by Deborah Camp
“Fuck.” He bent over and settled his hands on his knees for a minute while he got his breathing and equilibrium under control. He spat blood again and tongued the corner of his mouth where the skin was split open and stinging like a sonofabitch. His head pounded, feeling as if it were expanding and contracting with each breath he took. “Goddamn it, Wolfe,” he mumbled to himself, furious at the turn of events. Lost him.
What had he been doing outside the Soniat? Spying on them? Had he heard that they were back in New Orleans and wanted to see for himself? What if it had been Trudy in the antique shop? Would the asshole have tried to grab her?
That thought sent an arctic chill through him. They should probably go to a different hotel. Even though the Soniat had become their “home” in New Orleans, he didn’t like knowing that A.J. and Forté had been there, checking them out.
He saw a taxi and signaled for it. He was amazed when it slowed and stopped alongside the curb. The driver leaned across the seat and flashed him a big smile.
“Hey, bruddah! You got money to pay me?”
Levi blinked, finding that a strange greeting. Then he glanced down at his dirty, bloody clothes. His right shirt sleeve had been ripped from the seam and buttons were missing. “Uh, yeah. I do. I want to go to the police station on Royal Street.”
“Hop in, bruddah. I’ll takes ya.”
“Thanks.” He eased into the backseat and took out his phone. He texted Trudy where he was going and to meet him there – and not to worry. Pocketing his phone, he knew that the last bit was pointless. Telling Trudy not to worry was like telling her not to ask any questions. Never worked.
“Were you mugged or did you get into a fight, man?” the driver asked, his dark eyes focused on Levi through the rearview mirror.
“A fight.”
“Who won?”
Levi pulled his handkerchief out from his back pocket and dabbed at his lip. “That is yet to be determined.”
A few minutes later, he was dragging his achy body out of the taxi and into the police station. He blinked in shock when Trudy came rushing toward him, her eyes as big as saucers and worry emanating from her in waves.
“How did you . . .?” He stared at her as she gingerly framed his face in her hands. “I just texted you.”
“I was already here when you texted. I felt something was wrong.” She swallowed, her gaze searching his face and settling on his bloody mouth. “Pain seared through my head and I knew it was you. That someone had attacked you. Remember? When you fell into the root cellar in Missouri and I felt your fear? It was like that. Are you okay? What happened? Who did this?”
He covered her hands with his and removed them from his face. Her connection to him was beyond belief and he could only marvel at how casually she took it. Did she not understand how special it was to have such a gift? If the shoe were on the other foot, he doubted that he’d have a clue that she was in pain or trouble. When that madman in Florida had her in his clutches, he wouldn’t have known a damn thing about it without Gregory’s timely intervention. He realized she was staring at him with eyes misty with tears. “I’m fine, Tru. I have stuff to tell the detectives and I’ll tell you at the same time.”
“You’re not fine.” A mulish expression accompanied her emphatic statement.
He grasped one of her hands and pulled her along with him to the detective division. Halfway there, they spotted Alice Bonifay. She skidded to a halt in her Doc Martin’s and waited for them to get closer.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“I had an impromptu meeting with the guy we call A.J.”
“What?” Trudy gasped. “Where?”
“He was outside the Soniat House and I gave chase. Caught up with him in an alley and we went at it, but he hammered me with a pipe and then pulled a switchblade on me.”
“Your Super Human skills don’t protect you from pipes and switchblades, huh?” Bonifay said with a smirk.
Trudy’s gaze flicked over him, head to shoes and back up. “What? He cut you?”
“No.” He squeezed her hand to reassure her. Bonifay was finding his alley fight funny, but Trudy was not amused. “He threatened me.”
“Come on.” Bonifay motioned to them. “Let’s take this into the conference room. I’ll round up Rodie. He’s doing some paperwork. You need anything? We have bandages around here somewhere.”
He waved her off, shaking his head at Trudy when she huffed out a sound of disagreement. “Don’t bother, Detective.”
“We wanted you to come in anyway and look through some mugshots to see if you recognize anyone.”
Levi nodded even as dread coursed through him. Looking through mugshots was one of his least favorite activities, right below listening to boring assholes at dinner parties. They followed Bonifay into an “interview” room and took their places at the small, rectangle table. Trudy sat beside him and pushed his hair off his forehead in a gesture that was pure love and concern. It made a lump form in his throat. This woman! What the hell was she doing to him? Instinct, honed from years of neglect, made him flinch away from her tender touch.
“I’m okay, Trudy.”
She scowled at him and ran questing fingers over his scalp right to the bump at the back of it. “Oh, my God! You could have a concussion, Levi.”
“I don’t, though.” He raised a defensive shoulder. “Stop fussing over me. I lost him. I had him and I lost him.”
She sighed and looked at him as if he were an unruly juvenile. “He had a knife! You’re lucky he didn’t—.” She glanced up as the door swung open to admit Bonifay and Dupree. Dupree scrutinized Levi and smirked. He eased his big frame into the chair opposite Levi.
“I hope you landed a few punches, too,” he said with a chuckle.
“More than a few. I was winning until he grabbed the metal pipe again.”
“Again?” Bonifay asked, sitting next to Dupree.
“He ambushed me in the alley and walloped me with it before I could defend myself.”
“Pulled a knife on you, too?”
“Yes. A switchblade, but that’s when he was retreating. He threatened to use it next time.”
“You want to press charges?”
“Yes!” Trudy said.
“No,” Levi said, slicing her with a glance. “What could you hold him on? He’d say I chased him, which I did, and he defended himself.”
“So, how did this start?” Dupree asked, removing a small recorder from his shirt pocket and laying it in plain sight in the middle of the table.
Levi nodded, acknowledging that he was being taped, and launched into a blow-by-blow account of his run-in with A.J.
###
The first stars peeked out from the curtains of night and Trudy welcomed them. It had been a long day. Seated across from Levi at the small table in the sitting room of their suite, she stared at the wedge of sky visible from the partially open balcony doors. Laughter and squeals of delight drifted up from the street, along with the drone of conversations and snatches of music.
Levi studied police documents the detectives had turned over – under the table, so to speak. They contained information that was not to be made public, but Dupree and Bonifay had handed them to Levi after he’d examined page after page of mugshots and didn’t find A.J. among them.
“Here ya go,” Dupree had said, shoving some folded papers into Levi’s hand. “Don’t say we never gave you anything, Wolfe. We won’t be keeping an eye on you anymore, so you two watch out for each other, ya hear?”
Bonifay and given Trudy a two-finger jaunty salute. Guess that meant they were all square, Trudy surmised. No longer on the “nuts and sickos” NOLA Police List, evidently.
Examining Levi from beneath her lashes, Trudy scowled at the bloom of purplish-blue rimming his jawline and the blood-crusted cut on his full, lower lip. His left eye had puffed up a little, seeming more so through the lens of his reading glasses, which he donned when his eyes were tired. She knew he had a lump on the back
of his head. He lifted a hand and massaged his nape, wincing as he did. She wondered if he had bruises on his torso. She’d find out soon enough.
He glanced up from the police documents and handed her the top sheet. “We should take a look at that salvage yard again. Really go over it.”
“The police have combed that place, Levi.” She glanced over the information.
“I know, but I didn’t look around it. What businesses adjoin it?”
She shrugged. “That, I don’t know.”
He nodded, decisively. “Exactly. I might be able to pick up something.”
“Using your sense memory skills?”
“That’s right.”
She read the first paragraph. “Did you see something about the surrounding businesses in this report?”
“No. Nothing much in this so far that you and I haven’t already grasped or guessed at. As usual, they don’t understand how we work and how much we find out.”
“So, why the sudden interest in the salvage yard?”
He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose before looking at her, weariness weighting his eyelids and dimming the lights in his eyes. “I want to know where the damned basement is or whatever that place is where they take their victims to torture and murder them. These reports note that the detectives have scouted and searched every place owned by Forté and his sister and other relatives, along with every place they frequent, such as church, restaurants, and friends’ homes. They haven’t found that room anywhere. It has to be somewhere private and convenient.”
“If it still exists,” Trudy said. “They are scouting for a new burial place, so they might be looking for a new place to stash their victims, too.”
“It’s still around.”
“How do you know?”
The uninjured side of his mouth lifted slightly. “Because I’m psychic.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “So?”
“So, I know these things.”
She pantomimed shoveling crap and he laughed.
“Okay,” he said, still chuckling. “It’s just a hunch.”
“I also want to know how Forté and A.J. communicate with each other. I was hoping it would be in there.” He nodded at the papers. “But it’s not. Maybe the police know and they aren’t ready to tell us.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Wonder if Forté and A.J. use someone as a messenger or hang out at the same place – like a restaurant or coffee shop.”
“The police would surely have exhausted that line of investigation.”
Trudy bobbed one shoulder. “I know, but it has to be something simple like that, doesn’t it? They can’t meet in person, right? They have to be passing messages. Who goes in and out of the Forté house? There must be a list already compiled.”
“There is.” He shifted through the papers. “Here it is. It was in the original stack of stuff they gave us, which means they’ve interrogated each of these people and came away with zippity fuck.”
She arched a brow at his colorful language. “Oookay.” Examining the four names on the list, her gaze seemed to be drawn to one of them. “Imogene Danzing, the maid.”
“She was at the séance.”
“I remember her.” She thought back, recalling the maid and the sense she’d gotten that Imogene and Desmond were pals.
“There could be something there. Those two are tight.”
“You should chat her up.”
“Me? Why not you? Is that your ‘psychic power’ talking to you?” He wiggled his fingers and widened his eyes.
Trudy closed her eyes and adopted a dreamy, whispery tone, “My psychic powers allow me to see into the future and I see . . . a beat-up guy taking a shower while his dutiful and devoted lover sends out for pizza or, perhaps, pasta.”
He shot her with a finger-gun. “Right, but I’m going to read the rest of this first.” Slipping on his glasses, he rested his forehead in his palm and began reading again.
With a sigh, Trudy joined in, making a few notes as they went. The reports mostly dealt with what investigations had taken place and the results. In every case, the results were zilch, which made Trudy wonder if that’s all she and Levi had been given.
“Do you think Dupree only gave us—.”
“What hasn’t panned out for them?” Levi finished, glancing at her. “Yes. He’s not going to give us anything or anyone they are actively pursuing.”
“At first, I thought they’d be more cooperative. I mean, they both said they’d grown up in New Orleans, which is rife with voodoo, magic, spirits, you name it.”
“Doesn’t mean they believe in any of it. They’re cops, Tru. Cops deal in facts because they have to make cases that make prosecutors latch onto them. No cop worth anything is going to mention mediums or psychics or any such thing in their investigations. That would be a career-ender.”
“But some have given us credit.”
“Privately, yes. Publicly, the most they’ve said is that we were helpful to some extent.”
“What about the psychics on the television programs who work with police departments?”
“It’s rare. So rare. And they aren’t usually working with active police officers. They’re working with retired officers or private detectives. And it’s the psychics saying they work closely with the police or that the cops call them for help. Not the cops saying it.” He handed her the last sheet of paper. “That’s why we write books – to get our part in the cases out in the open.” He stretched his arms above his head, making his shoulder sockets pop. Groaning, he pushed up from the chair. “Yeah, a shower sounds perfect.”
“Do we really have to leave the Soniat House? I like this place.”
“I like it, too, but we’re too exposed here. With Forté, A.J. and the cops all scoping us out, it’s best if we relocate. I’ve already told registration that we’re leaving in the morning.”
“To where?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll decide tonight.” He went into the bedroom.
Trudy sat back and watched as more stars ventured out. When the shower started, she stood and began unbuttoning her blouse as she walked into the bedroom. Pausing by the bed, she stripped, then entered the spacious bathroom. Levi’s blurry form behind the glass drew her and she opened the door and stepped inside. He didn’t turn to face her, just dipped his head under the spray to thoroughly wet his head. She flattened her palms on his back and then down on either side of his hips to the dimples above his butt. Her gaze settled on the red marks on his stomach and ribs. She caressed them with careful fingertips.
“He hurt you,” she whispered against his shoulder blade.
“No.”
“He did,” she insisted, then nudged him. He turned to face her. Water drops rained down his cheeks and chin and were captured in his long eyelashes. She grabbed the shampoo bottle and squeezed a dollop of the green, thick liquid into her palm. Smiling at him, she ran her hands through his hair, creating suds, and careful not to rub the back of his head where the lump had formed. Her fingertips brushed over it and he winced. “Sorry.” Her smile wavered when she saw how taut his mouth had become and then she felt his shields rise and snap into place. Locking her out.
He caught her by the wrists and pulled her hands out of his hair. “I can finish, Trudy.”
“I know, but I want—.”
“No, I can shampoo my own hair.”
The whip of his tone made her flinch and her temper flair, but she bit down her angry words and left him to it.
With swift movements, she dried her body and slipped into a short robe that she belted at the waist. She was standing just inside the French doors when she felt him enter the room.
“What just happened in there?” she asked, glad that she’d had a few minutes to get her anger and hurt feelings under control.
“There’s a big lump where the asshole hit me with the pipe.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” She pivoted to face him. He’d pulled on
a pair of jeans. His wet hair stuck up in places and curled onto his forehead. His eyes were a wary, cloudy blue as he advanced toward her. He caught her wrists and brought her arms around his waist before settling his hands on her shoulders. “Look, I know that certain things you do are nurturing.”
“I was coddling again.” She feigned a shudder. “Oh, the horrors!”
He lowered his brows in chastisement. “Try to understand, okay? Someone washing my hair? It brings up feelings that are . . . uncomfortable because they’re so . . . so consuming and foreign. I’m not capable of handling them – yet. They make me want to . . .”
“To what?” she asked, intrigued and confused.
“Run.” His expression was suddenly grave and the intense anger she’d felt in him the first time she’d met him was there again, in his eyes and the straight line of his lips. “Rage. Fucking explode.” His lashes fell, extinguishing the blaze of his inner fury from her view.
“From just me washing your hair?” she asked, only able to conjure up a whisper. “Your mother washed your hair when you were little, Levi. You might not remember it, but you must know that she did.”
His ebony lashes lifted slightly, revealing slices of his midnight blue eyes. “If I don’t remember it, then I didn’t experience it. The tenderness and caring and – all of that, it’s not something I’m able to respond to like a normal person. It just makes me—” He shook his head. “—angry because it points out that I’m abnormal.” He gathered in a big breath and pulled her against him. “You don’t have to understand it, Tru. I barely do.” He cleared his throat. “Now, about you.” Leaning down a little, he placed his forehead against hers. “You’re discovering all kinds of interesting things you can do, aren’t you? We haven’t really discussed it, but it’s time we do.”