Angel’s Promise by Aleatha Romig
Rett
The pressure I applied to my teeth endangered their survival, threatening to splinter each one as I watched Emma walk away. No one spoke as she led Ian through the outer office. If I pushed a few keys on the keyboard, I could watch longer, seeing the way Emma kept her head high, her voice measured. She was a fucking queen. It didn’t take marrying me to prove that. After all, she too had the ancestry to prove her regal heritage.
“Fuck,” I grumbled under my breath.
“Boss, if you call Michelson or Clark, what are you going to say? Word isn’t out on the judge’s death. No one knows the certificate is gone.”
I had an idea. “Who is Judge McBride’s assistant, the one he emailed the picture of the certificate to?”
Leon pulled out his phone. “I have her name.”
“Good. I’ll have Clark check on the filing. As my personal attorney, when the certificate is not where it should be, he can call McBride’s assistant. Everyone present in the front office last night saw McBride email the photo. It makes sense that we’d follow up on the filing.” I slapped the surface of my desk. “Fuck, this wasn’t an accident.”
Leon nodded. “Yeah, that’s Noel’s thought too, but whoever did it was good. The search warrant should come through any minute. Forensics has already gone over the vehicle and McBride’s belongings in the car with no significant findings. Soon, they’ll be looking through his house. Right now, it appears he was just an old man who started his car and forgot to open the garage door.”
“I don’t buy it. Someone wanted the marriage certificate to not be filed.” Someone besides Emma. I didn’t say the last part, but I felt it.
Leon nodded. “Your plan works. I can call Clark if you want.” Before I answered, Leon tilted his head toward the closed bookcase and passage. “Sorry if I interrupted something.”
Closing my eyes, I exhaled. “I fucked up.” It wasn’t an admission I made lightly, and I’d only make it to certain people. Maybe it was because Leon had been honest with me about something personal earlier in the day, I now felt free to do the same. “She’s upset.”
“But she’ll sign again, right?”
I stared at the monitor another few seconds, seeing the empty hallways as the lingering scent of sex and lust clung to my skin. Emma said she regretted marrying me. It hadn’t been even twenty-four hours. Her simple answer of yes rang in my head, the disappointment in her fucking eyes as well as her damn defiance at every turn.
How fucking hard was it for her to go clean herself?
Emma pushed me at every damn turn.
“Boss?”
I turned my attention back to Leon. “Yes, she’ll sign.”
“Good. Since I’m here, I have news on Ingalls and Boudreau if you want to hear it.”
I lifted my hand. “Let me call Clark and get the ball rolling on the marriage certificate.”
Of course Boyd Clark took my call. I filled him in on the information that was known and that which wasn’t. Naturally, he was distraught to learn of McBride’s death. Overall, the call didn’t take long and there was nothing I said that Leon didn’t know. As I spoke, he sat back, casually waiting. Once I hung up with my personal attorney, I leaned back. “What is the update on Ingalls and Boudreau?”
Leon sat forward. “Jaxon had an idea.”
I shook my head. “Tell me he didn’t fuck up. I just installed him as—”
“No, he didn’t,” Leon interrupted. “He planted a tracker on Ingalls before sending the two men on their bayou adventure. From the information it yielded, it’s safe to say the tracker went unnoticed for long enough to give us some good info.”
Leaning back, I made the mistake of bringing my hand to my chin. The scent of Emma’s essence threatened my concentration. Quickly, I gripped the arms of my chair and moved myself forward, lifting a pen from the desk. “Talk to me.”
“Hit the screen, boss. I can show you.”
A push of a button descended a large monitor from a hidden compartment in the ceiling. It was another of the office upgrades my forebears wouldn’t understand. My trusted men, the ones who had access to this inner office, could then project their information from their phones, be it videos, maps, or statistics, onto the screen, allowing viewing for everyone in the room.
A satellite image of greater New Orleans came on the screen.
“The capos,” Leon began, “made sure neither Boudreau nor Ingalls had phones to call for help or use for GPS. They’d already frisked them for weapons. Hell, they didn’t even have a fucking blade to cut the ropes.”
“How long did it take them to find their way out of the bayou?”
“Not as long as we hoped.”
“How?” I asked.
“We ain’t certain. Here” —he motioned toward the large monitor— “see the time stamp?”
I did. It said 9:22. That was nearly an hour after Emma signed the certificate.
“That’s when Jaxon and his other man were recovered. Boudreau and Ingalls were left afloat. Then before midnight, near the same spot, they were recovered. They should have been taken out with the tide. Either they know the bayou better than we expected or someone who knows the bayou was their guardian angel.”
My eyes met Leon’s. “Jezebel?”
“Not sure.”
“Tell me your gut feeling, Leon.”
“If she’s calling any of the Louisiana bayou home, the inhabitants know she’s there.”
While there were well-known communities within the bayou, there was also the less known—the people who have hidden in plain sight for generations upon generations. Centuries of history and survival had given them the means to live within their own culture, impervious to the advancements of the world around them.
“And you think that they’re looking out for her and for Boudreau and Ingalls.”
Leon nodded. “It is the only way we can come up with for their quick escape.”
“Where did the tracker go after the landing?”
“Nowhere.” Leon pointed to the screen. “Jaxon went back this morning. The clothes both Ingalls and Boudreau were wearing were left in the boat, pulled up into the muck.”
“Fuck. For us to find.”
“Seems that way.”
“If we’re connecting dots here,” I said, standing and pacing the width of the office and back. “Boudreau and Ingalls came here to stop the wedding or maybe to confirm Emma’s presence. They didn’t stop the wedding, but they saw and spoke to Emma. They know she’s alive and well in New Orleans. My men took them on what was meant to be a brush with death and in under four hours they were rescued. And...” I emphasized the conjunction. “they left the clothes for us to find, a fuck-you to us.” I turned my attention to Leon. “Am I missing something?”
“Based on the time they were rescued, in my opinion, they are both suspects in Judge McBride’s death.”
I nodded. “If they didn’t instigate his death, they could confirm his presence here last night.” I turned to Leon. “What are your connections in the bayou?”
“Tara’s folks. Generations of Choctaw. Creole in their blood.”
“Would they give up information if Jezebel is among them?”
His nostrils flared as he inhaled and exhaled. “They live their own lives and speak their own language. The politics of New Orleans or the damn country means nothing to them. They’re separate.”
“You’re saying they don’t give a fuck if a Boudreau or a Ramses runs the greater New Orleans parishes.”
“Doesn’t affect them.”
“Then we need to figure out a way to affect them.”
My phone vibrated. Pulling it from my pant pocket, I read the screen. The message was from Ian Knolls.
“MISS EMMA HAS MOVED SOME OF HER THINGS TO THE THIRD-FLOOR SUITE.”
I read the message twice before hitting the call button. My gaze met Leon’s as I realized he was present. Not that it mattered. He knew I fucked up and now it seemed Ian did too. “Talk to me,” I said as the call connected.
“Miss Emma has moved to the third-floor suite, boss.”
My head shook. “Why?”
“She didn’t give me a reason.”
“And you complied?”
“It’s not my place to tell her no. You said she was to stay in the house. She’s in the house.”
Fuck. I had said that.
“There’s one more thing, boss. You won’t be happy.”
I already wasn’t happy. “What?”
“Miss Emma insisted that the lock to the hallway be changed.”
“What the fuck do you mean, changed?”
“The key is now on the inside.”
My free hand went to the bridge of my nose as I squinted my eyes. “Fuck.”
I’d break down the damn door if I wanted in. This house was over two hundred years old. I had no intention of letting a door or a lock keep me away from my wife.
Before I could voice that, another call buzzed. A quick look at the screen told me it was Boyd Clark. I spoke to Ian. “I have another call. Tell Mrs. Ramses” —fuck the Miss Emma shit— “to be ready. We may have papers to sign today.”
I didn’t wait for Ian’s response as I clicked to the second call. “Boyd, what’s happening?”
