Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

and I would have like nothing better than to just head the fuck back home, but I had a job to do. The thought of Jerome on that table in the morgue and what had been done to him strengthened my resolve to let this pass. After this case was over, I was going to find a way to make Gauthier pay.
    "I had no idea I was gonna get to work with such pranksters," Travis said, still in that overly jovial voice. I shot a look at him. "In fact," Travis looked around, "I figured things might be pretty damn dull with a skirt like Dupree as the boss."
    What was he up to? I didn't know him at all. I mean, other than the bare minimum it had taken the surveillance team to discuss our stakeout strategy, we hadn't really talked. So far on this case, he monitored the vids from a safe distance while I put my ass out there every night. This was a partnership made in hell. Something we would both endure until the Loo paired him some other unlucky bastard. For whatever reason, Lieutenant Maxine Dupree seemed to like the bastard, so I suppose she was going to keep it up until she found someone he could tolerate.
    Gauthier gave a little snort then muttered something that sounded a whole lot like "Not for long."
    I couldn't see the expression on Travis' face because he moved until he stood between Gauthier and me, but his knuckles were white where his fingers gripped the big detective's shoulder. "That right? Let me tell you something, Gauthier. You're off the case. I won't fucking work with a bigot. In fact," he looked around the now silent squad room. "All of you can stay home. If you can stomach this shit in here, then I don't need you out there. And you…" He poked a finger into the big man's chest, "clean your fucking mess up. You don't, me and my partner got more than enough to kick your sorry fat ass."
    Without looking over his shoulder, he strode from the room. I followed. Partner ?
    He didn't talk much and I didn't know what the hell to say. We drove through a coffee hut and he ordered black and tall for both of us, no room for cream. That was twice he'd bought me coffee and never asked if I liked it black. I did, but why would he just assume?
    Still without talking, he drove into the Quarter, navigated into a half-alley behind Chartres Street. He pulled into a deep garage, made narrow by floor-to-ceiling shelves. The door to his car barely opened wide enough on my side for me to squeeze sideways. I shuffled out and Travis closed and locked the door. Through the carriage gate, up a winding cast iron staircase, I completely ignored the brick-lined tropical courtyard. My gaze was fixed on the twin globes of the finest glutes I'd ever seen.
    "Have a seat and give me a minute to start the coffee pot. This cup isn't enough to hold my eyes open. Then I've got something to show you."
    If I'd bothered to think about it, I would have pegged Travis as one of those impersonal condo-type of guys. Landscaping, pool, gym, babes— all the amenities. Instead, his place resembled a well-appointed houseboat. There was a single large room, with the sitting area and kitchen closest to the door. The kitchen was compact, with plenty of granite, copper, and stainless. The sitting area held the man-cave requisite recliner, a nap-length sofa, and mega-screened television. There were enough tables and throw pillows to ensure comfort, and a place to set your beer. The decorator had known what she was doing with such a compact space— nothing over-powered, and the textures were good quality leathers, suedes, and polished oak. The colors neutral, but not boring, with added splashes of purple, gold, and green in little flourishes around the room to play on the Mardi Gras theme and remind you that this was New Orleans.
    There was one stunning piece in the room that drew the eye: a three-panel black-lacquer folding screen with a hand-painted mask on each panel. Flourishes of feathers, beads, and costume jewels made the divider a work of art. I'd never seen anything like it and wandered over to look more closely.
    Standing this close, I was able to see over the panel into the sleeping area. Two open doors against one wall revealed the bathroom and a walk-in closet. A queen-sized bed was made, but rumpled as if Travis sat there to put on his shoes. Suddenly, I realized how intrusive it was to stare into the man's bedroom, and I turned away to find Travis watching me with his customary smirk.
    "Do I pass inspection?"
    "Yeah, actually you do. This place is great. But