Bayou Justice

“Readers will almost taste the flavor of New Orleans in this mystery that’s never about the whodunit but about the whydunit, all handled with Kane’s deft hand at suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews on Death of a Beauty Queen

“Kane creates feisty and independent women who are more than a match for their men, and this story is a terrifically complicated thriller.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Sharpshooter’s Secret Son

MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.

She loves romance suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.

Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at [email protected].

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Michael, for always.

Ray Storm dodged a pair of college girls on bikes sporting Tulane backpacks and frowned as he looked at the hamburger joint that sat exactly where his apartment had been back on August 29, 2005, the day Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. The corner of Octavia and Freret streets was almost unrecognizable. Not surprising, but disconcerting.

He’d watched the coverage 24/7, like everyone who had been in New Orleans on that day. Later, he’d watched the in-depth news stories and the TV specials, and because he’d been an FBI agent, he’d read top secret memos and reports unavailable to the general public.

Now, eight years later, he stared at where he’d lived then, struck anew by the knowledge that not only had Katrina changed New Orleans and the world forever, she had changed him, as well.

Before his brain could start down the dangerous path of how different things might have been if that particular storm hadn’t struck on that particular night in that particular city, a striking, vaguely familiar figure caught his eye. A tall woman with café au lait skin, dressed in slim jeans and red platform heels, emerged from between two massive Hollywood South eighteen-wheelers, dragging every male gaze away from the bustle of director chairs, booms and cameras in her wake. Ray shook his head in wonder at the woman he’d known eight years ago as a hopped-up C.I.

Another life changed by Katrina, that graceless lady.

Angelica DePuye didn’t stop until her nose was less than two inches from his. She propped her fists on her slim hips. “I swear to Pete. You are alive and breathing. I thought I’d gotten a call from beyond the grave.” She smiled. “You might be surprised at how often that happens these days.”

Ray put his hands on her shoulders and took a step backward, eyeing her with his brows raised. “Looks like the past eight years have been good to you, Angel.”

“Humph,” she snorted delicately and tossed her head, sending the sleek ponytail anchored at the crown of her head swishing, then kissed his cheek. “You can call me Officer DePuye,” she retorted, sliding a hand into her jeans pocket and slipping the edge of an instantly recognizable black leather case free for an instant. “But not in public. These days I’m a narc.”

Her mouth was twisted in a mocking smile, but Ray saw the pride in her dark eyes. “No way,” he said. “That’s great.”

Before Katrina, Angel had been a heroin addict and NOPD officer Mack Rivet’s confidential informant. She shrugged. “After Katrina, I lost my C.I. cred, and believe it or not, it was damned hard to find H at any price.” She shrugged as she tucked the badge case back into her pocket. “I had to do something.”

“Something,” Ray echoed, a chuckle in his voice. “Which in your case was merely to get sober and enter the police academy.”

“Well, it wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Buy me a cup of coffee,” she said, gesturing toward the café with a toss of her ponytail, “and tell me what’s brought your Yankee butt down here again.”

They went into the burger joint, where, with the exception of the scowling man behind the counter, they were the oldest by at least ten years. All the customers and most of the waitstaff had the earnest, freshly washed faces of college students.

Ray gestured for two coffees, then sat back. “A lot has changed.”

“First words out of everybody’s mouth when they come back,” Angel commented.

The waitress set the thick white cups in front of them and managed to mumble something and pop her gum at the same time.

“Might be a cliché, but it’s true,” he said, shaking his head at the girl, figuring there was a 90 percent chance she’d asked if they needed anything else. Once she’d moved on to the next table, he leaned forward. “Tell me about Mack and Remy.” Remy Comeaux and Mack Rivet were the two NOPD officers who had worked with him on the Louisiana Disaster Avoidance Task Force Investigations Team back in 2005. “The FBI pulled me out of there so fast once Katrina hit that I wasn’t able to contact either of them.”