Chapter 16
CATRIONA
Me
Emergency meeting. Please tell me you’re not at the hospital.
Yasmine
I’m always at the hospital. You’ll end up burying me here. Why? Do you need a doctor? Call 911, you idiot.
Me
Can’t you stop saving lives for once? I don’t need a doctor. This is what I’m dealing with.
*picture of my name on O’Connor’s knuckles*
Yasmine
He didn’t. Are you shitting me? Why is this so hot? It shouldn’t be, right?
Me
He did. I’m going insane. I need to talk to you about this. Girls’ night? SOON. And it’s not hot. It’s demented.
Yasmine
Color me intrigued. Tomorrow? Movie night at your house
Me
You’re on.
Yasmine
The people of New Orleans are lucky I’m such a consummate professional. Otherwise, I’d leave them to their various traumas to dive into the drama. I’ll be there after my shift at 4.
Me
I’ll try not to make any terrible decisions until then.
Yasmine
What terrible decisions.
I swear to God, if you don’t answer me, I’m going to kill you myself.
What terrible decisions?!?!?!?!
Just for this disrespect, I fully support your husband getting your name tattooed on his hands.
Count your hours, Catriona Deirdre O’Connor (that’s right, full government name)
My phone buzzes in my pocket with texts from a thoroughly annoyed Yasmine, and I try to pull it out to text her back so she doesn’t worry, but I’m interrupted by a brusque masculine voice.
“Catriona.”
I whirl around, heart hammering, and find Mr. Broussard leaning out of the window of a nondescript beige sedan. The locks click, spurring me into action, and I skirt around the car before folding into the passenger seat.
“Thank you for picking me up, Mr. Broussard. I realize this is highly irregular.”
“No need to thank me, this is nowhere near the most bizarre thing I’ve done this week, let alone in my career. Where to? The same place?”
I shift uncomfortably. It may be irrational, but I’ve become even more paranoid about someone spotting me out in public while I’m chasing down information about my mother.
It had been bad after her death when my father was so concerned about our public image, but with how entangled O’Connor is with my father’s gambling debts, I highly doubt he’ll want me doing the same thing, and I can’t risk it.
“Is there somewhere more private we can go?”
Broussard shifts the car into gear, strokes his mustache, then says, “Sure, I know a place.”
He fills the silence with small talk about my classes and interesting tidbits about cases he’s worked on.
I wonder idly as he navigates the streets to a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city if he has a family.
Or does he keep a job with varied hours to fill the time because he doesn’t have a regular one?
When I was younger, I used to wish I had a father with Mr. Broussard’s disposition.
Someone steady, dependable, and trustworthy.
Though I would have settled for a kind man.
He pulls the car into the driveway of one of several identical cottages. They’re spaced far enough apart that I’m not worried about privacy. And I’m kind of curious what the inside of his house looks like. It’s almost like getting a peek at the inner workings of his brain.
“Is this where you live?” I ask.
“Yes. I hope that’s alright.”
“Of course. I’m sorry for intruding.”
“Not at all. This will make it easier to demonstrate what I’ve found so far. I keep all of my equipment in my office.”
Broussard leads me into his home, shrugging out of his patched suit jacket and hanging it on a honey-colored pine hall tree.
Photos fill the space, though they’re covered in a light layer of dust. The room is well-loved but neglected.
I know then, without asking, that he must have lost his wife at some point.
There’s a woman’s touch to the decor, the attention to pictures, especially, that screams he was married and that he loved her desperately, if the adoration in his eyes in each image is any indication.
He gestures to a hallway lined with more family photos. “My office is the first door on the right. I’ll get us some sweet tea, or I have water or soda if you prefer.”
Touched by this insight into his life, I smile warmly. “Sweet tea would be perfect.”
The pictures in the hall don’t show any children, so it’s just Mr. Broussard.
His wife was a slight woman with a floof of white hair and a luminous smile.
They seemed so happy. My heart squeezes in my chest at the thought of him being alone.
At how different his marriage must have been compared to my parents’.
I huff a laugh. Or even mine.
“Here we are, Catriona.” He hands me a glass of sweet tea with a wedge of lemon on the rim and a glass straw.
“Thank you so much.”
Gesturing, he says, “Please, take a seat. I’ll pull up what I’ve found since our last conversation. I’m afraid it isn’t good news.”
Steeling myself with a deep pull from the straw, I sit on a fluffy chair next to his substantial oak desk that has enough gouges and scars in its surface for me to conclude he must have had it for a long time.
“At this point, all I want is to know the truth, no matter how bad it is. I thought Devin would have more information, but our conversation was interrupted. Not that it matters. He said his car had a loose battery connection. Had it towed and everything.”
“Hmm. Just like the police report.” Broussard rubs his mustache with a thumb and forefinger, and, despite the topic of our conversation, I have to hide a smile. Dammit, I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to care about anyone else, but I’ve grown a soft spot for this man.
Forcing myself to focus, I consider his words. “I don’t know anything about cars. Is that a plausible explanation?”
He makes a so-so gesture with his hand, tipping it from side to side. “Ehh, most people familiar with cars would see it right away. But if he’s more focused on his job or has never been around cars, I assume it’s a plausible explanation.”
“Well, I guess that’s what we call a dead-end.”
“Maybe. We’ll put a pin in the car for now. I did have luck accessing your mother’s banking information with the information I found on your mother’s phone.”
I perk up. “Really? I’m assuming, based on your call, you found something.” A sick, greasy feeling twists my insides into knots. All I want are answers, but at the same time, I’m terrified of what I’m going to find. The sweet tea helps, but only a little.
“Most of the transactions were innocuous. Insurance payments for bloodwork, charities, the medspa, lawyers, clothes, dinners, etcetera. But several transactions occurred after her death. Transfers from your mother’s accounts to your father’s.”
“How is that possible?”
“Because they were her personal accounts, he couldn’t touch them until the court appointed him executor.
He had to take the death certificate and the letters testamentary to the bank before they’d move a dollar.
” He pauses, throat working as he drinks from his glass.
“Not altogether suspicious, but there was one transaction on her account right after he got access as executor that drew my attention, so I thought I’d mention it.
It’s labeled as an estate account, but a little more digging shows that’s not the case. ”
“So where is the money now?”
“That I do not know, unless we got an accounting of your father’s.” He studies me over the desk. “I have people who can do this, but I wasn’t sure if that was a step you wanted to take. It’s not strictly legal.”
I imagine the circus that would be. If I didn’t have a gut feeling my father was involved in her death, I’d drop it and wouldn’t consider doing something illegal. The man clearly has no affection for me, but accusing him of murdering my mother without concrete proof would do more harm than good.
“I took the liberty to do some more digging.” My gaze shoots to his as he continues.
“Around the same time, Devin Franklin started spending more. A lot more. A new house. Brand-new car. Expensive watches and dinners at exclusive restaurants.” He worries his mustache some more.
“It may be a coincidence. He could have come into wealth on his own, but the timing itself is suspicious, so I thought it worth mentioning.”
“That would explain why he was so cagey when I tried to corner him at the reception. If he helped my father cover up the details behind my mother’s death in exchange for cash, then it would explain his lifestyle changes.”
Could he have been the one who killed my mother? If his supposed car trouble turns out to be a hoax, then he would have been at the house at the same time she was.
“There has to be some way to place him there at the time of her death. Maybe the money was payment for… for killing her.” I can barely force the last sentence through my tight throat.
“It’s an option, but I can’t say anything for certain without more information.”
“Of course. No, you’re right. But it’s not a good look.”
“It does seem damning at first blush,” Broussard admits, palming his head.
“I’m going to search the area for additional footage.
Maybe the police missed some home security systems from nearby properties that would have something useful.
Especially if they weren’t looking for anything because they thought it was an accident. ”
“They were pretty damn convinced from the beginning. Even my friend at the department, Reggie Baptiste, thought it was strange how quickly they leaned into the accidental death determination.”
“Happens more than you would think. The simplest answer is usually correct, but it’s also the fastest way to close a case, and sometimes things aren’t always as they seem.”
Touched all over again by his willingness to simply believe me, a rush of affection has me beaming at him. “Thank you. Sincerely. You can’t know how much it means to me to have someone actually listen to me and take my concerns seriously.”