Free Thigh High by Christina Dodd Page A

me all kinds of questions.” Melissa rubbed Brad’s arm as he talked. “I know he’d already received the security tape from the bank, so I don’t know what he thought he could find out, but I thought for sure he was going to fire me.”
    â€œBecause your bank got robbed?” Nessa was incredulous.
    â€œâ€˜The buck stops here,’ he said.” Brad blotted his forehead with a napkin. “Every Mardi Gras, I think, Please don’t let them hit my bank again. ”
    â€œMr. MacNaught sent me to find the culprits, so with your wife’s help, you don’t need to worry anymore.” Sitting in the shadowy coffee shop, Jeremiah looked like a stone carving.
    â€œThank you, sir.” Brad Rosewell stood and shook Jeremiah’s hand again. “I’m glad to hear that.” Putting his hand under Melissa’s arm, he hoisted her to her feet. “Come on, honey, I’ll take you home.”
    Jeremiah got to his feet also. “One more question, Mrs. Rosewell. Is there other information you want to pass on? Anything at all?”
    She took a breath. Looked at her husband. At Jeremiah’s stern face. And shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

Seven
    The noise, scents, and appearance of the New Orleans streets spilled into the cramped lobby of the NOPD. Accents of every kind assaulted Mac’s ears—French, Italian, Spanish, and Cajun. People smelled of sweat, perfume, and beer. They wore elaborate costumes. They wore masks. One guy wore tennis shoes and nothing else. A woman cried because her pocket had been picked. Another cried because she’d been caught picking pockets. A line of a dozen people stood waiting to talk to a frazzled-looking police officer. Policemen moved among the crowd, coercing, comforting, cajoling.
    â€œThey need a bigger building,” Mac said.
    Nessa snorted. “They’re lucky to have this. Since the hurricane, most of the fire departments are working out of trailers.
    â€œNow, here’s what we’re going to do.” Nessa slid her sunglasses off her nose and hung them on the V of her blouse. “I’m going to get you in to talk to the chief of police. Chief Cutter’s been involved in the investigation, and he’s taken a lot of heat for not making any arrests.”
    â€œI would hope so.” Mac removed his sunglasses and placed them in the sunglass case in the left inner pocket of his suit jacket, and used the excuse to look at Nessa.
    He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she was prettier in person than on the video, with more charisma and a soft, warm voice that made his libido race like a Chevy 427. She reminded Mac of sex performed in the sunshine, of passion before a roaring fire, of love…. Pure, glorious, everlasting love.
    She continued, “So you can ask questions, but when you do, smile. You can talk to whoever you want, but if I nudge you or kick you or step on your foot, you smile.”
    â€œRight. Smile,” he repeated.
    She could make any man lose his head, and Mac figured she did—once a year without fail.
    She didn’t suspect him of being anything but what he said, a guy investigating the Beaded Bandits, and she gave him her complete assistance. Why wouldn’t she? Being in control of the investigator gave her the illusion of being in control of the investigation.
    â€œI’m sure we could have gotten more information out of Melissa Rosewell if you hadn’t been standing there with that big ol’ stone face.”
    â€œMrs. Rosewell was very helpful,” he answered austerely.
    Austere was a good description for him, he felt, especially in New Orleans during the wild celebration that was Mardi Gras.
    â€œBut she didn’t give us that last juicy little detail because you made her feel dumb,” Nessa lectured.
    â€œAll right. I got it. I’ll smile!” Nessa was irritating, like a mosquito buzzing around his