Now You See Him

by Stella Cameron

  Praise for New York Times bestselling author Stella Cameron

  “Steamy, atmospheric and fast-paced, Cameron’s romantic suspense novel delivers on all fronts.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Key West

  “Outstanding! I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. I wish I had written this wonderful book.”

  —Fern Michaels on Kiss Them Goodbye

  “If you haven’t read Stella Cameron, you haven’t read romantic suspense.”

  —Elizabeth Lowell

  “Cameron is a master at skillfully integrating sizzling sensual love scenes into her fast-moving plots.”

  —Booklist on Cold Day in July

  “A wonderful, fast-paced, furious page-turner.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer on Tell Me Why

  “Stella Cameron is a master storyteller with the ability to surprise us again and again.”

  —Susan Elizabeth Phillips on Finding Ian

  “A heart-pounding finale…readers who like Tami Hoag and Karen Robards will surely enjoy this romantic suspense novel.”

  —Booklist on Key West

  “Stella Cameron is sensational!”

  —Jayne Ann Krentz

  Also by STELLA CAMERON

  TESTING MISS TOOGOOD

  A USEFUL AFFAIR

  KISS THEM GOODBYE

  COLD DAY IN JULY

  ABOUT ADAM

  THE ORPHAN

  FRENCH QUARTER

  7B

  ALL SMILES

  STELLA CAMERON

  Now You See Him

  For Jerry

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Gerry and Julian Savoy, my Louisiana consultants, gave invaluable assistance during and after the writing of Now You See Him. I thank them for being my safety net.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  1

  There is a beat in this city, like the throbbing of arteries when the heart contracts.

  New Orleans has its own pulse. I hear it now, getting faster. Steam vents through grills in the street. If they pumped blood from those grates the air would turn red, but the pressure would ease.

  It’s early, early enough the breeze through jasmine doesn’t take the edge off last night’s scent of booze, sweat and urine.

  This waterproof bike suit makes me sweat and the helmet doesn’t help anything.

  Concentrate.

  My timing must be as perfect as it was the first time. I’ve already seen her several times. The one. Rich, spoiled, dissatisfied and looking for more treasures to buy, to stuff in the bottomless cavity she thinks is her desire. Boredom is the name of that cavity, and fear. The boredom of a woman who has everything but purpose. She would never confess to fear but it’s there, fear of being alone with herself. I loathe such women. One of them has ruined my life by using my talent and ignoring my existence.

  Concentrate.

  Antiques, Diamond and Gold Jewelry by Xavier Tilton.

  Whooee, that is some name to fill up an awning over a shop door. Shops like this one cram Royal Street, but I picked out Xavier Tilton’s place for the diamonds—and the long-legged woman who comes at the same time on the same morning each week. Tilton carries more diamonds than any other place I’ve checked. They shimmer and flash inside glass-fronted display cases lining the walls. No fingerprints on that glass; Xavier carries a half-mitt in his pocket and moves behind customers discreetly wiping away any evidence of their presence.

  He’s doing it now, sliding behind her, talking and wiping.

  It’s time. They’re alone in there and the street is almost empty. Nothing but a few stinking, sleeping no-names covered with piles of rags. Once I’m in the shop I’ll close the door to keep the sound down.

  Wait, there’s a delivery truck. If it stops here I’ll have to change plans.

  Come on, come on. Jeez, a friggin’ turtle. Move. Good, it’s parking over there, the driver’s leaving the engine running. Any distraction is good.

  Call Xavier to the courtyard behind the shop, to the deliveries gate. Now! Move your feet. Walk into the alley beside the shop and press the button beside the pretty iron gate.

  “Xavier Tilton here.”

  “Mornin’, Mr. Tilton. Gift delivery from Blossoms.”

  “Bring it into the shop.”

  Shit. “It’s a fern of some sort. A tree. ‘Bout seven foot.”

  “I’ll meet you at the delivery gate. Give me a couple of minutes to get through the courtyard.”

  Do that, Xavier. Take your time getting to your gate. I’m the one who has to get inside the shop and keep moving until this is finished.

  It’s raining again. Quick, inside, close the door quietly. Smells of ammonia and stinkin’ candles.

  Bless you, Xavier, for the classy music. Nothing like a little opera early in the morning.

  The seconds are ticking away now. How long before Tilton comes back?

  The woman has heard me coming into the shop. “Mornin’, ma’am.” Don’t I sound friendly?

  “Good mornin’ to you,” she says. “He’ll be right back.” Pretty face. Smooth blond hair. Much younger than I thought. Too bad. She wants something in the case, can’t look away from it for more than a second.

  Her purse is small—no straps. Fate is smiling.

  Take out the pick and palm it against my thigh. Cram the dark visor down.

  Stay cool. Two steps…and strike. Ouch, it goes in easy enough until she falls and her weight hangs on the pick. Damn blood everywhere, running down the visor and blurring everything. Wipe it on your sleeve. She’s doing it right. With a little guidance from me she falls forward and through the glass and she doesn’t say a word, doesn’t scream. That’s because she’s already dead—or close to it.

  How many more seconds? If he catches me it’s over.

  I can see her in the mirrored back of the case, sliding down, breaking shelves, tipping all the pretty things. She’s not pretty anymore.

  Pull the pick out. NOW. Grab the purse and stuff inside the suit. Move my feet, back away, put the pick in its thigh pocket, open the door, close it behind me and walk away. Walk fast but not too fast—to the corner, turn, and there’s the bike.

  I’m away and heading for that coulee and the ruined shack. It wasn’t the woman’s fault, not really, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time—for her.

  This suit doesn’t keep the wind out, or am I cold? How can I be cold? Warm rain hits my neck and should turn this oilskin stuff into a sauna. I’m going where I went before, out past the zoo.

  Soon the scenery gets lonely, the undergrowth is burned, and rotting trees lean this way and that. The deeper I go, the more deserted it feels.


  The coulee isn’t deep enough but it’ll have to do.

  The rented bike goes into the barn. My own wheels never looked so good. Off with the suit and wrap the helmet and purse inside, and the gloves, the black tennis shoes, underwear, too. Now I stuff the lot into a double garbage sack but I can’t load it until I wash.

  The soap is still where I hid it. Colder, the water should be colder and chafe my skin red and clean. My feet cling to slimy gravel and tree roots. Why do I shiver when I’m not cold anymore? Soap coats me and I rub it in hard, dig my fingernails into the soft surface of the bar.

  Not enough. I want to bleed, I want to hurt. A pebble, large and porous like pumice—yes, it will clean me. It tears into my upper arms, into the skin on my belly and buttocks, the backs of my thighs and my elbows. Long red stripes that pop bubbles of blood, then begin to seep in ragged rivulets quickly mixed to a bloody wash by the water. I want to lay the flesh on my face raw but everyone would see it.

  Sometimes a sacrifice must be made—as an example. I didn’t want to do it the first time or this time, but I had to, Sonja made sure of that. Sonja owes me.

  God help me, one more to go.

  2

  The Times Online

  New Orleans

  Tuesday, October 23

  Yesterday morning an as yet unidentified woman died when she fell into a jewelry display case at a Royal Street antique shop.

  Owner Xavier Tilton, alone with the woman at the time, received a call to go to the outside service entrance and left the woman in the shop. By the time he returned she appeared close to death and did, in fact, expire before the police and aid units reached the scene.

  Although Mr. Tilton is sure the victim carried a purse, no purse was located at the Royal Street shop. Mr. Tilton reported that the deceased had been interested in an antique diamond ring in the case. After the incident, no merchandise appeared to be missing. The ring the victim was considering remained on her finger.

  No official comment has yet been made, but information from a credible source revealed that the crime has been classified as murder.

  A tentative link has been made to the bizarre murder of Stephanie Gray during Mardi Gras two years ago. At that time a close friend of Miss Gray said the victim had traveled to New Orleans to try out for a place in a band. The friend did not hear from Miss Gray after she boarded a bus in Bismarck, ND.

  At the autopsy it was discovered the woman had most likely died before being trampled during the parade. A weapon later described as probably an ice pick had been stabbed beneath the base of her skull, then removed. No purse or other personal possessions were ever found. Our sources tell us yesterday’s Royal Street victim also sustained a mortal wound to the brain, most likely inflicted with an ice pick, and used in part to drive her through a heavy glass door in the display cabinet.

  Last Friday, Charles Penn, convicted murderer of Stephanie Gray, escaped while being transported between maximum security facilities. He remains at large.

  “Think it’s going to rain?” Father Cyrus Payne, pastor of St. Cécile’s parish church in Toussaint, Louisiana, pounded along the path beside Bayou Teche with his friend Joe Gable at his heels.

  “Nope.” Joe Gable didn’t say a lot when they took these early morning runs together.

  Cyrus figured Joe only stayed behind him because he was too polite to leave the narrow track and pass. Cyrus turned his face up to the hazy sky and said, “It’ll rain.”

  “What evidence do you have to back up that claim?” Joe sounded like the lawyer he was.

  “Purely circumstantial stuff,” Cyrus said. “It’s almost eight and there’s no sign of the sun.”

  “Pretty thin,” Joe said. The church and rectory came into view and he made sure, politely, that he was the first on the faint path from the bayou to Cyrus’s garden gate. “When the haze shifts the sun will be out.”

  “I feel rain coming.”

  Joe laughed. “Well, now, that changes everything. You’ve got me convinced.”

  Cyrus thumped his friend’s shoulder. Once inside the white fence that surrounded the garden, they slowed and walked side by side on crunchy, sunburned grass. There wouldn’t be much time to get cleaned up and have a think before mass at eight-thirty.

  “Madge is here again,” Joe said, pointing to Madge Pollard’s car, parked beside Cyrus’s red Impala station wagon in front of the house.

  “Madge works here, she’s here every day.” He’d almost said she was always here.

  “This early, Cyrus?”

  “Not all the time.” This line of questioning didn’t come up often, but when it did Cyrus felt awkward, almost cornered. His own fault for being so dependent on Madge as his assistant—and his friend.

  “She’s a special woman,” Joe commented. “And she’s lovely.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Joe slanted him a look and said, “I’ll carry on back to the office and shower there. Wills, wills and more wills today, not that I’m complaining.”

  “Cyrus!”

  They both stood still and looked across Bonanza Alley, the little street between the church and the rectory. There was Madge, just as if talking about her had conjured her up. She ran between graves in the churchyard, waving a piece of paper above her head. “Wait!” she cried, even though they hadn’t moved since her first shout.

  Alarmed, Cyrus hurried to meet her. Today she wore red, his favorite because it showed off her dark curly hair and even darker eyes—and it went with her bright spirit. “Mornin’, Madge. You’re awful early.”

  She didn’t smile or greet him in return. “Where have you been? I looked for you everywhere.”

  Joe caught up with him and they said “jogging, ” in unison.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Madge told Joe. “You probably know Ellie Byron better than any of us.”

  Cyrus felt Joe stiffen. “What about Ellie?” he said.

  “Maybe we should get out of the street,” Madge said, although there wasn’t a moving vehicle in sight. She looked hard at Cyrus and said, “There’s coffee ready in the kitchen. Let’s get some and you can both read this.” She waggled the sheet of paper again and led the way around the house to the back kitchen door and inside.

  “I don’t need coffee, thanks,” Joe said. He’d turned pale under his tan. “Let me see that, please. I’ve got to get back.”

  Back to the town square where his offices were only two doors away from Ellie’s bookshop, Cyrus thought.

  Joe scanned the computer printout he’d taken from Madge, read it again—more slowly—and gave it to Cyrus.

  When Cyrus finished it, his hand fell to his side. He watched Joe’s reaction. The man crossed his arms tightly and looked into the distance, as if he’d forgotten where he was and who he was with.

  “Well, say something,” Madge demanded. “Do something.”

  “We probably won’t need to do anything,” Cyrus said. “Ellie happened to be on a hotel balcony—staring straight down—when Stephanie Gray died. Other people were there and they didn’t see a thing. For some reason Ellie did. In all that crush she noticed a woman fall like a log, not get accidentally pushed the way it was supposed to look. But she didn’t see the killer—or she’s not sure if she did. Ellie couldn’t identify him.”

  “What if Charles Penn doesn’t really believe that?” Madge said tightly. “What if he decides to come after her?”

  “He may blame her,” Joe said. “I’ve thought about this plenty. She couldn’t identify him, but she wouldn’t rule him out.”

  Suddenly Madge’s eyes shone with angry tears. “He got caught because he was there, exactly there, and he ran. He got in the way of people trying to help Stephanie, he was in such a hurry.”

  Joe scrubbed at his face and said, “I can’t get it out of my head that maybe if Ellie had been down there, she’d have been the one who died.”

  “God rest the soul who did,” Cyrus murmured.

  “Not everyone believed Ellie had never s
een Charles Penn before,” Madge cut in. “And some said she must have seen him but she was afraid to admit it in case he ever came after her.”

  “Poor girl,” Cyrus said. “She’d barely come through the nightmare at Rosebank and managed to pull herself together for Spike and Vivian’s wedding and this happened.” Rosebank belonged to Vivian and her mother. They ran it as a hotel with a few long-stay apartments. Sheriff Spike Devol and Vivian Patin had been married at St. Cécile’s a few weeks after the Patins’ lawyer was found dead on the grounds of Rosebank and Ellie got singled out for some unpleasant attention. Cyrus glanced at the headline again. “Ellie’s been through too much and I don’t think we know all of it.”

  “I’ll tell you this much,” Joe said, his dark blue eyes flat and hostile. “If Ellie said she’d never seen Penn before the lineup, she’d never seen him. Ellie doesn’t lie.”

  Madge said, “We all love Ellie. I’d do anything for her.”

  “It’ll take me about fifteen to run back there,” Joe said, the defensive expression still on his face.

  “Take my car,” Madge said.

  “Or mine,” Cyrus offered.

  “I’d rather run,” Joe said as he opened the door.

  When they were alone Madge poured coffee for Cyrus and herself. She put the cups on the table before the kitchen windows and they sat down.

  “We mustn’t frighten Ellie,” Madge said. “But we’re all going to have to keep watch on her.”

  “And pray Penn gets picked up quickly,” Cyrus said. The first drops of rain hit the windows but he didn’t feel any triumph. “We’re going to have to watch both of them, Ellie and Joe. He could put them both in danger if he rushes in without knowing what he’s getting into.”

  “The police will come poking around,” Madge said. “It’s the Sheriff’s Department’s jurisdiction out here, but the New Orleans people will want to talk to Ellie.”

  “NOPD probably has a detective on the way as we speak,” Cyrus said. “But Spike will have a cruiser in the square all the time and he’ll camp on Ellie’s doorstep to keep her safe if necessary—with Joe. I’m glad she has the dog now.”

  Madge topped up their coffee. “Did you see Joe’s face when he went out of here?”