Priceless : A Novel Part 12

Or maybe not.

AFTER A RESTLESS night and a slightly hungover day wandering the city, Charlotte got ready to go to work for the late-afternoon and evening shift at the restaurant. Simple black pants, a white shirt, and the ugliest yet most comfortable shoes she'd ever owned. She pulled her hair back into a long braid, her one concession to her own style being vintage barrettes with black pearl b.u.t.terflies. Simple makeup and clear nail polish, and she was just like every other young girl heading into the Quarter to wait tables. She had nearly a thousand dollars' worth of French silk underwear on, but no one would see that. She smiled, despite her nerves. It was exciting having a job. night and a slightly hungover day wandering the city, Charlotte got ready to go to work for the late-afternoon and evening shift at the restaurant. Simple black pants, a white shirt, and the ugliest yet most comfortable shoes she'd ever owned. She pulled her hair back into a long braid, her one concession to her own style being vintage barrettes with black pearl b.u.t.terflies. Simple makeup and clear nail polish, and she was just like every other young girl heading into the Quarter to wait tables. She had nearly a thousand dollars' worth of French silk underwear on, but no one would see that. She smiled, despite her nerves. It was exciting having a job.

Jackson was in the kitchen, looking tired. "Hi there," he said softly. "Off to work?"

She nodded. "I'm nervous."

"Your first time?"

"Yes. Silly, right?"

He shrugged, pushing his chair back and starting to make himself a cup of coffee. "I was nervous the first job I had. I think everybody is. It would be kind of weird not to be, actually."

"What was your first job?"

He smiled as he spooned sugar into his cup. "Fill-in piano player for the Quincy Jones Orchestra."

"Holy s.h.i.t."

"Yeah. I think I lost three pounds that night, just from sweating. But it was fine."

"Did he invite you to join the band?"

Jackson snorted. "Are you joking? He never even spoke to me. There was another orchestra runner, the lead sax, who hired me for the one night, paid me after, and never even remembered my name. Quincy Jones is a G.o.d, though. It was an amazing honor just following his baton." He peered over the rim of his cup at her. "You're really a good singer."

She smiled. "Thanks. You're really an amazing bandleader."

"You need to loosen up a bit, though."

A pause.

"How do you mean?" She leaned against the doorframe to look nonchalant, but actually her heart was racing.

"Well, you've got a very bluesy voice, particularly for a Northern white chick with cla.s.sical training, but you might want to relax a bit, stylistically."

"I was singing the blues and knocking it out of the park, I thought."

He shrugged. "Look, don't get all freaky. All I'm saying is you're a good singer, but you could be great. It's hard to really sing the blues and mean it if the worst thing that ever happened to you was Barneys running out of size two."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm a zero."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"A size zero, you idiot."

"How can you be a size zero? Does that mean you don't exist on a physical plane?"

"We were talking about music, remember?"

He stood up. "Look, crazy lady, I have to go get ready for work, and you're going to be late for your first shift."

She looked at her watch and cursed, grabbing her bag, which immediately tipped over, dumping the contents on the floor. Jackson knelt to help her, and for a moment, they were very close together. He put his hand on hers.

"Look, Charlotte, really, you're a great singer, and you're going to be amazing. I'll help you, OK?"

She frowned at him. "I'm not a charity case, thanks."

He grinned at her. "OK, princess, keep your hair on. Have a good time at work, ya hear?"

She snorted at him and left.

Standing there, thinking carefully, Jackson heard a phone ring somewhere near his feet. Looking around, he finally spotted it. Charlotte's cell phone, under the chair. It must have dropped from her bag.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo there, you wh.o.r.e."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

The voice on the other end laughed. "Sorry, a.s.shole, I was looking for your girlfriend. f.u.c.k her while you can, dude, because I'm going to cut her heart out and watch her bleed to death."

As Jackson snapped the phone shut, he could hear the guy still laughing, and as he grabbed his jacket and raced out the door, he was just glad she'd told him where she was working.

AS IT HAPPENED, Agent Scarsford had arrived in New Orleans that morning, and he was sitting at a cafe across from Captain's House, waiting for Charlotte. As he waited, he flipped through the FBI field reports on Kat Karraby and the Pearl family. The Pearls were totally clean legally, but Kat Karraby's file was thicker. How likely was it that these two had just met? Was it possibly just coincidence, or was their connection much older? Kat's grandfather had ... wait, there was Charlotte now. Scarsford lowered the brim on his baseball hat, keeping a low profile. He'd been surprised to learn she'd gotten a job. He strongly suspected she had access to the money Jacob had stolen, but maybe it was all part of her cover. It wasn't as if she didn't realize she was being watched; she could hardly buy herself a Maserati. a.s.suming she could even drive, he doubted she'd ever needed to.

Scarsford was still angry, with himself and with her. But as he watched her following another waitress around, learning the ropes, smiling and doing her best, he felt a little touched. Maybe she wasn't involved. Maybe she was innocent. She looked young and fresh in her simple white shirt, and if he wanted nothing more than to take it off her, then that was his problem to deal with.

IN THE RESTAURANT, Charlotte was doing her best. She'd been warmly welcomed at the restaurant, and Kat's dad made sure everyone knew she was to get all the help she needed to pick up the job. On the one hand, that was great, because G.o.d knew she really needed the help, but on the other hand it seemed she was never going to get treated as a normal person. Maybe she just wasn't one.

She'd been placed in the tender care of Sam King, a waitress with dark wavy hair and intelligent eyes, who was to show her the ropes. A Northern Californian by birth, Sam was full of insight and humor about the New Orleans way of life and, in particular, how to make people feel they were really experiencing it.

"A good percentage of our customers are from out of town, because the restaurant is rightly famous for its Creole cuisine. But at the same time, this place is very popular among the locals or those people who come to New Orleans a lot. Our job is to make all of them real welcome, in the Southern tradition, flirt a little, keep the drinks coming, smile a lot, and make sure they leave happy." They watched an older gentleman help his slightly inebriated wife out of the restaurant, colliding with the hostess stand as they did so. "She might be borderline too happy, but she's walking." Sam lowered her voice. "You have to make sure if they're getting too drunk, you tell the barkeep so he can mix their drinks a little more gently. The goal is to have them vomit away from the restaurant."

Charlotte laughed, but Sam was serious.

"Drinking is a major part of New Orleans life, always has been. You can walk around with a drink in your hand, you can even drive around with a drink in your hand, as long as it's frozen."

"The hand?" Charlotte grinned.

"The drink, silly. You haven't seen the drive-through frozen daiquiri stands? You will."

Charlotte shook her head. "I'm not a big drinker, to be honest."

Sam looked approvingly at her. "Smart girl. It will only get you in trouble here, that's for sure. Customers will try to buy you drinks all the time. Just tell them it's company policy not to accept. Eventually, they feel bad and just give you a bigger tip." She frowned. "Hey ... that's Jackson Pearl. What's he doing here?"

Charlotte whirled around. Jackson was standing at the door, talking with the maitre d'. "You know him?"

Sam nodded. "Of course, everyone does. His band is one of the hottest in town right now, standing room only when they play. Besides, he's h.e.l.la cute."

The maitre d' was looking around and found Charlotte. He beckoned her over.

Sam raised her eyebrows. "You know him, too?"

"Kind of. Be right back." Charlotte squared her shoulders and walked over, trying to frown at Jackson and smile at the maitre d' at the same time.

Jackson lowered his voice. "Charlotte, some creepy guy called you on your cell phone. It must have dropped in the kitchen when ... you were at home ..." Jackson looked slightly abashed but genuinely concerned.

"What did he say?"

"I'd rather not say in here. But I think we should call the police."

Charlotte shook her head. "I'll do it after I finish working, OK? He's in New York. The police already know about him."

David Karraby came over. "Everything all right, Charlotte?" He nodded at Jackson. "Good evening, young man. Please pa.s.s on my best to your mother."

Jackson nodded and smiled a little.

"Yes, Mr. Karraby, everything's OK." She frowned at Jackson. "Let's talk about this later." She was worried she would lose her job, and she hadn't even worked an hour yet.

Jackson turned to David Karraby. "Charlotte got a threatening phone call, and she got attacked in New York, you know. I think she should call the police."

Charlotte was furious. "I'm quite capable of making that decision for myself."

Karraby didn't blink. "Charlotte, my darlin', my first responsibility is to my patrons and staff. I'm sure you understand. I'm going to call the police now, and when you've sorted all this stuff out, you'll be welcome back at work, OK?" He reached for the phone.

Charlotte nodded, tears of frustration p.r.i.c.kling in her eyes. Within a minute, the police pulled up, and people started to gather. You were never far from a show in the French Quarter, and tonight she was apparently it. Charlotte heard her name being muttered, pa.s.sed around like a note in cla.s.s. Great, people were recognizing her. So much for starting over. All she wanted was to be left in peace. A week ago, she'd been in Paris, happily eating croissants and watching the boys, and now she was in a strange city, trying to do a job she never in a million years thought she would have to do, and some crazy guy was f.u.c.king up her first night at work. It was bulls.h.i.t, and she was getting more than a little overwhelmed by it. What she would give to see a friendly face.

"Charlotte."

She looked up and saw Scarsford crossing the street. He'd stayed hidden until the police pulled up, and then he'd headed toward her without even thinking about it. Now, as he pushed through the watching crowd, she pulled away and ran toward him, throwing herself into his arms.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Scarsford had managed to get a quiet room at the police station, away from the roaring drunks and shrill wh.o.r.es who'd apparently set up shop in the detectives division.

"We're not in Kansas anymore, right?" He smiled tightly at Charlotte. He'd been so taken aback when she'd run to him, so overwhelmed with the urge to protect her, to take her away somewhere safe and keep her close, that for the moment he'd forgotten his suspicions. He was back under control now, though, he reminded himself, back on the job.

For her part, Charlotte had been glad to see him. She wasn't sure why-it wasn't as if he was even on her side, so to speak-but she trusted him.

The New Orleans police had wanted to put her in a squad car, but Scarsford had flashed his badge and brought her down to the station himself. They had driven Jackson to the station and commandeered her phone-she was starting to think she'd give up on cell phones forever-and still had him in the squad room, asking him questions about the call. She'd been shocked to hear what the caller had said and felt very vulnerable, even though he was presumably back in New York. The New Orleans cops had been stony-faced and unmoved. New Orleans had a horrific crime rate, and they'd seen it all. Having said that, they recognized a potential s.h.i.t storm when they saw it, and the last thing they wanted was the daughter of a major criminal getting publicly murdered in their city. They were just getting the tourists back after Katrina. They were more than happy to hand Charlotte over to the SEC agent, and soon the local FBI agent would show up, and they would be able to wash their hands of Jackson, too.

Scarsford was on the phone, and Charlotte watched him. He was handsomer than she'd first thought, and somehow the casual jeans and T-shirt were s.e.xier than the suit had been. He was more muscular than she'd suspected, and his arms were taut and tanned, and suddenly she felt a tightness in her stomach that surprised her. He walked over to the small window and looked out at the city, unintentionally giving her the chance to admire his broad shoulders, the sense of coiled power and control that was so alien to her. He turned suddenly, and she saw he was angry, presumably with whomever he was talking to.

"No, I don't think that's going to work. She needs to be in custody." He paused, looking at her but not really seeing her. His mouth was tight, his eyes narrowed, and she shuddered. She didn't want him ever to be that angry with her. She wanted, she realized, to curl up in his arms and stay there until all of this was over.

"f.u.c.k." He snapped his phone shut and glared at her. She was looking up at him like a puppy, those big eyes wide in her beautiful face, seeming smaller than ever sitting in this strange room. d.a.m.n her. d.a.m.n her.

"What's the matter?" Even her voice was soft.

"You're the matter. I don't want you to get killed, but seeing as you're not actually in anyone's custody, it's proving hard for me to get you officially protected. You're not a witness, because your father has confessed, and hardly anybody thinks you're involved, anyway, so until this guy actually makes a move on you, we're in limbo."

There was a pause as she thought over what he'd said. "Hardly anybody? You said hardly anybody-does that mean somebody thinks I'm involved? Involved in what, anyway, my dad's stuff?"

He nodded. "It's still possible you have information that could help us."

"Do you think so?"

He was silent for a moment, looking at the floor. Then he looked up, directly into her eyes. "What's on the zip drive, Charlotte?"

She looked surprised. "What?"

He was tired, and he rubbed the side of his face with his palm. "The zip drive. I saw you drop it into the tray at the airport. It wasn't with the other computer equipment you turned over, and it should have been."

"That's why you're here?" Suddenly, the attraction she felt for him receded, replaced by self-righteous anger. "You're here because you suspect me, not because you want to protect me."

"I just want to know what's on it, Charlotte. If it's totally unimportant, then you presumably won't have any problem sharing it."

Her anger was increasing. "I have no idea what's on it, you a.s.shole. My father left it for me, along with some other very personal things, and I haven't even looked at it."

She was flushed and had never looked s.e.xier to him. His body ached for her, but his mind was definitely in control.

"So let's look at it together."

"Fine. Let's." She folded her arms on the table and glared at him.

"Where is it?"

"In my luggage, back at Millie's house." She sighed. "Look, Scarsford, I've told you before, and I'm telling you again. I know nothing at all about the bulls.h.i.t my dad was up to, and I have no idea what's on the zip drive. It could be music, for all I know. Or it could be details of his Swiss bank accounts and offsh.o.r.e companies, in which case you're welcome to it. You're welcome to the music, too, if you want it. Take what you want: everyone else does."

"Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for yourself."

"f.u.c.k you."

Scarsford left the room without bothering to reply, and several minutes pa.s.sed. Charlotte looked around, slightly amazed that rooms this ugly existed. Beige walls, dark green hairy carpet tiles, furniture of the type found in c.r.a.ppy public schools-and yet no doubt all manner of human drama and excitement had played out against the bland background. Murderers confessed, victims cried, mothers turned against sons, and sons lied for mothers. How many other sweaty palms had rested on this tabletop? How many other lonely people had watched the second hand sweep around that clock face?

"Come on, we're moving." Scarsford's voice startled her.