Dear God, had she made a horrible mistake?

The creak of a gate on rusted hinges prompted Val to look up sharply. In a cloud of black robes, the reverend mother sped along a path that cut through blossoming daylilies and hyacinth.

Sister Charity’s wide face was set in a stern expression of displeasure, her rosary beads clicking with her strides as she approached again. “Ms. Renard?” she said, her voice clipped, no breath of familiarity in it.

Val turned to her.

“Excuse me for interrupting, but your husband wants to see you.”

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

Cruz Montoya had never been known for his patience.

For his quick wit, maybe.

His good looks, for sure.

And his ability to slide out of trouble when he was in the middle of it—certainly.

But not patience. And right now, standing in the vestibule of the police station, a fine-looking, angry receptionist giving him the evil eye and a beefy desk sergeant with a bad buzz cut blocking entrance to the stairway and elevator leading to the second floor, Cruz was antsy. He didn’t like crowds, hated being in a crush of humanity, and couldn’t avoid it here. Officers, witnesses, suspects, newspeople, all coming and going, being herded through—that was shit he couldn’t deal with. And he’d never been a fan of the police, didn’t take kindly to authority, and felt claustrophobic in confined spaces.

“He’s comin’ down,” the big desk sergeant told him, glancing to the next person approaching the desk, an elderly man leaning heavily on a cane. “Wait here.”

Both the desk sergeant and the receptionist had mentioned Cruz’s resemblance to Diego, whom they called “the detective” or “Montoya,” but that’s as far as it had gone. His features, so like his brother’s, hadn’t been the green light that had allowed him access to Robbery/Homicide.

Cruz was about to call his mother for Diego’s private cell number when his brother came down the stairs, shoes ringing on the steps. Diego, a few years older, was a couple of inches shorter than Cruz, more compact, but tough as nails. His goatee was dark, an earring glittering in one ear. Of everyone in the family, Diego showed some features of the Native American ancestor who had left his mark way back in the very Hispanic family tree. Diego hadn’t changed too much since the last time they’d seen each other, and he still wore his trademark black leather jacket, though it was the beginning of summer in New Orleans. Hot and humid outside.

“Hey!” Diego yelled at the desk sergeant as he jockeyed around an officer moving an impossibly thin guy through a group of people at the base of the stairs. “It’s okay. I’ll vouch for this son of a bitch.”