Free Heather Graham by Down in New Orleans Page A

because the nurses assured her that it would be good if she talked to him. There were police officers on duty in the hospital; one just outside the intensive care doorway, and another ready to spell him, keeping his vigil out in the most comfortable realm of the waiting room. Nurses and cops whispered; she didn’t hear them.
    It was around six when she became aware that someone was behind her. Someone who had been standing there, silently watching her. She was aware of a very soft and subtle scent of aftershave.
    It fit him, she thought. A woodsy scent. Rugged. But not too much. Dashed on quickly.
    She wasn’t surprised when she turned to see that the lieutenant was behind her.
    She was alarmed, however, when she felt a rush of tears rising to her eyes.
    “Come on, now,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It’s not that bad.”
    She swallowed hard. “Not for you. The paper agrees with you. Jon Marcel is a monster.”
    “He can still make it.”
    “He can still make it. He’s in a coma, and the papers have him convicted.”
    “He can come out of this and defend himself.”
    “Yeah,” she said without conviction.
    “So that’s it? You’re beaten? Licked?”
    She spun around to stare at him. That half smile was back on his lips.
    “You’ve decided he’s innocent?”
    “I haven’t. Have you decided he’s guilty?”
    “No!”
    He shrugged. “Well, it will be a battle, then. You don’t look ready for it.”
    She arched a brow.
    “You look beat. Last night I thought you were thirty. You’re closer to forty this morning.”
    Ann stared at him, amazed. “Lieutenant, that’s downright rude.”
    He grimaced. “Sorry.”
    “And by the way, you look like hell, too.”
    “I know. My granddaughter told me so.”
    “You have a granddaughter ?”
    He half smiled, nodded, and stepped closer to the bed, to Jon, with all his tubes and mechanical extensions. Despite herself, she tensed.
    “Be—umm—careful,” she warned.
    “Mrs. Marcel, I assure you, I don’t intend to pull any plugs. Whether you want to believe me or not, I’m anxious myself that this man live.”
    He assessed Jon, then glanced her way. “He’s going to make it.”
    “You really want him to make it?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “So you can convict him.”
    “If he’s guilty. If he’s not, he may know something.”
    “He does know...something,” Ann said.
    “He must. He’s talking already.”
    “He’s talking already? Amazing,” Ann said suspiciously. “What’s he saying?”
    “He’s saying that you need to get out of here for a while. You need to stroll down the street, get some sunshine, smell some flowers. Sit at an outdoor cafe and have some café au lait and beignets, baguettes, cheese, protein, chocolate—food. Put some color into your cheeks, and some sustenance into your soul.”
    “I’m not in the mood to wander aimlessly.”
    “I wasn’t suggesting you wander aimlessly. I’d like some café au lait.”
    “Is that an invitation, Lieutenant?” she inquired, surprised.
    “It is.”
    “Are you going to grill me?”
    “I think you’ve been grilled enough lately. I really could use some caffeine and cholesterol.”
    “What would your wife think of you sharing caffeine and cholesterol with the ex-wife of one of your alleged murderers?”
    “If she were alive, Maggie would think you were heartily in need of something. Shall we go?”
    She was still damned suspicious, and she knew that it showed. But he reached out a hand to help her rise from her chair, and though she hesitated, she took it.
    His grip was strong. Powerful. Something in his hold seemed to offer her renewed strength. She did need coffee. Not hospital coffee out of a paper cup. Real, rich, New Orleans brew. Hot and mixed with steamed milk.
    She stared at his hand, holding hers. Tanned, with blunt cut, clean nails.
    “I—”
    “Well?”
    “I’m not sure. Do you know a place that’s quiet, but offers a pleasant view, coffee strong enough