Heather Graham by Down in New Orleans Page B

wrought-iron table to the side of a delicate little fountain featuring the Greek goddess Athena with her owl upon her shoulders.
    “We need a little privacy,” Mark told Helena.
    “Ah,” Helena said. She looked at Ann for a moment, offered her a warm smile and added, “Tough day, huh? I suggest the Duck a l’Orange. What can I get you to drink?”
    “Two café au laits with a few of those great house baguettes, Helena, to start. I’ll see if I can talk my friend here into the duck.”
    Helena smiled and disappeared through a garden trail into the old house to the side of the garden cafe setting.
    “Did she recognize me?” Ann asked, curious about Helena’s manner.
    “Yes,” he said bluntly. “You didn’t read the paper today?”
    “Yes, I read the paper,” she said dryly.
    “You must have missed your picture in the Arts section.”
    “My picture—”
    “Jon Marcel was front page news, but he wasn’t missed by the critics. That show of his work that opened last night apparently raked in a fortune. You were included in the article. There was a great photo of you in it.”
    “So that’s why Helena recognized me.”
    “Unless she’s a closet art critic herself and knows you from elsewhere.”
    “Let’s hope there aren’t too many critics in the city, then,” Ann murmured. “I don’t want to be recognized. I don’t want people pitying me, or pointing at me, or whispering behind my back that Jon is a guilty sleaze-bag and that I’m a fool for defending him.”
    “Well, actually, I think you’re being a fool.”
    “At least you say it to my face. And you don’t seem to be offended—at least you don’t get mad and go away—when I tell you that you’re a complete ass in return.”
    He grinned, looking down at the table. Helena arrived with their coffees and the basket of baguettes. “Have we decided on duck yet?” she asked.
    “You have to eat,” he told Ann.
    “I—all right, duck,” Ann agreed. When the waitress was gone she told him, “Dutch treat.”
    “Dinner’s on me.”
    “Or on the department and the taxpayers. Am I supposed to say something incriminating? I’m not going to. You can just save your duck if that’s what you think.”
    “Dinner’s on me. And not because I think you’re going to say something incriminating. Defense attorneys could make chopped duck out of me for plying you with food and drink to get you to say something. Entrapment, you know.”
    Ann bit into a baguette. It was crispy on the outside, warm, delicious, melting on the inside. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. A sip of the café au lait was delicious, too. Sustaining, somehow.
    He’d been right. She needed out of the hospital.
    “Can cops afford duck?” she asked. “Maybe I should be treating you if we’re not dining on the taxpayers.”
    “I can afford dinner.”
    “A high-paid cop?”
    “I’ve been in it a very long time. I’ve made some good investments.”
    “Ah.” She set her bread down suddenly. She was almost enjoying herself.
    And Jon was in a coma. Dying. Katie was in the Amazon, maybe losing her father. Not even knowing it.
    She was startled when his fingers curled around her hand. His eyes were on hers, very intensely silver-gray. “You haven’t lost him. He will most likely pull through.”
    “He’s in a coma.”
    “His vital signs are good and steady; he’s receiving the necessary blood. His color is good. His body sustained tremendous shock; without the immediate medical treatment he received, he would have died. But he’s not going to die now.”
    “Did you go to medical school, Lieutenant?” she asked coolly.
    His hand withdrew from hers. He sat back in his chair, watching her, the hue of his eyes taking on a steely color. “I’ve seen too many injured or wounded people lying in hospitals. There are things cops learn the hard way. When the victim’s brain is affected, there’s almost no hope. ‘Brain dead,’ Mrs. Marcel, and it’s time to pray