Shadows Redeemed (Garrison Security Innovations #4)

Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE GUILT GNAWED AT Parker’s insides as he trudged through the French Quarter, his mind replaying the events of the past few hours on an endless loop. He couldn’t shake the image of Luc Broussard’s face, twisted with rage and hungry for revenge, as Parker inadvertently led him straight to Jacob. The confrontation in the alleyway flashed before his eyes—the glint of steel from the knife he barely avoided, the sound of flesh pounding flesh, his brother telling him to run.

His stomach churned, hoping Jacob had managed to escape. He knew he had made the best call. If they both darted off in separate directions, it gave Broussard and his men more to chase, hopefully giving them a chance to both get away. But he worried his brother laid in some dingy back alley, bleeding out because his younger brother couldn’t keep a better lookout on his surroundings. He clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palms. No, Jacob was too smart, too resourceful to go down that easily. Parker had to believe that. His brother had survived this far—he could do it a while longer.

But now… Now Parker found himself truly alone. Jacob had made it clear he wanted Parker to stay out of whatever mess he’d gotten himself into. And Sage… Parker’s chest tightened at the thought of her. She had sided with Jacob over him, choosing the one she had loved a couple of years ago over the one she slept with last night. He should have known better. And it shouldn’t surprise him. She had history with Jacob. They were together a long time, so it stood to reason that she would listen to him, even after everything he did.

Fine. If they didn’t want his help, he’d find answers on his own.

His steps took on a new purpose as he wove through the crowded streets, and as he did, the death of Jacob’s handler, Eric Fontaine, gnawed at the edges of his mind. It made no sense, and thus, it was the puzzle piece he decided to focus on first. He could go to Nealey and Sullivan, but they’d give him nothing but a hard time. He chuckled as he ran a hand through his hair. Nealey and Sullivan. Sounds like some music team, even though they act more like clowns.

As he ambled the cobblestone streets, his footsteps echoed off the centuries-old buildings. The air hung heavy with humidity, carrying the mingled scents of jasmine, bourbon, and sizzling Cajun spices.

He swiped his bangs out of his eyes as he navigated the narrow sidewalks, his shirt clinging to his skin in the sultry afternoon heat, making him absently pull at his collar. Around him, wrought-iron balconies dripped with lush ferns and colorful bougainvillea, their intricate designs telling silent stories of the Quarter’s storied past, stories to which he wished he had the time to sit and listen.

As he passed Preservation Hall, the mournful wail of a trumpet drifted through the open windows, its bluesy notes seeming to give voice to the very soul of New Orleans. He paused for a moment, tapping his foot in time with the syncopated rhythm before hurrying on his way. There was something about New Orleans’ music that always made him pause, no matter what. It had a way of calming a person. Or making them shake their ass. Right then, he needed that calming power.

He sidestepped a fortune teller’s table on the corner, her cards spread out like a roadmap to unseen futures. The woman’s kohl-rimmed eyes met his for a moment, and he felt a shiver despite the warmth of the day, almost as if she could see through him to whatever laid ahead. Perhaps he should stop and ask her what his luck was in surviving this mess.

Raucous laugher spilled from a nearby bar, where tourists and locals alike sought refuge from the heat in frosty glasses of Sazerac and Hurricanes. He only wished he had time to join them for a drink, but not now. Now he had to save his brother’s ass.

As he rounded the corner onto Bourbon Street, the cacophony of music, loud voices, and clinking glasses washed over him. Neon signs flickered to life in the gathering dusk, their gaudy colors a stark contrast to the Quarter’s old-world charm.

Stepping off the main walkway, he found a quiet corner and leaned against a sun-warmed brick wall. He then pulled out his phone to review what he knew about his brother’s situation so far. Eric Fontaine, a respected officer, killed execution-style. No signs of struggle, no robbery. Professional hit, the police said. But why? Who would want Jacob’s handler dead? Besides Jacob, that is.

If Parker followed the train of thought that Jacob killed him, then that meant Jacob was indeed dirty, and Eric more than likely discovered his criminal behavior causing Jacob to kill him to protect himself. Parker had a hard time believing that, though. He had no delusions that Jacob could be a scoundrel at times and crossed the lines when it suited his needs, but murder? Drugs? That seemed too farfetched. No, that line of thought was a waste of time.

So then who?

He went down the list of suspects. Luc Broussard and his family seemed the likeliest possibilities. It was their drugs, after all. Their money that was lost. They could have stumbled across Eric at some point, realized he was a cop, and had him killed before he could arrest him. But did that mean the Broussards knew Jacob was a cop before Sage gave Luc that little tidbit? He doubted it. His brother was too damn good at what he did. And if they had discovered it, why didn’t they kill him at the same time they killed Eric? No. He didn’t like that trail either. So far, it stood to reason that up until that morning they believed Jacob was merely someone who had double-crossed them and wanted to make him pay for it.

So who killed Eric?

Parker blew out a breath as he ran a hand through his hair. None of this made sense. If the Broussards knew Eric was a cop, then they knew Jacob was one as well, but by Luc’s reaction, it seemed they had been clueless, thank god. So that meant they would have had no reason to kill Jacob’s handler, which meant it had to be a third party.

Then his eyes went wide as everything made a foggy sort of sense. Whoever stole the drugs and money killed Eric and framed Jacob, and Parker doubted it was a rival of the Broussards. It could only be someone who knew about Eric Fontaine’s involvement as Jacob’s handler, which meant it had to be a cop.

“Holy shit.” He felt his heart pounding harder as it all started to make sense. Eric Fontaine had to have discovered cops were involved, but did he tell Jacob? Parker had to guess not because his brother would have mentioned that by now. It wasn’t the entire NOPD after Jacob, but a corrupt cop who would have had the means to frame him.

His thumb hovered over Jacob’s contact info. He ached to call his brother, to tell him his thoughts. Perhaps together, they could figure out who the bad guys truly were. But he knew Jacob wouldn’t pick up. Not now. Besides, the sound of the phone ringing could give away his brother’s hiding spot if Broussard and his thugs were close. Parker couldn’t risk it.

Then he stared at Luc Broussard’s name on his notepad. The man, probably barely in his thirties but having seen enough living to make him look like he was in his sixties, seemed singularly focused on recovering his missing drugs and money. Not to mention a side order of bloody revenge against Jacob. He still could have killed Fontaine, but why risk bringing pissed off cops into his headache and making it worse? Would he know who the dirty cops were, though? He had to have someone feeding him information—bad information—to think Jacob was in on it, so who would he go to?

Parker’s brow furrowed as he considered his options. Who else might have insight into the cop’s murder? He needed someone with connections to both the police force and the criminal underworld. Someone who…

His train of thought derailed as a familiar figure caught his eye. Across the street, engaged in an intense conversation, stood Bryce Anderson. The grizzled private investigator cut a disheveled figure, his weathered face set in hard lines as he spoke in low tones to none other than Luc Broussard himself.

Parker’s heart rate spiked. What was Sage’s mentor doing talking to a known criminal like Broussard just after they had filled him in on what was happening? At least if Luc was there, he was no longer chasing Jacob. But did that mean they lost him or caught him?

Parker pressed himself against the wall, straining to hear their conversation over the bustle of the Quarter, but he was too far away.

Gritting his teeth, he turned the corner, keeping the others in his line of sight through the reflection in the shop windows as he eased his way down a couple of storefronts. When he felt sure the others wouldn’t notice him, he crossed the street, keeping to the shadows of awnings and sidewalk merchandise until he got close enough to duck behind another wall leading into an alley. Pressing himself against the warm brick, he edged his face as close to the side of the building as he could until he could finally make out what they were saying.

“…cabin was supposed to be foolproof,” Luc hissed. “How the hell did you screw that up?”

Frustration pinched Bryce’s features as he crossed his thick arms over his chest. “I can’t help it if he heard me coming. It’s not like there’s a lot of city noise out there to cover my tracks. Just crickets and frogs. I hate it out there.”

“I don’t care,” Luc snapped. “You weren’t supposed to shoot him. Just snatch his ass up. That man took our drugs. I want them found. My old man is losing his patience.”

Bryce shrugged. “Then you shouldn’t have promised what you couldn’t deliver. And Jacob shot at me. What the hell did you think I would do? I shot back. Look, it’s no skin off my nose. Besides, the cops will do Jacob in, which means we can sit back and relax.”

Luc rolled his eyes as he tossed his hands into the air. “Are you brain dead? If Jacob’s in prison, how are we getting our hands on our drugs?”

“You’re gonna have to eat that, I’m afraid. They’re going to pin that cop’s death on Jacob, and the other cops are going to see that he never makes it to the courtroom.”

Luc shoved his hands into his pockets. “Do you think he did it? Killed that cop? But why? Why would he want to bring heat to himself?”

Bryce scoffed. “Are you kidding me? You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

Parker held his breath as he leaned in closer. “The man’s a cop, you idiot. You hired a cop to haul your drugs around. That’s why whoever took them knew where they would be. Your thief’s a cop.”

Luc growled. “Yeah, I just found that out, no thanks to you. Which begs the question—why the hell didn’t you tell me who he was?”

A sinking feeling pulled at Parker’s gut. At least he hadn’t been too far off on his theory. There was a dirty cop out there. Now Parker just had to find whoever it was.

And then the twisting in his gut grew worse as his mind raced to the beginning part of their conversation. Cabin? They just admitted to attacking Jacob out at their cabin? But how could Bryce possibly know about that place? Unless…

A cold realization washed over him. Sage. The timeline fit. She still worked for Bryce when she started dating Jacob and must have mentioned the cabin to the older man at some point, not realizing its significance in the Franklins’ lives. Now, something so innocent, a conversation over lunch or unwinding after a case, almost got Jacob killed.

He stared at the window across the street, glaring at Bryce. The man had been someone Sage idolized, the detective she aspired to be, and he had been the one who shot Jacob. This would crush her more than when Jacob betrayed her. Parker’s heart ached for her, knowing how devastated she would be when she learned the truth about her mentor.

He edged closer, desperate to catch more of their conversation. His foot scuffed against the pavement, and Bryce’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Parker’s with laser-like intensity.

Fear froze Parker in place as Bryce’s expression shifted from surprise to cold calculation. In that moment, Parker knew he was in serious trouble. It was time to make a quick escape.

His heart hammered in his chest as he forced himself to move, to act casual, to pretend he hadn’t just overheard a conversation that could get him killed. He fumbled for his phone, pretending to be engrossed in a text message as he slowly backed away from the two men. As soon as he could, he turned and ran.