught it.

“Text me his name and the license number of his vehicle.”

“I don’t have the tag. He parked too far away.” She saw a car pass the kitchen window, then pull over and stop. “Oh, hold on. Maybe I can get it right now. He just pulled up. I can see the tag out the window, if I can just read all the numbers.” She angled her head a bit so she could see the license and read it off to Brock.

“I’ll see what I can come up with. You get all you can from him and Sandy DuChaud.”

“Anything from your end? Are you going to be able to get another agent hired onto the rig?”

“It’s not looking good. We’re trying to see if we can go another way to find out what Tristan overheard and if it’s an immediate threat. We may pull you out, based on what we find.”

“Oh,” Maddy said as another car pulled up to the house. “I’d like to stay,” she said. “Sandy’s pregnant and alone here.” A third car pulled up. “Here they come.”

“Who?”

“Everyone in town. They’re all here to comfort Sandy and eat the food.”

“Stay alert.”

“No problem,” Maddy said, resting her hand on her pocket, where she’d concealed her Sig P229 handgun. “I’m always alert.”

“Usually,” Brock said wryly.

“What? What do you mean by that?” she retorted.

“I thought I was about to lose you twice in this conversation. First with the cups and then again when you described the stranger who is ready for anything.”

“Give me a break, Brock. I was just reporting what I saw.” She felt her face grow warm. “It’s been a long day.”

“Maddy, we don’t know yet what we’re dealing with. But you know that you have to assume that—”

“Everyone is a potential threat. I know. Don’t worry. I’ve got this under control.” She did. She was confident and alert. As confident as she could be. Tristan’s death was unexplained. It could easily have been an accident, as the drilling company said. Accidents were unfortunately not unknown on oil rigs. But there was another possibility. A very real, very ominous possibility.

Two months before, Tristan had told his handler that the captain was becoming suspicious of him. That’s when he’d asked for backup and protection for his newly pregnant wife.

“Brock? I know we have very little to go on, but what if Tristan was pushed or knocked out and thrown overboard? He was sure that the captain had found out he was listening in on his phone calls.”

“The director is having that looked into, but it’s a pretty touchy subject right now, with elections coming up. No congressperson is going to be excited about the possibility of corruption going on in the offshore drilling industry.”

“But a DHS agent died,” Maddy said.

“No. An oil rig worker died. We’re not disclosing his connection to DHS. Not yet. The director is insisting on moving slowly. He’s got experts reviewing all of DuChaud’s communications for any clues.”

“Clues? He told his handler he needed backup and protection for his wife. Isn’t that a clue?”

“Agent Tierney, I have told you what the director’s position is,” Brock said coldly. Then he went on in a kinder voice. “Listen to me, Maddy. The director is concerned. He’ll be speaking with the top officials of Lee Drilling, the company that owns the Pleiades Seagull, very soon. In the meantime, we need you to take care of Mrs. DuChaud.”

“What about getting onto the rig?”

“No. That’s no longer your assignment. We’re trying out some new technology, advanced listening devices, to pick up communications on the Pleiades Seagull. So you don’t worry about the platform.”

“New technology? Why didn’t you use those before, instead of putting Tristan in danger?” she asked.

“Carry on with your revised instructions, Agent. I’ve got a meeting.”

“Brock?” she said, but the phone was dead. He had hung up. She picked up another cup and straightened, wincing at the disapproval in Brock’s voice. He’d been in military environments throughout his entire career and he felt that interactions between officers and agents should be handled with a certain protocol.

When she looked up, Zach Winter was standing at the French doors. He let himself in. His jacket was slightly damp with sweat and a little wrinkled, as was the white shirt under it, but he wore them as if they were bright as the sun and freshly starched. His broad shoulders stretched the material slightly and the open collar of his shirt revealed a prominent Adam’s apple and long, sinewy neck muscles that hinted at a serious and strenuous fitness routine. Her gaze moved to the perfectly fitted dress pants, under which were long, muscular runner’s legs that complemented his lean torso and long arms. If he’d been a little thinner or taller, he might have looked awkward and rawboned. But he wasn’t thinner or taller. He was just about perfect.

“Um, mind if I come in?” he said.

Maddy’s gaze shot back up to his. Her face burned but she ignored it and gave him a haughty look as she walked toward him. Her foot hit a cup she hadn’t seen. “Damn it,” she said, bending down to pick it up.

At the same time, Zach did the same thing and their hands touched. “What happened here?” he asked. “Who detonated the cups?”

She suppressed a laugh and glared at him as she grabbed the cup away from him. She moved to rise and found that Zach was already standing, his hand held out in an offer to help her.

She ignored it.

“I’m Zach Winter,” he said.

Maddy realized that as perfect as Zach Winter was, she didn’t like him. Didn’t like his attempts to be charming or his too-familiar demeanor. “Yes, I remember from Sandy’s introduction,” she retorted.

He nodded. “So are you called Madeleine, Maddy or Ms. Tierney?”

Sudden, swift anger bubbled up from her chest and tightened her jaw. She started to say that Ms. Tierney would work just fine, when someone else appeared at the door. It was Father Michael. “Hello, Madeleine.”

Maddy cleared her throat and gave him a faint smile. “Hello, Father. I’m still hoping you’ll call me Maddy.”

“Well, all right, Maddy.” He clasped her hand warmly as he glanced around the kitchen. “I see Zach and I are the first to arrive. Where is Sandy? Is she resting?”

Maddy nodded, then looked at the priest assessingly. “So, how do you two know each other?”

Father Michael raised a brow at Zach then smiled at her. “Let me introduce you to one of the most promising hometown boys ever to leave Bonne Chance. Zachary Winter. Zach, this is Madeleine Tierney.” He smiled sheepishly. “Maddy.”

Maddy met Zach Winter’s gaze. His name fit him. It was sharp and cool, just like him.

“Sandy introduced us at the graveside service,” she said. “Hometown boy? Odd that no one seemed to recognize you except the Father and Sandy.”

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