by Rita Herron
Jean-Paul quickly made note of the room. The place smelled of booze, weed and sex. Black netting formed a canopy on the wall like a spiderweb and draped a black-lacquer bed with rumpled sheets, sex toys and leather masks.
“Justice must have told you we’d drop by,” Jean-Paul said.
She hitched out a hip. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. About that dead woman.” A half-dozen earrings sparkled on one ear, while a network of tiny scars lined her neck. “Such a shame. But sometimes sex just goes too far.”
“How far is too far?” Jean-Paul asked as he elbowed his way past her.
“Death,” she said. “Otherwise, it’s just a game.”
“Murder is not a game,” Jean-Paul muttered.
She gave him a pouty look. “I just meant that when two people want to do it their own way, they should be entitled to. Danger heightens the senses, makes sex more titillating.”
“We’re not arguing titillating,” Carson said. “We’re talking cold-blooded and vicious homicide.”
“How did you get your scars?” Jean-Paul asked in spite of the fact that he was certain he already knew the answer. From his vantage point, he spotted a whip and mask on the bed, a vibrator with metal prongs and a wicked set of leather chaps. Blood stained the sheets of the unmade bed; leather wrist and foot bindings were attached to the four corners. The rope indicated the couple had delved into asphyxiation sex. Handcuffs and a silver-studded black-leather dog collar lay on the bedside table beside a ceramic hand-shape candy dish that would have held peppermints at his mother’s house but contained an assortment of condoms.
Hmm. What would Britta’s hold?
“I like it rough,” she whispered, cozying up to Carson. “As long as I trust the person I’m with, anything goes.”
Carson’s eye twitched. “Just tell us about the night before last. Was R.J. Justice with you until morning?”
She nodded, then gestured toward a triangular table. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Yes. He was my submissive. I turned him into my lamp.”
Carson coughed and Jean-Paul gritted his teeth. He’d read about the latest tools the sex addicts were into—turning their partners into household objects to humiliate them.
She walked over to the table to demonstrate. “He was naughty, so I punished him. His head comes up through that round hole in the center of the table and serves as a fixture. I hung my panties over the shade and made him watch.” She laughed at Carson’s stunned eye-raise, then turned to Jean-Paul. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Detective?”
Yeah, pretty sick shit. But Jean-Paul refused to take the bait. He removed his business card and laid it on the table. Just imagining the man’s kind of lovemaking sent a sour taste to his stomach. He sure as hell hoped Britta Berger stayed away from him.
How could she even work with a man like that?
Unless she wasn’t aware of his sexual preferences.
Maybe he should warn her….
No. Britta’s sex life or romantic relationships were none of his damn business.
“Man, she’s weird as shit,” Carson said as they left the building.
“Yeah. And I have a bad feeling this case is going to get even more weird before we solve it.”
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he connected the call. “Detective Dubois speaking.”
“Detective, this is Britta.”
Jean-Paul’s internal alarm button sounded. “What’s wrong?”
“He called my house,” she said in a low voice. “And he has another woman.”
* * *
ANOTHER VICTIM.
Jean-Paul’s heart slammed into his ribs. Then they were dealing with a serial killer.
And to take the next victim so soon suggested something was pushing his buttons. Or someone. “What else did he say?” Jean-Paul asked.
“That she had to pay for her sins.” Britta’s voice cracked. “He talked about having control, about building his kingdom.”
Dammit. A kingdom implied he’d only gotten started. “Stay put. I’ll be right over.”
“You don’t have to come by,” she said hurriedly. “I just wanted you to know about the woman, so you could look for her.”
Carson narrowed his eyes and Jean-Paul mumbled an explanation, then gestured for him to drive toward Britta’s apartment.
“Did he indicate where he might have taken her?” Jean-Paul asked.
“No.”
“What about his number? Did it show up on caller ID?”
“No, it appeared as an unknown.”
He grimaced and studied the busy street as they neared Britta’s. It was midnight already, but party-goers still overflowed from the bars. Every man seemed to jump out at Jean-Paul as a possible suspect. Two guys wearing bandanas loitered outside Naked Desires, peering in the window, open beers in their beefy hands. Anger pounded through his blood as he glanced up and realized how easily they could gain access to Britta.
Carson parked and Jean-Paul jumped out, then ordered the bikers to move down the street. One of them cursed and staggered toward him, but Carson waved his badge. “Go on or we’ll let you sleep it off in the tank.”
The second man yanked his friend back. “Come on, man. Fuck the cops. They’re not worth it.”
Jean-Paul pressed the security buzzer, grateful when Britta responded immediately. He didn’t know why his chest was so tight but a sharp pain had knifed through it. If the killer had called Britta at home, then he was growing bolder. He was showing off his crimes to her, touting his depravity to impress her.
And eventually he might target her as a victim.
* * *
GINGER HOLLIDAY’S DADDY would die if he saw her now. He’d always told her she was some no-account piece of shit, but she told him she was a victim of having stupid parents. Wrong answer. He’d beaten her senseless and thrown her out on her ass.
At first, she’d wallowed in self pity, but finally she’d dusted off her butt and decided the best revenge was to prove the bastard wrong. She applied to a med-tech school. In two years, she’d have a decent job, one that helped other folks. Not some demeaning, boring-as-hell drone’s job like threading fake alligator’s teeth on chords to make those cheap necklaces they sold at the market or gutting fish all day like her sorry old man.
And not like the one she’d chosen last night. Why, he’d been quiet and intense. The artwork he collected was weird. Drawings and sculptures of crocodiles and black magic. And those eyes…man, they were some freaking shit. He’d even told her he wanted to paint hers.
But he had a Bible beside his bed so she figured he was safe.
Hell, so far she hadn’t done anything to earn her money. Sure, he’d made her pose for him. And he’d tied her to the bed but then he hadn’t touched her. He’d just drawn sketches of her while she lay there naked. He’d done a real nice job with her eyes, too.
Wondering what he had in mind tonight, she glanced toward him. He looked like he came from money—had nice threads and a sharp little Miata. Maybe he was a professor or something. Anyway, he wasn’t half-bad.
For a man who bought sex on the streets.
Except his eyes were a little strange. One of them looked sort of blurred; or maybe it was his expression, as if he saw her through a fog. And his face felt funny, his skin sort of rubbery as if he was wearing makeup or a mask.
He shifted gears and glanced at her, the scar on his upper eyelid glimmering in the moonlight. He hadn’t smiled since she’d gotten in the car; just told her he was taking her to a mansion where he promised to give her as much pleasure as she gave him.
Like that could ever happen. She never got involved with clients, never let herself feel. In fact, she barely remembered how she’d gotten into the business.
The moon slithered into the thick treetops in the bayou, the sounds of the backwoods echoing around her as they left the noisy town. Suddenly a frisson of unease skated up her spine. Maybe this wasn’t suc
h a good idea, going outside the city limits. What if this guy was some kind of pervert? Or what if he refused to bring her home? A cab would cost a fortune.
She automatically rubbed her hand over her purse where she kept her mace, then patted the edge of her thigh-high boots. She kept a knife inside, just in case.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
His breathing wheezed out but he didn’t reply. She fidgeted and tried again. “You visiting New Orleans or you live here?”
Again he didn’t answer. Only the whites of his eyes, big and unnerving, settled on her face, before he turned his attention back to the road.
The silence was near-deafening, which only accentuated the noises of the woods. He steered the car onto a long drive flanked by cypress and live oak trees that created a tunnel. A second later, she spotted a two-story antebellum home. He parked in the winding drive beside the garage, then gestured for her to get out.
“Are you restoring this place?”
He nodded. Then finally he spoke. “There are rumors that a mighty man of the cloth lived here, but one of his own clan murdered him and fed him to the gators.” He slanted her an odd look, then cut his eyes toward the backyard. “Let me show you the river before we go up.”
His story rattled her nerves. “As long as we don’t get too close. I don’t like the swamp.”
The moonlight chased shadows across his face as he urged her forward onto a tiny bridge. Moss hung like clusters of spiderwebs from the trees, creating a trap for whatever stepped inside.
Water lapped and receded against the jagged rocks while frogs croaked and whined. The stench of swampland, decay and something else that smelled rancid floated from below. Several yellow-greenish eyes glowed in the dark on the water’s surface—bodies submerged, only long snouts and scaly heads visible in the darkness. The gators. A pair of sharp teeth shimmered in the moonlight.
“Let’s go back,” she said in a shaky voice. “I don’t like it out here.”
He pushed her forward. “No. I have a surprise for you.”
Fear ripped through her at his ominous tone. “Please, I don’t like it here—”
“I bought you, Ginger,” he said in a low voice. “You’ll do whatever I want.”
The legend about the house suddenly took on dire meaning. She reached inside her purse for her mace, but he twisted her arm and she cried out. Terrified, she kicked upward toward his knee, connecting with bone. He yelped and momentarily released her. She tried to run past him toward the car but he slammed her face-down onto the bridge. She tasted blood.
Dammit. She’d worked too hard to end up like this. She swung her loose arm toward his feet, but he stomped on her hand and she screamed in pain. Bones crunched and blinding pain shot through her. Dry brush, stones and bark clawed at her knees and face as he dragged her toward the shanty.
Suddenly a loud growling erupted, then another and another. Finally a hideous, terrifying cry. The gators’ cry of warning before they charged.
Dear God, she’d thought he was safe. What a fool. This man was going to kill her.
Then he might feed her to the animals.
Or would he feed her to them alive?
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRITTA’S HANDS TREMBLED as she lifted the door latch and allowed Jean-Paul and his partner into her apartment. How much should she tell Jean-Paul about her conversation with the killer? If she confessed that the man had hinted that he’d known her in the past, she would open Pandora’s box.
Yet, if she had drawn the madman to murder, if she had known him, not telling the police would only enable him to kill again.
“Are you all right?” Jean-Paul asked.
She nodded and gestured for them to sit, then offered coffee, which both men declined. Jean-Paul settled into the chair across from her, while Detective Graves claimed the loveseat.
“What time did he call?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Just before I talked to you.”
“Tell us everything he said, word for word.”
She knotted her fingers into the folds of her robe, wishing she’d changed into her clothes. “I’m not sure I can remember.”
“Listen, Ms. Berger,” Detective Graves cut in. “It’s important that you try. At this point, everything we learn about our unknown subject, our UNSUB we call him, is a clue that might help us figure out his identity.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, searching for the bravado that usually saved her. Paste on a detached face. Chin up. Maintain eye contact. Don’t let anyone know you’re afraid.
Up went her chin. She was in control now. These men had no idea who she was. She’d covered her tracks well. No paper trail. And there had never officially been any charges filed. Besides the only one she could think of who’d want to hurt her was the boy she’d run from. And he had died.
“Britta,” Jean-Paul said. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you need something to drink?”
She shook her head. “No, I was just trying to sort through the conversation.”
Sexual looks she was used to. But having a man worry about her launched her into uncharted territory.
“Britta?”
“I asked him who he was and he repeated what he’d written in the note.”
“That he knew your secrets?” Jean-Paul asked.
She nodded, but her gaze latched on to his hands, which were folded in front of him. Dark hair was sprinkled over his large knuckles. His nails were blunt but neat, his fingers scarred. He had strong, capable hands. Could they also be tender?
“What else?” Jean-Paul prompted.
She jerked her attention back to his face. “He said one day he’d tell me his name, but he had to build his kingdom first.”
“His kingdom?” Detective Graves made a note of it. “Maybe a religious reference. That could be important.”
“It means he’s going to kill again and again until we stop him,” Jean-Paul said.
Britta’s face paled. “I told him he was a coward for hiding behind the notes.” She moved to the window, then closed the blinds so no one could look in. “He didn’t like that. He said he was in control.”
Jean-Paul gave her an odd look. “You intentionally angered him?”
“He called me to brag about hurting this woman and I refused to satisfy his twisted mind by acting afraid,” Britta snapped. “I told him I wasn’t playing his games.”
“And how did he react?” Jean-Paul asked.
She raked her fingers through her hair. “He said he had another woman. I begged him to stop—not to hurt her—but he claimed she had to pay for her sins.”
A muscle ticked in Jean-Paul’s jaw, while his partner leaned forward in the chair with his hands on his knees.
“Did you hear anything in the background?” Jean-Paul asked. “A noise—maybe a boat, train, cars? A woman crying?”
Britta shook her head. “Just his grating, sinister voice.” And the ticktock of the wall clock behind her.
She rubbed her arms.
How much time did this woman have left before she died?
* * *
JEAN-PAUL STOOD AND braced his hand on the back of the chair, his gaze fixed on the clock. Every second that passed lessened their chances of finding this woman alive. He could almost hear the woman’s screams for help in his head.
Just as he’d imagined Lucinda had probably cried for him the night she’d died. Hoping he’d save her.
But he’d failed.
Would he fail this woman, as well?
“I’m calling in the feds,” he finally said.
His partner snarled. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”
Jean-Paul shook his head. Pride be damned. The age-old territorial battle would no doubt ensue. Most of the cops didn’t like working with the feds. But his brother could always be trusted. And what choice did they have? So far, they were chasing their tails.
They had to stop this psycho before he destroyed the town. The city had worked too hard in its recovery,
had proven that the human spirit and heart of the Big Easy would survive no matter what. Just as his own family had.
Except there had been casualties.
Lucinda for one. And so many others….
The ceiling fan hummed, stirring the humidity, and he scrubbed a hand over his neck. The fact that their UNSUB had Britta’s personal number worried him. “Do you want us to drive you someplace else tonight?”
“We’ve been over this before, Detective. I’m fine.” Her voice broke off, emotions teetering on the surface.
Right. She had no family to call. She was virtually all alone. Jean-Paul itched to fold her in his arms and hold her.
But his job came first. He needed to act on this latest call. Except they had no idea where to look for this girl or any clue as to her identity. If the man had chosen to take her to the bayou, they could be anywhere in the miles and miles of endless marshy swampland. He had to organize some search teams.
“Carson, get a trace put on Miss Berger’s phone.”
Carson headed to the door to place the order.
Jean-Paul rubbed his hands up and down Britta’s arms. “If he calls again, keep him talking. The longer he remains on the line, the better chance we have of pinpointing a location.”
Her tired sigh mimicked his own weary soul. “I’ll try.”
He started to release her but the need to stay with her pulled at him, too. She appeared so strong on the outside, but beneath that tough facade, he sensed a lonely, troubled woman. One who didn’t want anyone to see her fears.
One who knew she was in danger. But one who refused to whine or beg him to stay.
“You’ll call me if he phones you again tonight?” he asked.
Tension sizzled between them as he waited for her response.
“He won’t,” she said matter-of-factly.
Their gazes locked and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was—that the psycho would be too busy murdering his second victim to phone. But neither spoke the words out loud. The silent look that passed between them was all the communication they needed.
He murmured good-night, then he and Carson left the building. Outside, he glanced up and down the street as they walked to Carson’s car, searching for predators. The crowd had begun to thin, although music still wailed from several bars and the scent of stale booze and sweat permeated the air. He phoned the precinct, then reported the killer’s call and alerted the night shift to be on the lookout for trouble. Two more units were dispatched to stroll Bourbon Street and keep order. Another four went out to drive along the country roads. And two more were ordered to check the location where the first woman’s body had been discovered, just in case the psycho used the same shanty.