by Rita Herron
Son of a bitch.
He cleared his throat. Vowed to get rid of Dubois some way.
The two jerked apart. Dubois’s eyes speared him. Britta’s glittered with pain. R.J.’s blood heated with desire.
“I came as fast as I could.”
She gave Dubois an odd, almost intimate look, then sank onto one of the chairs. “I…was rattled. The note…the killer hasn’t finished yet.”
Dubois folded his arms and glared at R.J., who knew what was coming. An inquisition.
“We found the woman’s body last night,” Dubois said in a gruff voice.
R.J.’s mind quickly sorted through his alibi for the previous evening. The woman tied to his bed. The blood on his hands. The sound of her cries.
Would she stand up for him if he needed it? Or would she let him fry?
* * *
BRITTA STUDIED R.J.’s reaction. He looked as if he hadn’t slept the night before. Scratches marred his hands. She could see a fresh claw mark on his chest where his shirt lay open. And he smelled of sex and sweat.
She’d trusted R.J. Had worked for him for months. Could he possibly be a killer and she not realize it?
Her mind raced with possibilities. Had she known him from her past? If so, how? Where?
She glanced at Jean-Paul and tension thickened between them. His professional mask clicked back in place.
He had a job to do. And she was part of that case.
And so was R.J. He shot her a look of disdain as if by being in Jean-Paul’s arms, she had cheated on him.
R.J. would accept her as she was; somehow she knew that.
So why did her body still yearn for the impossible—for Jean-Paul Dubois?
R.J. scribbled a woman’s name on a note pad. “I was with Lena last night. We met at the Lover’s Lair.”
“The S and M club?” Jean-Paul asked. R.J. nodded. “I’m sure she’ll vouch for me.”
Jean-Paul frowned, but accepted the information, then turned to Britta. “I’ll run the killer’s note and the photos by the precinct for trace. Maybe the handwriting or paper will tell us something.”
She nodded.
“Stay here, Britta.” His eyes implored her to obey. “You’re not going out alone.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Britta said. “He’s not coming after me on Sunday afternoon, not in the broad daylight.”
“You can’t be certain of that. After all, we don’t know exactly how long he kept the girls, when he abducted them.” Jean-Paul’s mouth tightened. “Although he most likely picks them up on the streets at night.”
His silent warning echoed in her ears. She should stay home tonight.
“If you think of anything that might help, or if he phones you again, call me.” Jean-Paul sent R.J. an intimidating look, then turned back to her. “Remember, keep him on the line so we can trace his location.”
She nodded.
“After the task force meeting, I’ll come back and you can stay with me the rest of the day.”
Go to his family dinner? She didn’t think so. “Jean-Paul, I can’t—”
“I’ll play bodyguard,” R.J. said, angling a sideways grin her way. “In fact, we might take a trip over to that wax museum. There’s an interesting display. That would make a good story for the magazine.”
Jean-Paul moved forward as if hoping she’d disagree with her boss, but she’d already leaned on Jean-Paul too much today. And she had her own plans, ones that didn’t involve either man. “Go on, Jean-Paul. Conduct your investigation. Visit your parents. I have plenty of work to do myself right here.”
“I’ll call you later.” He hesitated as if he meant to say more, then glanced back at R.J. and his jaw went rigid. He turned and strode out the door.
She had the vaguest feeling she’d just made a mistake by declining Jean-Paul’s request to dine with his family. But if they knew her identity, about her past, they wouldn’t want her at their house.
Her heart swelled with desire for Jean-Paul anyway. She wanted to be with him. But pipe dreams didn’t come true for girls like her. She’d visit her own family today just as she did every other Sunday.
Maybe somehow she’d figure out if this killer was a man from her past. If he was, she might be the only person who could stop him.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL CURSED HIMSELF for his actions with Britta. He’d let his feelings get too personal. Assumed that just because he wanted her, she wanted him in return.
But she was still holding back. Still not telling him everything.
He wheeled into the precinct and hurried inside. Even though it was Sunday, the task force gathered in the meeting room. His brother Damon, his lieutenant and his partner had arrived, along with a crime-scene guy and two locals. Antwaun hadn’t made it yet. Maybe he was chasing a lead.
Jean-Paul began the meeting by reviewing the information they had so far. Then he turned to Carson.
“What did you find at Swain’s?” Jean-Paul asked.
Carson removed his notes and skimmed them. “Nothing concrete. No murder weapon. His place is a mess, lots of takeout food, booze, cigarettes. I obtained samples of the paper he uses for his songs to compare to the paper our guy used for the notes, but I don’t think they’re the same. Oh, and I found some kinky photos of him and some chicks.” Carson grinned. “Swain likes to dress up in women’s clothing. Especially lingerie. But no masks of Sobek.”
“Did the lingerie match the teddy at the crime scene?”
“Not the same brand color or style. Swain likes black. Wasn’t from the same store, either.”
Jean-Paul frowned. “How about his background? Any trips to Savannah or Nashville the past couple of years?”
“You have specific dates in mind?”
Damon recited the dates he’d uncovered regarding cases with similar MOs.
“I’ll get right on it,” Carson said. “In fact, I did some checking. Swain is not the guy’s real name. He was born Jimmy Joe Letts. Father was a drunk, mother religious. From the aunt’s description, she was obsessive compulsive, forced Jimmy Joe to attend church night and day. She got so fanatical that in his teens, Jimmy Joe split, changed his name and started writing country-blues songs. She died a couple of years ago. Don’t know what happened to the father yet.”
“Swain or Jimmy Joe, have a record?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Some prior petty crimes. Drunk and disorderly. Two years ago, some chick accused him of roughing her up, but she dropped the charges.”
“Talk to her,” Jean-Paul said. “Find out what really happened. Maybe Swain’s violent tendencies grew after his mother’s death.”
“How about the other suspects?” Damon asked.
“I just talked with Justice,” Jean-Paul said. “Says he has an alibi for when the second victim died.” Still, he didn’t like or trust the man. “I’m putting a tail on him. And I want a search warrant for his apartment.”
Phelps leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee. “Do you have probable cause?”
Did he? “Just a gut feeling. He’s into S and M, violent sex. He could be killing these women to spark sales for his magazine.” And to make Britta run into his arms.
“We need more than that.” Phelps frowned. “Have you found anything suspicious on him?”
“His alibi checked out. We ran a preliminary check on him but nothing turned up. I’m going to do a full background check on him now. I’ll find something.”
“Two of my men are investigating the cases in Savannah and Nashville,” Damon said.
“Let’s move, people,” Jean-Paul said. “The clock is ticking.”
The group dispersed. Jean-Paul rushed to his office, grabbed a cup of strong coffee at his desk and entered everything he knew so far about Justice into his computer. A few minutes later, information spilled across the screen. Justice was from the Black Bayou area. His parents were both deceased. He had two accounts at a local bank in New Orleans. A savings account that had over a hundred thousand doll
ars? Hmm—from Naked Desires? Or another investment?
Something illegal perhaps? He could be laundering money or any number of things. A few minutes later, he discovered another company that Justice owned. A filmmaking enterprise named Kinky Creations.
Did he feature some of his girlfriends in the movies? Was he trying to recruit Britta?
The mere idea sent bile to Jean-Paul’s throat. Surely she wouldn’t be swayed by his charm to play in one of those cheap flicks. Then again, she’d been dressed pretty racy the night before. He’d smelled the perfume, the cigar smoke, knew where she’d been.
So why did he still want her?
He knotted his hand into a fist, willing the sordid images to fade. Finally his vision cleared and he focused on Justice’s personal data. A couple of arrests when he was a juvy—hmm, maybe the beginnings of his violent nature emerging. And another incident the year before; a woman had accused him of rape, but Justice had pleaded down to assault. Could be a pattern.
Had Justice been guilty? Or had his S and M habits landed him in trouble?
Curious about the man’s family, he read further. Both parents had died when he was a teenager. The same date for both deaths. Not a car accident. Suicide.
Both of his parents? Suspicious.
Hmm. He sat up straighter and accessed an article about their deaths.
Mass Suicide Leaves Fifty People Dead in Black Bayou
All fifty victims fell prey to a religious cult practicing medieval customs including polygamy, snake handling, the worship of Sobek and animal and human sacrifices. Reverend Theodore Tatum and the remainder of his followers have disappeared and can’t be located for comment.
The medical examiner has reported that the cause of death was arsenic poisoning.
Jean-Paul’s instincts roared to life. Arsenic poisoning? Worshiping Sobek? Animal and human sacrifices? He scrolled the names of the victims and found a family by the last name of Cortain. But there was no mention of Ezra Cortain. He would have been much younger then, maybe early twenties.
Hmm, a coincidence? He didn’t think so.
He rubbed the kinks from his neck. Dammit. Cortain might be related to the leader of that cult and Justice’s parents had died there.
And he’d left Justice alone with Britta.
* * *
“REVEREND CORTAIN IS SPEAKING today. Are you ready for church, Debra?”
Debra Schmale paused at the kitchen door, batting at a fly. She’d hoped she could sneak out while her dumb-ass parents were getting ready for church, but her mama had ears as sharp as a dog’s and at least ten eyes in the back of her head.
“What are you wearing, girl?”
She was busted. “A new skirt.”
Sponge rollers in her hair, her mother grabbed her arm and jerked her around. “Good Lord, Debra, that’s not a skirt, it’s a Band-Aid. Your grandma would roll over in her grave if she saw you looking like some two-bit slut.”
Debra yanked her arm free. “Mama, all the young women dress like this these days. Besides, I’m almost twenty now, all grown up. You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”
Her mother’s nostrils flared. Debra backed away. Her mother always slapped hard and always got her right in the face. The hit resounded off the wood walls.
“Now, go change. You need Reverend Cortain’s sermon today. He’s gonna preach about the sins of the flesh.”
“I don’t want to hear him talk. He’s archaic.”
“You sound like that whore woman who works for that sex magazine.”
Like Britta Berger? Debra knew her mama hated the woman and that magazine. She’d joined the protesters the other day and had gotten her picture in the damn paper. “That preacher is brainwashing you, Mama.”
Her father walked in, all barrel-chested and pot bellied, trying to button the white shirt that was two sizes too small. “Get some clothes on for church, girl, before I tan your hide.”
Debra shook her head. “I’m not going.” She gripped the door knob and opened the door. Her legs were shaking, her stomach quivering.
“You leave looking like that,” he snarled, “don’t bother to come back.”
Debra glared at them both, then ran outside. She didn’t want to live with them anymore. She needed her own place so she could entertain whoever she wanted.
Maybe Teddy wouldn’t mind some company today. After all, she’d read that magazine, knew the tricks men wanted. And she was tired of being a good girl.
She wanted a boyfriend.
And Teddy looked like a guy who needed some loving.
* * *
“WELCOME TO THE KINGDOM of the Lord.” The sleeves of Reverend Cortain’s robe swayed like the wings of an angel as he flapped his arms up and down. “We love all who enter. Members, visitors, deacons, sinners.”
He silently scanned the crowd, searching for those who looked lost and vulnerable. They were the ones he needed to target his sermon to most. “Yes, sinners, I once walked amongst you. But now I offer you redemption.”
The choir broke into an old-fashioned version of “Shall We Gather at the River,” and the church members joined in on the chorus. Years of sin, acts of defiance and watching others suffer had brought him here. The river had always been regarded as the place to start over. As it had been with the clan in his youth, and then again when he’d grown into a lost teenager himself. He had to guide this new generation there today. They would be baptized in the Mississippi. Join their brothers and sisters to offer their sin-afflicted souls in exchange for salvation.
Sweat poured down his neck and back, his voice rising toward the heavens as he blessed the congregation. A row of teenage girls dressed in paper-thin cotton dresses exchanged secret looks, deaf to his words, so he turned and spoke directly to them.
“Lest you not be lead astray, my children. The sins of the flesh are enticing. Temptation runs amok here in N’Awlins. The swamp devil spreads his will through the devil-besought whores. They have turned a blind eye to the sanctity of marriage and have given themselves so freely to men, spreading disease, tasting of flesh and seed that has already been shared with another. Guard your hearts, your souls. Save your bodies and worship them as a temple.”
“Amen!” a man in the back row shouted.
A chorus of other comments followed, each one growing more intense and emotional. Yet the girls he’d targeted his lesson to giggled.
His temper flared. “The devil already lives within you.” He strode forward, waved his hand above them, bowed his head. “Let us pray you see the light and find redemption.”
The choir broke into a gospel tune born of the bayou and the crowd rose, chanting, clapping and singing as if their souls had been moved today. Two hymns later, people were crying in the aisle. Two women lurched forward, arms raised, begging to be saved. A man followed, then a family.
Yes. Soon he would have another following—enough to meet at the river for the baptismal. The parents would drag their young girls to the fire, screaming and kicking if they had to, anxious for him to save their wicked souls. They trusted him. They would let him lead the way. And he would offer the girls salvation.
As the mass left, some crying and hugging, others shaking his hand and welcoming him to town, he noticed R.J. Justice standing across from him.
And at the doorway, Detective Dubois, that hero cop working the swamp devil case, watched him intently.
Both men posed a problem and could cause trouble.
Justice stepped forward, his earlier warning reverberating in Ezra’s head. Since that day, Ezra had done a little research. He knew the boy from his brother-in-law’s clan. The sacrifices.
The pact.
A knot gathered in his dry throat. Had the boy been part of Theodore’s congregation when he was younger? If so, and he came forward, he might destroy the reputation Ezra had been building.
He couldn’t allow that to happen. He had worked too hard to redeem himself. He would do whatever he needed to protect his reputation and his
followers.
* * *
HE WATCHED THE congregation disperse with mixed feelings. A sinner stood among them. A vixen disguised in her Sunday finest.
Each detail of her face, her narrowed eyes, her upturned nose, was perfectly outlined like an artist painting a canvas. Hide the flaws with her mask of makeup. Cover the shadows. Make it look beautiful.
Showcase the eyes.
Paint them with precision. Outline the lid. Shade the colors so they looked natural in the light. Hide the tiny veins and lines of the eyeball with long black lashes and vivid colors that matched the iris. Make the pupils perfect, dark and wide. Innocent.
But she was not innocent. Her surface beauty served as a front for the ugliness that lay beneath. Her clothes—the long flowing skirt, the dark blue blouse buttoned to her neck, the plain flat pumps—created the disguise to convince the others that she belonged.
But like so many, every detail provided a cover for the real woman inside.
The one he’d seen the night before.
Last night, she’d prowled the streets, dressed not in low-heeled sensible pumps but in red stilettos. In lieu of the high-necked blouse, she donned the bewitching low-cut camisole, her skirt so tight she looked as if the leather had melded to her skin.
Yet today, she had come to pray for forgiveness that she had allowed herself to be swayed into joining the ladies of the night. But she couldn’t fool him. His eye caught her naked desires. One Sunday’s church couldn’t atone for the sins she had sowed.
Seven days it took God to build the world. The seventh day was meant for rest.
But how could he rest when his work was never done?
He adjusted his tie and stepped from the edge of the magnolia tree as she sauntered toward her shiny silver Miata.
“Did you enjoy the sermon?”
She pivoted abruptly, then her gaze slid over him and a small smile creased her lips. “Yes, I was moved by the spirit.”
Bon Dieu! She would be moved again tonight. Moved enough to ask for salvation.
And he would show her the way, just as he had the others.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ANXIETY PLUCKED AT JEAN-PAUL, and he stepped aside to phone Britta. She finally answered on the fourth ring.