1 The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana Monday, July 25, 9:05 a.m. Well, will you look at what the cat finally dragged in an hour late," Molly Sutton drawled from where she sat perched on the edge of Joy's desk. It was an old desk, a little battered, but beautifully carved. It fit with the art deco decor in the lobby of Broussard's Private Investigations, LLC. Her boss, Burke Broussard, liked nice things and he loved New Orleans. Their office space on the Quarter's edge was a lot more expensive than an equivalent space in the burbs, but Burke swore it was worth it for the foot traffic alone. Their full roster of well-to-do clients seeking "Highly Qualified & Discreet Private Investigators"-as their business cards said in a very dignified script-seemed to prove him right. Scowling, Joy Thomas piloted her electric wheelchair behind the desk with practiced ease. "You shut up. I am not that late." Molly laughed. "You're always here at eight and you know it. Besides, is that any way to talk to the person who brought you coffee?" She held out a cup from the coffeehouse, fixed just the way Joy liked it. "I figured you'd be a little rough this morning, so I came prepared." Joy eyed the offered cup, then took it with a reluctant nod of thanks. "Considering you're the reason I feel like death warmed over this morning, you should have brought me coffee." Molly lifted her brows, unable to hide her smile. "I'm the reason? I don't remember holding your nose and pouring three hurricanes down your throat, Mrs. Thomas." She held up three fingers. "Three hurricanes, Joy. Three." She cocked her head. "Do you see three fingers? Or six?" Joy flipped her the bird. "I see just one." Molly choked on another laugh. In her midfifties, Joy looked so prim, so . . . matronly and proper. Never a hair out of place, she always dressed like a woman going to afternoon tea, a string of pearls ever present around her throat. The only thing missing was elbow-length gloves, and Molly bet that Joy had a pair of those, too. Joy might have appeared prim and frail at first glance, but the woman was strength personified. One of the first Black women to reach detective rank in the NOPD, Joy's career had ended after she was injured in the line of duty. Reinventing herself, she'd gotten her CPA license so that she could support herself and her four kids-then teenagers, now amazing adults. She was more than their office manager, their bookkeeper. She was like a mother, too. Having lost her own mother, Molly accepted Joy's mothering with gratitude. "Don't know why you're not miserable," Joy groused, but her expression softened with her first sip of the coffee. "Mm. It's still hot." She narrowed her eyes. "You brat. You were late, too." Molly grinned, unconcerned. Burke ran a pretty loose ship and they all worked plenty of hours when they were on cases. "Guilty as charged." Joy took another sip, closing her eyes. "This is the good stuff. None of that burned crap from that other coffee shop." "Never," Molly said solemnly. "And I'm not miserable because I was the designated driver who got all y'all's asses home safely. You're welcome, woman." Joy shook her head, wincing at the sudden movement. She turned on her computer and sat back in her wheelchair with a frown. "I never did figure why you were the designated driver. It was your damn birthday, after all. You should have been the one drinking three hurricanes." Shoving her hands in the pockets of her trousers, Molly shrugged. "Chelsea's been under a lot of pressure. She needed to let loose a little. Especially since she had a babysitter. Tell Louisa thank you for staying with Harper, by the way. That was so nice of her." Joy's daughter Louisa was a grad student who could have been out partying with her friends, but she'd agreed to sit with Molly's eight-year-old niece. Harper had been through so much trauma over the last few years. Molly and her sister Chelsea didn't trust just anyone to stay with her. Joy smiled proudly. "She's a good one, my LouLou. She said thank you for the dinner you sent home for her. She wasn't expecting the Choux's shrimp and grits." "It was the least I could do, seeing as how she wouldn't let me pay her." Molly had celebrated her birthday at Le Petit Choux, her favorite restaurant in the Quarter, its name a play on the French endearment. Because even though the food was amazing, the place was known for its desserts, including its choux pastry. And for its head chef, of course. Joy aimed a sly smile across the desk. "She'd have preferred an eyeful of that chef." Molly chuckled, her cheeks heating. "Because LouLou's not stupid." She'd be lying if she said she hadn't kept her eyes open for the restaurant's chef and co-owner, who was also New Orleans' newest celebrity, having won a Food Network competition the year before. The win had driven droves of tourists and locals alike to the Choux, at least half of whom stood in line mainly for a chance to ogle Chef Hebert. At around six feet tall, Gabriel Hebert-pronounced "Ay-bear" in the New Orleans way-was very handsome. His square jaw, sexy grin, and dark red hair that curled loosely in the ever-present humidity checked off all of her boxes. Not to mention how his shoulders filled out that chef's jacket. And-not that she'd ever admit to ogling-his butt looked very nice in the black trousers that completed his uniform. While she wasn't looking for any relationships, she'd never pass up an opportunity to admire the Choux's head chef. He'd personally served his decadent chocolate cake last night with its single burning candle, standing at her shoulder while her sister and friends sang the birthday song before cutting the first slice for her with a flourish. Like he'd done on every one of her birthdays for the past three years. Like he did for everyone on their birthday. So it wasn't special, per se, but Molly's cheeks had still burned hotter than the damn candle. A fact that hadn't escaped her sister's attention. Even rip-roaring drunk, Chelsea had an eagle eye for such things, and she'd teased her unmercifully once they were finally alone in the car after dropping everyone else off. Luckily Chelsea was a sleepy drunk and was snoring by the time Molly had parked the car in their building's ground-floor garage. "My daughter is certainly not stupid. Hell, I like to look at that man, too," Joy said, then glanced at her screen, her eyes going wide. "Well, my goodness." Molly leaned forward, trying to peek at Joy's screen. "Well, my goodness what?" Joy tapped her mouse, minimizing the window. "It's labeled 'Need to know,'" she said seriously. "Besides, don't you have an appointment this morning?" Molly respected "need to know." She wouldn't push. "I wish I had an appointment. I just have a mountain of paperwork after closing that case last week. And I don't think anyone should have to do paperwork on the Monday after her birthday." "You also said that no one should have to do paperwork on the Friday before their birthday," a male voice said dryly. "Or the Thursday before. Or the Wednesday before, for that matter." Molly looked up to find her boss standing in his office doorway. Burke Broussard was in his midforties and, other than a few silver hairs at his temples, hadn't changed a bit since he'd been her CO in the Marines a decade before. "Morning, Burke. I brought you coffee, too." She held up the cup. "Thank the good Lord for that," he said fervently. "I've been here since six." Molly shuddered in mostly mock horror. "Why?" She'd left rising with the sun behind when she'd finished her final tour with the Marine Corps. Burke, however, had a love-hate relationship with mornings. He said he hated them, but he continued coming in earlier and earlier. The man was a fool. He was also smart as hell, driven to succeed, compassionate, and generous to a fault. But a morning fool. "Come into my office," he said. "I have a new client you should meet." Joy's eyes widened further, and she maneuvered her wheelchair so that she could unabashedly watch Molly walk into Burke's office. And Molly immediately understood why. Sitting in the chair at Burke's conference table was none other than Gabriel Hebert, Choux chef extraordinaire. He looked tired and tense and very unhappy. She wondered if he'd been so unhappy the night before. He had looked tired, but not this unhappy. Of course, he might be one of those people who could put on the face they wished the world to see. "Molly, this is Mr. Hebert. Gabe, this is Miss Sutton. I'm going to assign her to your case." Molly's brows shot up. What? Gabe's brows shot up as well, then crunched together in a disgruntled frown. "What? You're handing me off?" He came to his feet. "What the hell, Burke?" The two men faced off, and they couldn't have appeared more physically different. Burke's skin was olive toned, his deep tan a testament to all the road biking he did in his spare time. Gabe was so lightly tanned that she might still call him pale. And, like a lot of redheads, he had a smattering of freckles across his nose. She'd always wanted to trace those freckles with her fingertips. She'd wondered where else he had them. Both men were tall, but Burke's body was bulky where Gabe's was lean. Molly loved to watch Gabe move. When he was cooking in his restaurant's kitchen, it was like watching a choreographed dance. Only their accents were similar-both speaking with that smooth New Orleans drawl that sounded like hot summer nights with jazz music thick in the air. Except that Gabe's voice made her shiver, when Burke's never had. She probably shouldn't have shivered at all, considering how angry he seemed, but her body couldn't help how it reacted. Sue me. Burke waved at him to be seated. "I'm too close, Gabe. Your father . . . he was important to me, too. He was my partner. I had his back, and he had mine. Whatever else went down when I was on the force, I knew your father would stand by me, and he did. I don't know that I'd be able to keep an open mind." Gabe did not sit down, his frown deepening to something almost dangerous. "Open to what?" he asked, each word dripping with anger and warning. "The truth," Burke said simply. "Whatever it might be. Molly's my right hand. She will not let you down. Now, please, have a seat. If, after you've talked with her, you want someone else, we'll figure it out. Don't worry. You can depend on her discretion, no matter who you choose to work your case." Gabe released a harsh breath. "Okay." He sat, then shifted his gaze to Molly, who still stood in the doorway, having not moved a muscle. He did a double take. "Do I know . . ." He trailed off. "Right. Last night. Happy birthday, Miss Sutton." Burke looked between them, his expression suddenly unhappy. "You two know each other?" "No," Gabe said. "No," Molly said at the same time. "I've been to his restaurant a few times, that's all. The girls took me there last night for my birthday. I brought you some cake," she added lamely. "It's in the fridge in the break room." "Thank you, Molly." Clearly relieved, Burke gestured to one of the empty chairs at the table. "Join us. As I'm sure you've figured out, this case requires extreme discretion." Molly nodded. "I understand. Mr. Hebert, if you decide I'm not the best fit, there will be no hard feelings. But should you choose to work with me, I'll do my very best." Gabe's shoulders slumped, his exhaustion clear to see. "I appreciate that." He swallowed hard. "I need to find out who killed my father." Molly glanced at Burke. "Are the police involved?" Gabe's laugh was bitter. "Most likely, yes." Burke sighed. "What he means is, someone in law enforcement might be complicit. Or responsible." Molly sat back, wishing she was surprised. "All right, then. Let me have it." The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana Monday, July 25, 9:25 a.m. Molly Sutton was . . . Gabe wasn't entirely certain how he'd describe her. Serene. Unruffled. Unwrinkled and crisp despite the already-steamy air in the room. Despite wearing a jacket in late July, for heaven's sake. She'd been the same way the night before and every other time she'd walked into the Choux. And yes, he'd noticed. Every single time. There was something about the woman that always drew his gaze. Okay, several things. She was exactly his type, golden blond with a face like Grace Kelly and a body like Marilyn Monroe. But it was more than her looks. There was something about her that settled him. She was the only diner to whom he'd personally delivered a birthday cake last night. He'd foisted all of the other cakes onto Patty, his cousin and co-owner of the Choux. But Molly's cake he'd placed on the table with as much of a flourish as he'd been able to muster. Patty had teased him about it when he'd returned to the kitchen, but she didn't mean any harm. She didn't know what he'd done. Didn't know why he was torn up inside. Because he'd kept it from her. He hadn't intended on keeping it from her forever. Just until he'd had his suspicions confirmed. Otherwise, she might think him batshit paranoid and call for a family intervention. Unfortunately, he hadn't been paranoid. He'd been right. Now he wasn't telling Patty because he didn't want to put her in danger, because danger was coming their way. It already had, leaving at least one body in its wake. And now he was supposed to drag Molly Sutton into this mess with him? Just telling her the truth would put her in a killer's crosshairs. His parents had raised him better than that. "Miss Sutton," he began, trying for a kind smile. "I'm not sure you're the right person for this job." She smiled back, but not kindly. Not meanly, either. Just . . . warily. "I may not be, but then again, I might." Her accent was Southern, but not New Orleans. Georgia, maybe. Or maybe one of the Carolinas. "Maybe share the details and we can go from there." Gabe cast a sideways look at Burke, who was frowning. "What's your concern, Gabe?" Burke asked. "Feel free to be candid, but first let me tell you Molly's credentials. She served with me, one of the finest Marines under my command. I'd trust her with my life. Importantly, I trust her with yours." Excerpted from Quarter to Midnight by Karen Rose All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
