Drake Sisters 03 - Oceans of Fire

the computer all set up in her name. She’d made it real and the money came in handy on the run. She’d stolen it from the monster, just as she’d stolen the money for the others, and had it locked up in offshore accounts where the bastard couldn’t touch it. If she succeeded in finding the girls they would at least have money to start some kind of a life. Computer skills came in handy.
    She should have left New Orleans the moment she realized she wasn’t going to find Dahlia, but she’d heard about the missing girl. Joy Chiasson. For some terrible reason she identified with the girl, was afraid someone like Whitney had her. It made no sense, but she thought she’d poke around a little and just make certain.
    Her throat was sore from singing so much in the last couple of weeks. She’d done three sets in a small club just a half mile from the station where she’d gassed up her motorcycle and her vocal cords were feeling the strain. The idea had been to see if anyone was abnormally interested in her because of her voice, but that idea was sheer idiocy. Too many people followed her from place to place to know if someone was “fixated” on her the way they might have fixated on Joy.

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    Practically everything dirty in New Orleans led back to this place, this man. Kurt Saunders. He sold property and stole it back. He was behind most of the gambling, whores, and drug trafficking. His house was in the most elite part of the Garden District and he rubbed shoulders with politicians and celebrities.
    Men like Saunders didn’t come down easily, but it was just possible, as she was helping out a friend tonight, she might also stumble across something to do with Joy’s disappearance. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
    Flame focused back on the stalker. She felt him. Knew he was somewhere close to her, but she couldn’t pinpoint his location. He couldn’t have a scope on her, she wasn’t visible from the ground. He had to be the man from the gas station. He hadn’t shown any interest in her at all. She tapped her thigh with her index finger, replaying the small moment over and over in her mind. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him as he was deep in the shadows and he seemed to blend into the night. What made him memorable to her? Nothing. Absolutely nothing . She sighed and rubbed at her temple. She was getting a killer headache, something that often happened when using psychic talents for long periods of time.
    A splash of lights and sudden flurry of activity at the gate, accompanied by the ferocious barking of the dog, had her crawling across the tower roof to peer over the edge. The guards had arrived, guns in plain sight, as the gate swung open, allowing a black town car to sweep onto the circular drive.
    Flame narrowed her vision, studying the car. She’d seen it before. A photographic mind helped keep small details filed away until she needed them. The car always had the same driver. He stayed out of sight except to open and close the door for his passenger. Parsons was an older man. Flame guessed him to be somewhere in his sixties. He carried a silver-handled cane, but she doubted he really needed it. He liked the distinguished look and the deference everyone gave him. He had come three nights in a row to three different clubs to hear her music—but so had a lot of others.
    She made a face as the driver opened the door and Parsons emerged wearing his trademark long coat, his silver hair gleaming in the lights flooding the entryway. It didn’t surprise her in the least that the man knew Saunders. Parsons was the head investigator for the DEA and was more than likely investigating Saunders for laundering money while playing friends with him. In the clubs he held himself aloof from everyone else, insisting on extra attention. He brought his grown son a couple of times, but most of the time he surrounded himself with other businessmen, hardly deigning to notice most of the locals. He and his son had sent her a drink twice. And his son had dated Joy Chiasson . That alone put them on her radar screen.
    She watched Parsons until he disappeared under the roof of the giant, columned porch. With a little sigh she crawled back to the skylight. Why was it that in every town there were men who believed themselves above the law, had such a sense of entitlement? She didn’t get it, probably never would get it. Dr.
    Whitney, just like