by Rita Herron
“I want a lawyer,” Candy hissed.
“You don’t need one, you’re not under arrest. We just want to talk to you about Elvira Erickson.”
Memories of seeing her own mother hauled in for prostitution resurfaced. The pity and disdain in the officers’ faces. The same way Antwaun was looking at Candy.
The same way Jean-Paul would if he knew about her mother.
How could she even contemplate that he could accept her?
* * *
RANDY SWAIN cursed as he paced in the interrogation room. “Listen, Marty, things can’t go wrong now. You have to get me out of this mess.”
“Just stay calm, Randy,” his manager said quietly. “The police have nothing on you.”
Sweat soaked Randy’s back. “They have the ad we ran in Naked Desires. And they have letters women have written to that broad fantasizing about me.” Randy lowered his voice. “God knows what they’ll find to incriminate me at my apartment.”
Marty shot him a worried look. “All circumstantial.”
Except for those pictures and the lingerie…Fuck, how could he have been so stupid?
“Just play nice,” Marty advised him. “I’ve called Leonard Turner. He’ll be here soon.”
Randy was still sweating bullets. “If they look hard enough, they’ll find out about my past.”
“No one knows your real name or that you grew up in Black Bayou,” Marty assured him. “We’ve covered our asses.”
Randy cracked his knuckles. Maybe. Maybe not. There were other bad things they could find, though. Things he hadn’t even told Marty. Notes about old songs that could condemn him. Things about his mother.
That trouble in that small town in Mississippi. And the games he liked to play with women.
Then the truth about his identity.
Even worse, there was the fact that he had met Elvira Erickson. And that he and Marty had discussed using that magazine for publicity….
* * *
BRITTA BRACED HERSELF as Jean-Paul approached. She’d seen the Ericksons leave and prayed she could help him find their daughter’s killer. At least then they could have some closure.
Something she had never had with her own mother.
“Come with me, Britta,” Jean-Paul said. “We have that singer, Randy Swain, in custody. I want you to listen to his voice, see if you recognize him.”
“Why do you think that he has something to do with the murder?”
Jean-Paul explained about the CD and Swain’s ad in Naked Desires. “Did you meet Swain when he placed the ad?”
Britta chewed her lip. She’d forgotten about it. “Yes, but just briefly. The magazine was hungry for supporters.”
“And he was hungry for publicity.”
She nodded, his meaning dawning. “You think he might have killed Elvira and contacted me to boost his sales?”
“It’s one possibility. Carson is searching his apartment now.” He led her to an interrogation room. “Listen. Tell me if he sounds like the man who phoned you.”
“But I’ve heard his song, Jean-Paul,” Britta said. “I don’t think it was him.”
“You said the voice sounded muffled. He might have disguised his tone.”
Britta nodded and sat down behind the two-way mirror. Jean-Paul left the room, then appeared in the window on the other side to question Swain.
“Listen, Swain,” Jean-Paul said. “There’re a couple of things I want you to say for me.”
“What? That I killed that hooker?” He pulled at his chin. “I don’t think so. I told you I want my lawyer.”
“Your manager said he’s on his way. But if you want to get yourself off the hook, this just might do it.”
Swain’s features tightened, but he conceded. “Bring it on then. I want to go home and get some shut-eye.”
Jean-Paul shoved a pad in front of Swain. He squinted, then repeated, “I know your secrets and you know mine.”
Britta flinched, trying to dissect his tone, enunciation pattern, anything concrete to identify him. Could he have been the man who called her?
She wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t be sure. The voice from the phone…it had been gruffer. Maybe raspier, lower pitched.
Her head spun in confusion. She’d been terrified when he’d called and his words had resurrected bad memories.
But what if she said no, and Swain turned out to be the killer? If they let him go, he might kill again. Then it would be her fault.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL STALKED INTO the room, anxious for Britta’s reaction. Her expression looked strained.
“I’m sorry, Jean-Paul, I can’t be sure.”
He nodded, but his cell phone rang, cutting into the tension. “Dubois.”
“It’s Dr. Charles. I’ll be in your office in five minutes. We need to talk.”
Jean-Paul agreed, then pivoted. “That was the ME. He wants to discuss his report. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Please let me stay,” Britta pleaded. “Maybe I can help.”
“Let me check with the lieutenant.”
He left the room, then returned a few minutes later and guided her into a small room with a long table and several chairs situated around it. A chalkboard and a cork board with several notes thumbtacked onto it hung on one wall. The opposite wall held a huge eraser board. And a map with pushpins occupied the third.
She claimed a straight wooden chair in the corner. Seconds later, Detective Graves entered, along with a man Jean-Paul addressed as Lieutenant Phelps. Dr. Charles stalked in a minute later, tapping a file folder. Jean-Paul introduced Britta to each of them, and they shook hands.
“What’s she doing here?” Dr. Charles asked.
“She’s the only one who’s made contact with this swamp devil,” Jean-Paul explained. “I think she might be able to help.”
“All right. Let’s talk about the tox screen,” Charles said as he spread the report on the table. “The woman did have evidence of alcohol and a mild sedative in her system.”
“So he drugged her, then carried her out to the bayou?” Jean-Paul surmised.
Dr. Charles nodded. “Probably wanted her quiet in the car so she wouldn’t draw attention to them.” He attached several X-rays to the marker board, then pointed out various bruises and injuries. Next came graphic photos of the stab wounds to her heart where the spear had torn into tissue and cartilage. Britta had to look away from the gruesome details.
“Did the stab wound kill her?” Detective Graves asked.
“No.”
“Then what was the cause of death?” Lieutenant Phelps asked.
“Poison.” The ME cleared his throat. “More specifically, he used arsenic poisoning.”
Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes, trying to piece together the various elements of the perp’s MO. “In the drugs?”
“No.” Dr. Charles adjusted his wire rims on his blunt nose. “That’s where it gets interesting. He sprinkled the poison on the outside of the condom and fucked the poor woman to death.”
“Christ. It’s a wonder he hasn’t killed himself,” Phelps muttered.
“He wanted the death to be painful,” Jean-Paul said. “But it also had to result from the sexual experience. That’s important to him for some reason.”
Charles nodded. “Within a short time of taking a lethal dose, arsenic poisoning causes gastric distress. A burning esophageal pain. Sometimes vomiting and diarrhea with blood. Then convulsions and coma. The patient dies of circulatory failure.”
“Damn bastard. He wants the victims to suffer.” Jean-Paul paced the room. “But he’s conflicted. He uses massage oil before he has sex with them—as if he wants to pleasure them first.”
He turned to them all, continuing with the profile. “He also likes history, dabbles in religion, has twisted sexual fantasies,” Jean-Paul said with a snap of his fingers. “He left the victim with a serpent necklace where the serpent is chasing his tail.”
“He wants to turn them into what they should be,�
�� Britta mumbled.
The men turned to stare at her.
“I saw a display about the necklace at that history museum.”
Jean-Paul nodded. “Right. And the lancet is a reproduction of one used in wars from medieval times, too. He tears out the women’s hearts after he kills them because they broke his heart.”
“I don’t understand why he needs the poison if he’s going to stab them,” Lieutenant Phelps said.
“He’s a sociopath. Maybe schizophrenic. Everything has symbolic meaning.” Jean-Paul folded his hands and took the floor. “In the middle ages, there’s a story about a Frenchman who loved all his beautiful rich wives, so he decided to pleasure them before killing them. He used a thin goatskin to protect his penis, but put a lethal dose of poison on the sheath. The poison seeped into the women’s vaginas and killed them shortly thereafter.”
Britta blanched. “So he loves these women, but he’s conflicted by his own beliefs, therefore he kills them.”
“He’s saving them from themselves, making them repent for their sins,” Jean-Paul said. “Isn’t that what he told you, Britta?”
She nodded. “The mask above the woman’s bed—the crocodile head with the human body—it represents Sobek, the crocodile god the Egyptians worshipped in medieval times. The people used to sacrifice women to appease the gods because they feared them.”
The group turned to her, their mouths agape. Horror struck her. Had she given too much away?
“She’s right,” Jean-Paul said with a curious sideways look.
Images swirled in Britta’s mind; another carving of Sobek haunted her—one she’d seen years ago. One that she was supposed to worship. The chants, the fire, the singing and praying. Then the man and his son….
This killer couldn’t be the man she’d run from years ago, could he?
All the clues led back to that day. To the cult.
To the day she’d died.
The trial by ordeal. To test for evil, the medieval people forced the accused to cross a path or group of logs across the river. If the gators didn’t get them, they passed the test.
As she thought she had—years ago.
But her escape had been temporary. Had she survived because evil blood ran through her veins? Because she had joined the devil’s side when she’d become a killer?
Even as denial swept through her, she had to face the fact that the clan might have survived. That they were still believers. That they still sacrificed women as they had intended to do with her years ago. That this man might be their leader or any one of his followers.
That he had come back to punish her.
And that she deserved it.
CHAPTER TEN
R.J. CHOSE HIS CLOTHES carefully. A necessity for the perfect disguise.
The dark shirt with the button-up collar. The red tie. The black pants. All his favorite colors. Each garment tailored to hide the telltale marks on his body. And if that didn’t suffice, he could always use a little of that pancake makeup he’d bought at the S and M shop.
He grinned at himself in the mirror, remembering the change in himself from the night before. The first time he’d delved into the dark side, he had felt intense physical pain, an agony that had forced him to question his destiny. But each time the pain had gotten easier to bear. Now he embraced it. Each lashing, each moment of torture—both mental and physical—excited him. Just the hint of animal pheromones, the bayou odors, the glimmering moonlight made him dizzy with desire. And launched him into new fantasies, secret ones he wanted to share with Britta.
But not everyone understood his dark fantasies or would welcome the black side of him. The reason for his disguise.
The time was right. Mardi Gras was all about disguises, the old culture, paying tribute to the legends that went before them.
Britta would never know what he did at night. Or that some of the confession letters had been penned by him.
Not unless she chose to join him.
He walked to his study, pressed the button that opened the door to his secret chamber and noted the mess. Blood sprinkled here and there. The smell of raw flesh. Man and beast.
He closed the door and settled the books back into place, then strode outside into the hot sultry air. Steam rose from the marshland beyond, the details of his foray the night before parading in front of his mind’s eye.
His lover would be waiting when he returned tonight. After all, where else could she go? She was tied to the bayou now, deep in its depth, the shadows of the trees protecting her. The animals knew her well. They would surround her and hold her hostage until his return.
Sunlight bolted through the haze and he dragged on dark Ray Bans, battling the wave of discomfort the daylight brought. The headaches. The pounding in his temple.
He was meant for the night.
But Britta had already phoned, upset. And he had to deal with Ezra Cortain.
Blistering rage rippled through his blood as he drove to the magazine. Tourists and sightseers crowded the streets, the bars preparing for another influx while the massive horses who pulled the carriage tours panted in the heat. A panhandler thrust an old worn hat toward him; the sight of the man’s gimp leg caused R.J. to dig in his pocket for loose change.
Ezra Cortain should be here helping the homeless, not pounding the pavement shouting about Naked Desires. The man was such a fraud he was surprised that God didn’t set him on fire so the world could witness his demise.
As R.J. rounded the corner, the protest march was in full swing. Signs waving, people shouting to shut down the sinful magazine, blaming his brainchild on the decadence in town. He chuckled at the irony.
Ezra Cortain had no idea the part he’d played in R.J.’s choices. But he would. Bloodlust filled R.J. with exhilaration at the thought of that day coming.
He pushed through the crowd until he stood face-to-face with Cortain. The asshole had plastered himself in front of the window as if he could hide the dirty secrets inside the office with his billowing robe.
But Cortain had his own dirty little secrets and R.J. knew all about them. He ripped off his sunglasses, glared at Cortain’s cold gray eyes, reveling in the fact that his height allowed him to tower over the short, pudgy man.
“Go away, Cortain.”
“We must build the kingdom of the Lord,” Cortain shouted. “Destroy the sins and evil in the city that you entice with your depravity.”
R.J. gripped the preacher’s flabby arm. “If you don’t leave my business alone, you’ll be sorry.”
Cortain’s eyes bulged. “You’re threatening me in front of God’s children.”
“You’re not the saint you pretend to be,” he muttered low enough so that only Cortain heard. “And soon everyone will know the truth. Then see if your God saves you.”
Cortain clutched his Bible to his chest as if it was a suit of armor and could protect him.
R.J. laughed. The man had better gather his horde of followers and leave town before his worshipers learned he was not sent from God, but from the devil.
R.J. would expose him now, but first he had to protect himself and win Britta’s favor.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL CONTINUED TO assimilate the killer’s MO in his mind. Knowing how the man ticked would help them catch him. But would they do so in time to save the missing woman?
The ME left, and Jean-Paul and Britta gathered around the conference table with coffee and po’ boys he’d ordered from his parents’ restaurant. They’d insisted he invite her to Sunday dinner the next day.
Hell, he didn’t even know if he’d make it, not with this investigation still hot.
Britta glanced up from a stack of letters in her hand. “So, we’re looking for any mention of a spear, a serpent necklace, Sobek or poisoned condoms?”
Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. If the guy had submitted previous confession letters, he probably wouldn’t have been so damn obvious. “You think this is a waste of time?”
She shrugged and ab
sentmindedly massaged her neck, calling attention to her bruised skin. He’d kill to know who had hurt her.
R. J. Justice? Was she into the kinky S and M like her boss?
“No. We have to do something,” she said wearily.
He felt her frustration. Hopefully, Carson would return with something from Swain’s apartment to help them. And he was still waiting on Antwaun to find the pimp.
“Tell me about Justice,” Jean-Paul said. “What do you know about his personal life?”
Britta fumbled through the stack, obviously sorting hers by male and female confessions. “Not much. He lives on the outskirts of town in a refurbished antebellum house. It’s near the bayou.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“Did you two date?”
“No. We’ve discussed this before, Jean-Paul.” She glanced up at him. “Besides, you don’t really think R.J. killed that woman?”
“I have to look at every angle.” He used his fingers to mark off his points. “First, the guy owns a sexually explicit magazine. Like Swain, publicity could help Justice’s sales.”
“Not with Reverend Cortain’s slanderous protests.”
“Even negative publicity can hype business,” he pointed out. “He had access to your office. What about your apartment?”
“I don’t know,” Britta said with a frown. “He may still have a key. He stayed there when he first came to town and was renovating the building for the magazine. When he hired me, he moved into his house and I took the apartment.”
Jean-Paul clenched his jaw. “He has access, motive and he’s into S and M. Definitely fits our UNSUB’s profile.”
“I thought R.J. had an alibi for the night Elvira Erickson was killed?”
Jean-Paul rocked back in his chair. “He does. But the woman could be lying. She’s…strange herself.”
“What do you mean?”
His chair hit the floor with a thud. “He’s into some weird stuff sexually.”
Britta nodded. “I gathered that from the items and artwork in his office. But being kinky isn’t a crime.”
Jean-Paul’s blood ran cold. It certainly made him a more likely candidate. “If he keeps those things on display, think about what he might be hiding at home.”