Page 36 of Knife in the Back (New Orleans #4)

She watched as Cresswell was escorted from the room. His attorney exited the room as well, heading toward the entrance.

When she, Burke, and Hogan were alone, she sighed. “He knows who Gaffney’s working with.”

“He does,” Hogan confirmed. “I didn’t expect him to speak, because he hasn’t for two and a half years. But I really thought you had him, Miss Cranston.”

“I let myself hope for a second or two,” she admitted, then stood, completely exhausted. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity, sir.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know how I can help you going forward.”

“You can clear her name,” Burke said brusquely.

Naomi wanted to smile at him, but she was too tired.

“And when we get evidence to support that, I will,” Hogan replied evenly, but there was regret in his eyes.

Naomi mostly understood. The man wanted to help, but he had to work within the system. He was the system.

“I’m ready to leave now,” she told Burke. “Thank you for staying with me.”

He pushed a lock of hair from her cheek so that it hung properly. She hadn’t even realized until that moment that she’d shown him her scar when she showed it to Cresswell.

But he didn’t look repulsed. He looked proud.

Of me.

I’m proud of me, too.

—

St. Gabriel, Louisiana

Tuesday, February 25, 1:40 p.m.

Arthur Cresswell shuffled back to his cell, his hands and ankles shackled.

I did it.

Every time he was called to the interview room, he felt like he’d be ill. Every time, he had to steel himself not to speak.

Not to beg. Because he would beg—for his family.

Should’ve thought of that before you stole the first kilo. That had been more than fifteen years before, and he’d confiscated the kilo in a drug bust he’d made as a Narcotics detective.

His son had been only two years old, and had needed so many things. Cribs and car seats and fancy food that his wife swore was healthy. So he’d succumbed to temptation.

He’d sat on that kilo for weeks, terrified the NOPD knew he’d taken it and that they were just waiting for him to sell it to grab him and throw him in a jail cell. But that never happened, not even when he finally got the courage to approach the dealer he’d arrested four times.

The dealer had taken him to his boss and he and Cresswell had made a deal.

Then Cresswell had more cash than he’d ever seen in one place at one time.

It was just going to be the one time. But then the bills piled up. They’d been living beyond their means, but he hadn’t had the heart to tell his wife to stop spending. It made her so happy and she was so lonely when he was out doing undercover work.

Excuses.

He’d done so many crimes over the years and had only been punished for a small fraction of them. He guessed that it was his turn now, and it would be for the rest of his life because he was never getting out of this place.

The DA had offered him a deal. The WITSEC people were willing to hide them all. But his partner had been perfectly clear.

Say one single word and they die.

His wife. His son. His daughter.

And to bring the promise home, his partner had sent him a gift, via his attorney. A finger in a box.

A finger wearing a very familiar ring.

He’d slipped that ring on his wife’s hand the day he’d promised to love, honor, and cherish her till death did they part.

Someone in security had to have been paid off or his attorney never would have been allowed to bring such a thing into the prison. That had been a wake-up call, early on.

Nowhere is safe. No one is safe.

And his partner had meant every word he’d said.

His wife had been devastated and beyond furious when she’d come to see him—the first and only time she did so. Her hand was swollen, still bandaged.

She would never forgive him and he could not blame her.

But he could continue to protect her by saying nothing.

Just as he had today.

He’d been tempted. So very tempted.

Not by Naomi Cranston. He didn’t give two shits about the woman. Framing her had been a simple necessity. It wasn’t personal.

Not to Cresswell, anyway.

His partner, however, was another story. For him, framing Cranston had been very personal.

Cresswell had been tempted by her offer, though. Burke Broussard was the last person he would have gone to for help, but there wasn’t anyone he trusted more to keep his family safe.

Broussard wasn’t infallible, though. And his people wouldn’t protect his family forever. So Cresswell had held his tongue.

He arrived at his cell and didn’t wince when the door shut in his face. He was beyond that now.

He stuck his hands through the opening in the door, patiently waiting as his shackles were unlocked and removed. The same happened with the shackles on his ankles.

Throat parched, he went to the sink, bent over and filled his palm, using it as a cup. But his hands shook and he couldn’t get the water to his mouth.

It took two tries, but he managed to grip the metal travel mug he kept next to the coffee maker he was allowed to keep.

No ceramic mugs. Could be used as a weapon if broken. He filled the metal mug and drank it all down.

And then realized his mistake.

The water didn’t taste the same. It didn’t taste like metal and rust.

It tasted bitter.

The bottom of his cup smelled like…

Oh no. Bitter almonds.

He dropped the cup and it fell to the cell floor with a clang. Stunned, he turned to the door, where a guard watched him through the window.

“I didn’t say anything,” Cresswell rasped, speaking for the first time in two and a half years, knowing and fearing what was coming.

“You wanted to,” the guard said quietly.

“You’re on his…” Cresswell sank to the floor, the dizziness overwhelming.

They hadn’t even waited until dinnertime so that they could hide it in his food. Or maybe they would have if he hadn’t chosen that mug.

He cast a glance at the coffee maker and wondered if the carafe had been poisoned as well.

“…payroll,” he gasped out as the guard said nothing. Merely watched him.

Waiting for me to die.

Cresswell clutched at his chest, his breathing becoming labored. His head pounded with a blinding pain. Confusion made him shake his aching head, trying to clear it. But it didn’t clear.

It wouldn’t clear. It would just get worse.

“Autopsy.” He forced out the word, then another. “You.”

“You think they’ll suspect me?” The guard didn’t look worried. “You kept cyanide pills in your cell in case you were pressured to speak, like what happened today. The cops will find the pills when they search your cell. Your death will be ruled a suicide.”

They’d thought of everything, then. He’d never stood a chance.

I should have asked Broussard for help.