by Rita Herron
Jean-Paul made a note to do so. “Has he threatened you or Miss Berger?”
“He sent fliers to Britta about his protest rallies, touting some religious bunk about us leading others into sin,” Justice admitted with a scowl. “And if this murder gets out, he’ll probably accuse our magazine of triggering sexually related crimes.”
“Where were you two nights ago, say around midnight?”
Justice snapped his head up, his eyes seething. “You can’t possibly think that I had something to do with this. For God’s sake, I encouraged Britta to report the incident. And like I just said, this crime will only be fodder for Cortain’s nonsense.”
“I have to ask so I can eliminate you as a suspect.”
Justice shuffled his day planner. “I…was with a woman. I can give you her name if you want. She’ll vouch for me.”
Jean-Paul indicated a pad on the desk. “I’d appreciate that.”
Justice’s lips thinned into a straight line, but he tore off the sheet of paper and shoved it toward Jean-Paul.
A knock rapped on the door and a skinny, blond kid appeared. “Mr. Justice? You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Ralphie. Come in. Detective Dubois from the New Orleans Police Department needs to ask you a question.”
Jean-Paul gave him a once-over. Young. Naive. Khakis and a designer shirt with Italian loafers. Green under the collar.
Not a murderer.
The boy paled. “Did I do something wrong?”
Jean-Paul explained about the photo and Ralphie collapsed into a chair. “I…I thought Miss Berger seemed upset when she asked me about the mail earlier, but she didn’t tell me about the picture.”
“What did she say?” Jean-Paul asked.
“She wanted to know if I’d seen the person who’d delivered the envelope.”
“And did you?”
“No.” He crossed his feet at his ankles, rocking sideways. “It was under the door this morning when I arrived.”
Jean-Paul nodded. “So you put it on her desk? But you didn’t open it first?”
“No. It was addressed to her.” Embarrassment colored his face. “Miss Berger doesn’t like me to read the mail. Says I’m too young.”
“How did you get those scratches on your hand?”
“My dog.” He stared at his knuckles. “I just got a boxer puppy. I’m trying to train him but, man, he chews on everything in sight.”
Jean-Paul frowned. The kid obviously knew nothing. “Have you noticed anyone lurking around, maybe watching Miss Berger?”
“No one specifically. Although men always look at her.”
Yes, they would. Although Britta could probably take care of herself, a sliver of worry tickled his spine, arousing protective instincts born of years on the job.
His reaction certainly couldn’t be personal. Britta Berger was definitely not his type.
But the killer had chosen her for a reason.
Jean-Paul intended to find out exactly what it was.
And why his victim had resembled her, as well.
* * *
A GUST OF WIND from the impending storm rattled the trees and sent leaves swirling around Britta’s feet as she rushed through the mob on Bourbon Street to her apartment. The storm clouds grew darker; the sounds of feet pounding the pavement became more ominous as the night swelled with the hordes of tourists. She glanced over her shoulder, repeatedly searching for the photographer, but a fog of drunken tourists obliterated any individual from standing out.
Still, someone was out there.
She sensed him watching her, felt his beady eyes on her skin. Studying her. Waiting.
Was it the photographer she’d spotted during dinner? The killer who’d sent her the photo?
Were they the same man?
She considered calling the cops but what could she tell them? She had an odd feeling? They’d think she was crazy.
A beer can rolled across the pavement, clanging into a metal garbage can and she shrieked, pausing as a beefy hand reached down to grab it. “Sorry about that, ma’am.”
She tensed at the lascivious look in his liquor-glazed eyes, and pushed past him, shouldering her way around more groping hands until she reached Naked Desires. Neon lights dotted the street with color, highlighting the painted print and logo on the door window. Several lurid males drooled, their faces pressed against the fog-coated glass as they tried to peek inside.
Ignoring their pleas for a sneak preview of the upcoming magazine and offers to share their fantasies with her, she maneuvered her way inside, slammed the door shut and locked it. But she froze at the sight of the darkened stairwell leading to the upstairs apartment. She tried the light, but it didn’t work. Had someone messed with it or had the bulb simply burned out?
You’re being paranoid. How many times last month had it done the same thing and she hadn’t thought it suspicious?
Choking back fear, she clenched her keys, ready to use them as a weapon. Outside, the wind howled like an animal. She unlocked the door and hurried inside. With only three rooms to the tiny apartment, she raced through them all, finally muttering a silent thank-you to find them empty.
Still, she paused in her bedroom, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling. The top bureau drawer which held her underwear was open slightly. Hadn’t she shut it this morning when she’d left for work? Normally, she kept her garments neat, her bras on the left side, her favorite frilly underwear on the right. In the drawer below, she stored her teddies. Now, her underwear was jumbled as if someone had pawed through it. Frantic, she jerked the second drawer open and gasped. Her teddies had also been moved around as if someone had touched them.
Then she saw it—a red crotchless teddy lay in the center of her bed.
A low sob caught in her throat. It was just like the one the dead woman had worn in the photograph. She glanced up in horror and noticed the note stuck to the mirror.
“I always have one eye on you. You can’t run forever.”
Shaking with fear and disgust, she rushed to the bathroom and splashed water on her face to stem the nausea. What should she do? Could that photographer somehow have gotten into her place? Or the killer who’d sent her the photograph of the murdered woman?
Hands shaking, she reached for a towel, patted her face dry, then glanced in the mirror, expecting to see a madman staring at her. But only her terrified eyes were reflected back. That and images of a long-ago time she’d thought she’d forgotten. Of a terrified little girl and a man she refused to speak of….
She spun around, ran into the bedroom to grab her purse and retrieved Detective Dubois’s card. She had to report the break-in. Show him the red teddy.
But if she did, he’d ask more questions. Want to know more about her and why this psycho had decided to stalk her.
She’d thought today’s note had to do with the magazine. But what if it had something to do with her past?
D-day—the day she’d died and started a new life.
No, it was impossible.
Maybe she should just pick up and run again. She could start over. Find another job. A new name. A new city.
But the face of the young woman who’d died rose to haunt her. She was so young. Hadn’t deserved to be left in the bayou for the mosquitoes, snakes and gators to feast upon.
Memories of the night she’d fled into the bayou rushed back. She’d been dirty, hungry, terrified and so thirsty she’d hallucinated. She’d seen the devil and other wild, mysterious creatures in the marshy swampland.
And now, thirteen years later, another one roamed the streets….
She couldn’t run this time.
Not with the dead girl’s face etched in her mind permanently. It would stay with her no matter where she went. And so would her guilt and the memory of her sins.
The only way to escape them was to pay her penance.
Maybe by helping to find this woman’s killer, she could finally receive forgiveness.
* * *
LOUP
GAROU—the swamp devil.
Jean-Paul grimaced. The local PD had already dubbed their newest killer with the name. The fabled creature lived on in the minds of the Cajuns as real as the day the legend started.
Only a devil could leave a woman the way this sicko had—helpless, dead, exposed in the heart of the untamed bayou.
Even though it was late evening, Jean-Paul met his captain and partner at the ME’s office. When he showed the photograph to his partner, Carson, and his lieutenant, Phelps, cursed.
“I’m sending it to forensics, although I doubt we’ll find prints,” Jean-Paul said. “Maybe they can trace the photocopy paper.”
Phelps frowned. “The son of a bitch is bragging about the murder.”
“Did he really expect that magazine to print this?” Carson asked.
Jean-Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. But for some reason, he wanted Britta Berger to see his handiwork.”
“Because of her column?” Phelps asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe there’s a personal connection.” Jean-Paul recalled her reaction to the photo. She’d definitely been shaken. And he sensed she didn’t like cops.
He’d run a background check on her to find out the reason.
“Maybe he knows her,” Phelps suggested.
“Or wants to,” Carson added.
Phelps nodded. “That’s possible. If so, Britta Berger might be in danger.”
A frisson of unease rippled through Dubois, heating his blood. He’d arrived at the same conclusion on the way back to the precinct. What if this psycho didn’t stop at one victim? The symbols he’d left reeked of a ritualistic killing.
The ME, Dr. Charles, appeared in his office and waved them back to the crypt. “Have you identified our Jane Doe yet?”
Phelps snorted. “No, we’re searching all the national databases but so far, no hits.”
“We’re checking the universities and clubs, too,” Carson added.
Jean-Paul sighed, already tired and the investigation was only getting started. If the vic was an out-of-towner who’d come for Mardi Gras or to cash in on the heightened prostitute business during the festival, the identification process would be more difficult.
Phelps cut to the chase. “What did you find, Dr. Charles? Anything that might help us?”
“Nothing conclusive yet. Except that the girl didn’t die from the chest wounds. I suspect she might have been poisoned.”
“What kind of poison?” Jean-Paul asked.
“I don’t know. I’m still running tests.” Charles indicated one of the containers from his handiwork. “So far, her stomach contents don’t reveal traces of a poison so she didn’t ingest one. I didn’t find any injection marks on her body, either.”
“Keep looking,” Phelps said.
“Any evidence of rape or a date rape drug?” Carson asked.
Charles shook his head. “Not so far.”
“Which meant she agreed to have sex, then things got out of hand,” Jean-Paul surmised. “Once we ID her, we’ll start with her boyfriends, lovers. All her male acquaintances.”
Jean-Paul’s cell phone trilled and he unpocketed it and hit the connect button. “Detective Dubois.”
“Detective…this is Britta Berger.”
Alarm shot through him. Her voice sounded shaky, frightened. Had the killer contacted her again? “What is it, Miss Berger?”
“Someone broke into my place tonight,” she blurted. “I…think it might have been the man who killed that woman.”
Jean-Paul’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Keep the door locked and don’t open it for anyone.” His pulse kicked up a notch. “I’ll be right there.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BRITTA TWISTED HER fingers into the thin fabric of her skirt.
Stay calm, she reminded herself. You don’t have to tell him about the past. This killer has nothing to do with that. It’s impossible.
Still, she paced to the window and searched the busy street below. Was her intruder out there, watching?
Chilled by the thought, she wrapped a small throw around her shoulders. Then she poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it, trying to settle her nerves. But every whistle of the wind and every screech from the streets below alarmed her. Every man…posed a danger.
Dammit. She thought she’d left her fears behind. That she could finally look toward a future. But now this psycho wanted to take her peace of mind from her.
Why? What had she done to him?
She dragged in a breath and reminded herself she was being paranoid. She had her cell phone. And she knew how to fight.
Logic kicked in, along with the guts that had kept her alive. Even if this madman knew where she worked, he didn’t necessarily know where she lived. She’d been meticulous about not listing her number or including her home address on any paperwork.
Anyone experienced with a computer could find her, though. And if he’d watched her office, he could have easily seen her climb the stairs to her apartment.
She could almost hear the killer taunting her in a sing-songy voice. See him sinking the spear into her heart. Feel the cold sharp blade puncture her insides. Then see the blood oozing out. Her nightmares rose again with icy fingers from the grave clawing at her. The years fell away as if it were yesterday. As if she was there again. Except this time she was even younger.
She was five years old. So small, so tiny that if she tried hard enough, she could make herself disappear. Then no one could find her.
And the monsters couldn’t hurt her anymore.
Footsteps sounded outside. Loud voices. A man’s dark booming laughter.
No!!!!!! Not again.
She crawled beneath the bed, closed her eyes and folded one bony arm beneath the other. Then she slid her hands into her armpits, hunched her knees up to her belly and curled into a ball.
Like a fleck of dust that no one could see, she’d stay there for hours. If she didn’t make a sound, they’d think she’d gone. Then she’d be safe.
Free from the man. Free from the hideous monsters in the bayou.
The door screeched open. The scent of whiskey floated toward her. Thunder rumbled. She caught her breath. Tried to hold it.
Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Be invisible and they’ll go away. But the floor creaked. The wooden boards splintered. And she felt his hand on her arm.
He had her….
Britta heaved for air, sweating, disoriented. This memory was only one of many. The beginning. So many more afterward….
She had to banish them.
She stood, trembling, then moved to stare out the window into the starless night. It wasn’t possible that this killer knew her. Or knew what had happened years ago. How she’d escaped. How she’d survived. How she’d lived on the streets like an animal.
No one knew but her.
More panic yanked at her and she rushed back to her bedroom and dug under the mattress for her journal. Inside it, she wrote all her private thoughts. Her own secret desires and confessions.
Her fingers finally connected with the thick velvet binding, and she tugged it out, flipping through the pages to make certain it was intact. She nearly collapsed on the bed when she realized nothing was missing. Her thoughts were still private.
A voice sounded through the intercom. “Britta? Are you in there?”
Jean-Paul Dubois. He was the last person she’d tell. He’d show her no mercy. He’d take her to jail, lock her up and throw away the key. No, he could never know her secret desires or get near her heart.
She’d die before she’d let that happen.
* * *
THERE HAD ALREADY been one woman’s body found today. Jean-Paul held his breath as he waited on Britta to answer the intercom at her door. He hoped to hell there wasn’t going to be another.
Dammit, why wasn’t she answering? He’d raced over after her call. St. Charles Street had been unusually calm for Mardi Gras season. Various flags of kings and queens of Carnival waved from the palatial mans
ions, all symbols of the royalty: the professional businessmen and politicians who resided in the city, ones who funded the celebrations, rebuilt the city and revitalized the traditions in the Big Easy after the last hurricane. Although some businesses and people had given up and moved on, others had rallied to resurrect the historical district and the culture.
But here on Bourbon Street, the decorations boasted of sex, voodoo, black magic and the live-and-let-live attitude of the tourists seeking a good time, a stiff drink and a good lay—anonymously of course. Which only added to the crime.
Anger mounted inside him. Bon Dieu. Why the hell had Britta Berger chosen to live on Bourbon Street? Why not in one of the sleek condos on Decatur? Just working at the raunchy magazine set her up for trouble. But to live in the heart of it…She might as well hang a damn sign on her body flagging her as an open target.
Did she enjoy living on the edge?
He didn’t. He wanted the town back to normal, back to the New Orleans he loved.
The image of her tied to a bed, naked, with a lancet embedded in her heart, flashed in his head and he grimaced as he punched the buzzer again.
“If you don’t answer, Miss Berger, I’m going to break down this damn door.”
“I’m sorry,” she finally said in a trembling voice. “Come on up.”
A click sounded and he opened the wrought-iron gate in front of the door, then entered. Her office lay to the right, a dark staircase ahead. He took the steps two at a time. When he reached Britta’s apartment door, he gave three quick raps. Seconds later, she opened the door, the chain still intact.
He arched a brow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, just shaken.” She unlocked the door and stepped back, clutching a long robe to her throat.
“You said someone broke in?” He examined the door, but didn’t notice any damage. “I don’t see evidence of forced entry.”
“He was here.” She folded her arms across her waist, the movement making her look shaken and vulnerable. “In my bedroom.”
He scanned the living room. Simple furnishings. Contemporary. A butter-yellow leather sofa accessorized by a few red and green throw pillows. A TV. Desk. Her laptop.