Alligator Moon. Joanna Wayne

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      “Any chance you can fax her itinerary to me tonight or just attach it to an e-mail if you have it on the computer?”

      “I don’t think I have it anywhere. I don’t remember even seeing it.”

      “You must have. Mom wouldn’t leave the country for six weeks and not tell you how to reach her.”

      “I was in London when she left. I assumed she’d given it to you.”

      “No.”

      “Sorry, baby. All I know is what she told me. She and Patsy…Patsy somebody. Anyway their plans were to spend a few days in Athens then leisurely tour the islands.”

      “Patsy David,” Cassie said, filling in the last name for him.

      “That’s it. She’s an old high school buddy of your mother’s. Evidently they hooked up when Rhonda went back for her fortieth reunion.”

      “Patsy must be quite persuasive to talk Mom into a six-week vacation abroad.”

      “It’ll be good for her, especially with me working so much. Why don’t you give Moore’s Travel a call? It’s right here in The Woodlands. One of your mother’s friends from church works there, and Rhonda always lets her book our nonbusiness flights. I’m sure they’ll have a copy.”

      “What’s the church friend’s name?”

      “I’m not sure. But they’ll have the info in their computer system, so anyone can help you. Have them fax an itinerary to my office when they fax one to you.”

      They talked a few minutes more, about nothing in particular. When they hung up, Cassie picked up the postcard and stared at the picture of a small Greek village and the brilliant blue sea beyond. Beautiful beaches. Ancient ruins. Picturesque windmills. Snowy white monasteries. Living, breathing Greek gods.

      Goodbye, Drake. Hello, Greece.

      JOHN ROBICHEAUX stepped through the open door of Suzette’s and scanned the area looking for his brother Dennis. It didn’t take long to locate him. He was seated at a back table, his hands already wrapped around a cold beer.

      John maneuvered through a maze of mismatched tables and chairs, nearly tripping over a couple of young boys who were playing with their plastic hot rods on the grease-stained floor. The air was stifling and filled with the smells of fried seafood, cayenne pepper and stale cigarette smoke—enough to choke a man. Worse, the jukebox was cranking out a 70s rock song at a decibel level just below that of a freight train.

      A typical Saturday evening at Suzette’s. Later the families would leave and the drinkers and partiers would take full charge, not staggering back to their homes until the wee hours of Sunday morning. John planned to be long gone by then.

      He dropped into the rickety wooden chair across the table from his brother. A young waitress he’d never seen before appeared at his elbow.

      “You want a beer?”

      “I’ll take a Bud.”

      “Draft?”

      “In the bottle if you’ve got a real cold one.”

      “Icy cold.”

      “Bring me another while you’re at it,” Dennis said. “And keep ’em coming.”

      “You looking to have a good time tonight?” she asked, staring at Dennis through long, dark lashes so thick they had no use for mascara.

      “I might be,” Dennis said, giving her a once-over. “You looking to be invited to the party?”

      She blushed, but smiled. “I’m just here to bring the beer.”

      He and Dennis both watched her walk away, her white shorts hugging her firm little ass above great thighs.

      “How would you like to have those legs wrapped around you tonight?” Dennis asked.

      “Not enough to do jail time.”

      “Those breasts look like they’ve been growing at least eighteen years to me. Besides, a sweet thing like that might inspire you to clean up a bit—at least use a razor once in a while. You’re starting to look like a mangy dog.”

      John rubbed his chin and the spiky growth of half a week. “Hope you had a better reason for this visit than insulting me.”

      “We’re brothers. We should see each other once in a while.”

      “I’m easy to find.”

      “When you’re not out in the Gulf. How’s the fishing business?”

      “It’ll do. I’ve got a group of guys down from New York for a week starting Monday. Long as Delilah don’t come calling, we’ll be fine.”

      “Supposed to be a bad year for hurricanes.”

      “Don’t take but one to be bad if she hits you dead-on.”

      “Yeah.”

      The waitress returned with the beers. Dennis took a long, slow pull on his. “You ever miss your old life?”

      “Mais non.” John drank his beer slowly, letting the cold liquid trickle down his throat. He wasn’t about to rehash the past or his mistakes. Old horror stories should not be washed up by cold beer.

      “You could be rich by now,” Dennis said. “Driving a Porsche, picking up high-class babes.”

      “High-class babes don’t screw any better than poor ones, sometimes not as well. Besides, one successful Robicheaux is more than Beau Pierre ever expected to see.”

      Dennis cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit he’d picked up from their grandfather. “I’m thinking of leaving Beau Pierre.”

      The statement was the night’s first surprise and the first clue as to what had really prompted Dennis’s call. “I thought you and Guilliot were close as two crabs in a pot.”

      “Guilliot’s all right. I just think it’s time I move on. Beau Pierre’s starting to feel more and more like one of Puh-paw’s old muskrat traps.”

      “You didn’t knock up some local jolie fille, huh?”

      “Nothing like that.” He stretched his legs under the scarred old table. “It’s just time I move on. That’s all.”

      “You didn’t feel that way last time we talked.”

      “Things change.”

      “They changed real fast. This doesn’t have anything to do with losing a patient on the operating table, does it?”

      Dennis choked on the beer he’d just swallowed, coughed a few times into his sleeve, then slammed his almost empty bottle onto the table. “You talking about Ginny Lynn Flanders?”

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