Free Bayou Hero by Marilyn Pappano Page A

callused, not smooth, either. Not until she’d identified the tiny tremor that shot through her as something more purely feminine than she’d allowed herself to feel in a very long time.
    Not until she’d reminded herself that he was a person of interest in the most important case in her career so far.
    And by then, they’d reached the door and he let go anyway.
    The air inside was cool enough to raise goose bumps all over her, making her wish for the jacket still sitting in her car’s front seat. Thick carpet underneath muffled their footsteps, and heavy perfume from the half dozen large flower arrangements obliterated the interesting scent that was Landry. Soft lights, soft colors, soothing music, leather furniture and upholstered pieces, a
Gone with the Wind
–worthy staircase, pricey artwork that she wasn’t entirely sure were reproductions...
    “The Cadillac people do well,” she whispered as an elegantly dressed silver-haired man approached them from a hallway to the right. How had he known they were here? There’d been no ding from the door, no receptionist sitting politely awaiting customers.
    A silent alarm, and probably surveillance cameras for good measure. It was like her office, only in much fancier quarters.
    “Mr. Jackson, we’re so sorry about your loss. The admiral was a good man, a good friend to the navy as well as New Orleans.” The man held Landry’s hand exactly the proper length of time, released it just so. “And we just heard about Miss Viola. Such a tragedy.”
    That done, he turned to Alia. His gaze slid over her badge and weapons without the slightest change in expression. “I’m Matthieu DeVille. And you are?”
    Landry answered for her. “A friend of the family.”
    Surprised by Landry’s response, she accepted Mr. DeVille’s handshake. His skin was softer than her own. He had a better manicure, too. Did he deal only with the living, or did these hands also help prepare their clients’ bodies? She had to restrain a shiver as she quickly let go.
    “If you’ll follow me, please.”
    He led them through broad halls, past chapels, offices and casket-display rooms until they finally reached his office. He seated himself behind a mahogany desk, leaving two finely carved matching chairs for Alia and Landry. She didn’t want to sit down any more than Landry did, but she did.
    She sat quietly, legs crossed, hands clasped and fought the impulse to tap her toes or bounce one foot in the air. She wasn’t a fidgeter, she’d told Landry, but energy bubbled and roiled inside her, needing an outlet of some sort. She concentrated on regulating her breathing and on ignoring the fact that somewhere in the building were corpses being cleaned up, dressed up, made up for their last viewing on earth.
    She was going to be cremated, she decided on a breath filled with overly sweet flowers.
    “What about the admiral’s personal information?” Mr. DeVille asked, looking from Landry to her. They had scheduled the service for Friday at the church the Jacksons and the Landrys had attended for more than a century; the interment would be in one of the family vaults; the family would receive mourners at Mary Ellen’s house.
    “Personal information?” Landry blankly repeated.
    “For the obituary. Pertinent dates, education, career highlights, surviving family.”
    Alia removed her tablet from her purse and, after a quick search, found the admiral’s biography online. The page gave great detail to his education and navy career and spared one small paragraph for his family. The way of his life, she thought as she asked for Mr. DeVille’s email address.
    With a word of thanks, he opened the email on his computer, then printed a copy to go into Jackson’s file. He studied the top page a moment, right about where her email address appeared:
@ncis.navy.mil
. His gaze flickered from the page to her, to the badge and weapons he’d noticed earlier but couldn’t see now. How many questions was he