Contact

by Evelyn Vaughn

  “No. Go ahead and hang it. It shows what a great artist you are. Mom won’t know about it, and if she finds out, she can lump it.” Or finally do me the favor of explaining what the hell she’s hiding. “I’ve got to go talk to Absinthe.”

  “Between the lot of us, I bet we can find Krystal’s killer,” said Evan hopefully.

  Faith said, “We can at least help.”

  In more ways than one.

  By that evening, she had enough with which to make a call. It was awfully soon after her interview with the detectives the other night. But for Krystal, Faith had to risk it.

  The information she’d gotten from Absinthe was too weird—and too pressing—to ignore.

  And forty-two hours had passed since Krystal’s murder.

  It was time to revive Madame Cassandra.

  Chapter 4

  “The dead woman,” Faith said, with the fake Virginia accent she’d adopted for these anonymous public-telephone contacts, “was having nightmares about vampires.”

  “Vampires?” repeated Detective Sergeant Butch Jefferson, from his mobile.

  In his background, Faith heard someone else—his partner, Roy Chopin. “She’s gotta be kidding you.”

  “Y’all clearly don’t understand dream interpretation.” As soon as she’d decided to pass information from her psychic companions to the New Orleans Police Department months ago, Faith had known she must remain anonymous. For one thing, she’d been raised to keep a low profile, a habit difficult to shed. For another, explaining that she was merely speaking for the psychics, instead of as a psychic, would lessen her already shaky credibility.

  Instead, when she made contact, she pretended to be a reader herself. She’d pulled the name Cassandra out of the blue, probably because she believed herself to be conveying the truth, as surely as the ancient Greek heroine had, and because, like that mythic Cassandra, Faith honestly doubted anyone in authority would believe her.

  “Well then, Miss Cassie,” said Butch, his drawl far more real than hers. “Won’t you please enlighten us?”

  “I would be delighted.” She readjusted the black receiver of the pay phone in the Aquarium of the Americas. She never used private numbers to call Butch. “Dreams can’t generally be taken at face value. They tend to be symbols.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “If Miss Tanner feared vampires, that could mean she was afraid of being drained of power, of energy.”

  She heard Butch say, away from the mouthpiece, “She thinks maybe the dead psychic was worried about being drained of power.”

  “Could be she just went into withdrawal when Anne Rice moved to the suburbs,” said Chopin.

  “Could be,” insisted Faith, “that she was predicting something about her own death. Being murdered is about as drained as a girl can get, isn’t it? Did either of you nice detectives get the impression that the murderer might believe in magic?”

  “I fear we’ve been too short on likely suspects to do that kind of questioning,” admitted Butch. Whether or not that part was true.

  “Well, y’all should check. All kinds of details could have magical meaning, which could tell you something about your killer. For example, if you found salt at the crime scene.” She knew they had. “Salt’s a protective substance, magically speaking. Or if there’s a chance she was strangled with something made of natural fiber, that would indicate a killer who’s concerned with energy transference.”

  She’d learned of the dreams from Absinthe. Moonsong had explained the significance of salt, and of a silk cord versus, say, nylon.

  “You don’t say,” mused Butch. “Miss Cassie, I do believe you may be on to something here.”

  Then she had to wait while he repeated the insight to his partner and fielded the usual smart-mouthed responses. Faith shifted her weight, feeling exposed in the bluish light, filtered by displays of wavering water. The Aquarium of the Americas would be closing in half an hour. She hoped to finish this call before they made any kind of announcement that would tell the detectives where she was.

  She also wore a black wig and sunglasses, in hopes of skewing anyone’s description if the police traced the call and come around asking questions.

  It was during long delays like this that she got the most paranoid. She also didn’t like having the time to notice that whoever had used this public phone before her had drunk more than one hurricane. It reeked of rum.

  “So what’s your opinion, Miss Cassie?” asked Butch. “Was Krystal Tanner killed by one of her spiritualist co-workers?”

  “No! I mean—most folks who work on, shall we say, the edge of expected reality? They understand the consequences of karma. If this man you’re after wanted to take Krystal Tanner’s energy, he’s likely some kind of untrained wannabe.”

  “Why is it you think that?”

  “Only two things could make him think he can escape the karmic repercussions of murder, Detective Sergeant. Either he’s got such strong personal power, psychic shields, that he doesn’t have to worry about it—in which case he’d know that someone else’s energy wouldn’t do him a whole lot of good—or he’s too ignorant to know better.”

  Butch murmured what she’d said to his partner, then asked, “Do you have anything else for us just now, Miss Cassie?”

  She heard a slow beeping on his end of the line, like a car door had been opened while the key was still in the ignition. They’d arrived at wherever they were going.

  “If this fellow’s a wannabe magic user, he might try some kind of crash course,” she suggested. “There’s a psychic fair Wednesday night at the Biltmore Hotel.”

  “The one that had those strange fires last year?” Apparently the damage had been almost entirely external. Then again, almost every old building in the Quarter had some strange story to tell.

  “That’s the one. There won’t just be readers there, there’ll be experts offering classes. Someone who wants to learn about manipulating energy, chances are he’ll show up.” That had been her first introduction to the magic community of New Orleans, anyway. “And on the chance that he might be looking for more victims, that would be the place.”

  “I appreciate that advice,” said Butch. “But if you don’t mind me asking, Miss Cassie…”

  Which was when she felt them. Rather, felt him.

  Roy Chopin was like a walking car alarm of energy—and he was getting closer. They’d traced the damn call!

  “Tsk, tsk,” said Faith, frowning, and hung up.

  Then she headed deeper into the aquarium, mingling with the other visitors, and was around a corner before the detectives ever made it through the entrance, much less to the pay phones.

  He loved that they were all frightened of Him.

  He was, in fact, the talk of the Crescent City Psychic Fair! For a while He felt happy just sitting outside one of the ballrooms at the Biltmore, watching the people come and go, listening to their conversations. He could tell some of the psychics by how they dressed—tie-dyed shirts, multiple necklaces with different charms hung on them, gauzy, sparkly skirts. They were the ones who talked the most about Krystal Tanner—that’s what the newspapers called the other night’s human battery—and their fears about who might be next. He could tell the visitors by their dazed expressions as they scanned the fair’s program, and by their uncomfortably loud jokes, pretending that they were here as a lark when, really, each of them wanted to believe. And then there were the ones in-between, the ones He couldn’t be sure about.

  Like that green-eyed blonde.

  She was the same one who’d chased Him away from Krystal Tanner. She’d caused trouble for Him. And she wasn’t scared.

  He felt stronger, when people were scared. He felt more real. So he didn’t like her. But was she a psychic? She didn’t seem to be attending any of the workshops, but neither had she paid for tickets—readings cost between five and twenty-five dollars, in five-dollar increments, depending on how skilled one’s reader was. She wasn’t even carrying a program, a
nd almost everyone carried programs. Instead, she seemed to just be moving from one ballroom to the other, almost…patrolling.

  As if someone like her could protect these witches from the likes of Him.

  In any case, if she had no abilities, she was beneath His notice. Once He saw the detectives from the other night approach her, He decided it was time to slip into one of the smaller lecture rooms, to hear about “Chakras and Personal Energies.”

  Maybe then, He’d figure out how to draw more fear out of these people. Soon, if He kept feeding, even the Master wouldn’t be able to contain Him.

  Then He would be free.

  Faith felt Chopin’s approach, but she decided not to turn until he said something. Why advertise that she could hear his footsteps and his strong heartbeat, could smell his unique scent of coffee, aftershave, motor oil and forcefulness on the hotel’s Freon-edged air?

  “Don’t tell me you believe in this junk?” he demanded, as he leaned around her elbow.

  Faith blinked at him, his suit coat rumpled, his tie loose, his top two collar buttons undone to show a tanned throat and a thatch of dark chest hair. He needed a shave and a haircut, and—to judge by the shadows under his intense eyes—a good night’s sleep. That extra edge of coffee—black, and lots of it—told her he was pushing himself too hard. If it was to solve Krystal’s murder, she liked that about him.

  If it wasn’t, then she was still annoyed about him trying to catch her—as Cassandra—the previous evening, even if he hadn’t succeeded.

  “I didn’t know you were a believer either,” she countered, then had to laugh at the face he pulled in reaction. “Hello, Detective Jefferson,” she added to Chopin’s more easygoing partner. She knew his real title was Detective Sergeant, but since Cassandra called him that, it seemed a good idea if Faith did not.

  “Call me Butch, ma’am.”

  Even better. “Okay, Butch. Are you two here officially?”

  “We figured we’d take a look at the kind of folks Miss Krystal knew,” explained Butch, while Chopin looked on like a kid dragged to his sister’s school concert. His mouth was in threatening mode, and his jaw was definitely a dare. “Maybe track down that missing lover. Ask a few people if they saw anything. Do you know any of the psychics ’round here?”

  “Sure. All three of my roommates are reading tonight.”

  Chopin let his head fall back, relieved. “So that’s why you’re here. Keeping an eye on them, right?”

  Which was true, but she didn’t like his tone. “That, and to maybe get a past-life analysis or have my aura cleansed. Were you two looking for someone in particular?”

  “Yeah,” said Chopin. “The killer. Any suggestions?”

  She had to remember that it was Cassandra who’d brought them here, not, as far as they were concerned, Faith. But it was surprisingly easy to hesitate, to glance around. “A few minutes ago I saw the guy who tended bar at DeLoup’s the night Krystal died. But I was talking to him at the time of her murder. And none of my roommates know who Krystal was dating. I believe them.”

  “Here’s a thought,” suggested Butch. “We need to figure out more about why this fellow targeted a psychic. Why don’t I make the rounds, talk to some of these fortune-teller types, while Roy here trades you a cup of coffee for an overview of this little community. How would that work for everybody?”

  If everybody was Faith and Roy, they just stared at him.

  Chopin snapped out of it first, shrugging his rangy shoulders. His suit coat hung open to show the gun and badge on his belt. “Uh, sure. Couldn’t hurt, right?”

  Yes, it could, thought Faith. But she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t sense any threat from this man. He was pure cop, and even if she’d been a suspect through her close knowledge of the victim, the evidence couldn’t be less incriminating. He wasn’t out to arrest her. He was…

  Was he interested in her?

  She’d smelled that shift of pheromones often enough in her life to know that yes, he was. But she also knew physical interest wasn’t exactly an on/off switch for most men, or quite a few women. Sometimes even inappropriate men, like a professor or a doctor, or even her boss, couldn’t help their body’s reactions. All she could hope was for them to guard their behavior. Most, like Greg the other day, did just fine.

  Other than calling her cute on the phone, which could’ve just been teasing, Chopin was also keeping it cool. Distant. Although as she continued to hesitate, his brows drew together into a foreboding frown, like he was taking it personally.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll tell you whatever I can, Detective Chopin.”

  “You can call him Roy,” insisted Butch with a grin and a wave, veering off toward the first ballroom.

  “That guy’s as subtle as an ax to the head,” muttered Roy, forcing an after-you gesture that was hardly sulky at all.

  “I’m guessing you don’t get out much?” said Faith, preceding him toward the wide, curved stairway. The restaurant’s bar, the only place to get coffee, was off the lobby on the ground floor.

  His presence, behind her, felt downright tangible. “Not that it’s any business of his or yours, but no, I don’t. I’m a little busy what with all the murderers and scumbags running around needing to get caught.”

  “All work and no play…”

  “Is exactly the sort of thing Butch would say. So how do you like your coffee, Miss Corbett?”

  She didn’t bother requesting that he call her Ms. Corbett. She let him fetch the drinks, too. That sort of thing mattered to some guys. For her part, she waited at a little bistro table, her chair turned so she could watch the foot traffic to and from the stairway to the ballrooms and the psychic fair.

  “So what can I tell you about the psychic community around here?” she asked, turning her back on the passersby when Chopin returned with the coffee. He was not a graceful man. She felt relieved when the drinks were on the table.

  “How’d you get involved with this element?”

  She blinked, unused to being taken by surprise. “Am I still a suspect, Detective? I was scheduled to go back to work tomorrow, after the memorial service, but if there’s any question…”

  “No, you’re not.” Holding her gaze, Chopin leaned over the table, his presence all but enveloping her. “And it’s Roy.”

  Faith considered him and the way his pulse and body temperature belied his cool attitude. “Oh. Well, if you’re asking for personal reasons…I mean, if you’re asking because you’re interested…” She didn’t quite have the guts to finish that sentence, unsure as she felt. “Anyway, you really should be clear about that, and not hide it behind official business.”

  He sat back now, folded his arms, studied her. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Tomorrow’s my night off. Go out with me.”

  She stared. For someone who telegraphed his emotions that strongly, he’d surprised her twice in just a few minutes!

  Maybe he only telegraphed what he wanted to telegraph. The strength. The intensity. The threat. Things that would tell any suspect with a few brain cells to rub together that this wasn’t anybody to mess with. The other stuff, the more personal stuff, he hid that pretty well.

  She only caught a whiff of regret when something in his intense eyes faded. “Or not,” he said, shrugging. “I just wanted to get that out of the way before—”

  “Okay.” Now she’d been surprised three times. She hadn’t expected to be surprised by herself, though.

  He blinked at her, then widened his eyes, raised those expressive brows. “Okay?”

  “Tomorrow night. It’s a date.” Faith was so used to reading what other people gave off, it took her a moment to realize that the flip-flopping in her stomach came from her, not anyone or anything else. But that reaction, at least, wasn’t surprising.

  She didn’t date. Being whatever she was—not knowing what she was—made things way too complicated. And now she’d said yes? To a homicide detective? One she was hiding things from?

  But I’m only
hiding Cassandra, she thought grimly. I’m only hiding that I’m not…normal.

  What was she supposed to do, make every possible date contingent on a confession of her abnormalities? Magazines suggested that a person keep private problems like STDs or past relationships quiet until at least the second date…or before getting naked, whichever came first. Why was her own freakishness any different?

  Now she could barely breathe past the butterflies. What had she done?

  She’d taken a defiant stab at being normal, that’s what.

  “Good,” said Roy, with a decisive nod. She could tell he was pleased, though he hid it well. “Now, could we move on to the important stuff? How long have you known these people? Not because you’re a suspect—but how well do you understand them?”

  It was easier, talking about impersonal things like the New Orleans occult community. And the Big Easy definitely had a thriving occult community. Of course, Chopin—Roy—knew a lot already. He’d seen the Voodoo Museum and Marie Laveau’s tomb. He knew where the vampire bars were—not for true immortals, as far as Faith knew, but for wannabes marginally more Goth than Absinthe. Lord knew Roy couldn’t have patrolled Jackson Square without seeing the readers. But he’d never taken the time to learn what really motivated the psychics.

  Until now. When in detective mode, he wasn’t a lousy listener.

  Faith explained that none of them seemed to be cult members—an official cult had to have a leader, and the majority of psychics were self-taught. She clarified the more innocent reasons that readers often chose new names, and how careful most of them were to abide by the vice laws that—hopefully—kept people from being defrauded by cons like the old curse-removal ploy. She thought she did a pretty good job at not focusing too intently on the detective’s thick wrists while she talked, or the dark hair on the back of his wrists, or his big hands as he cradled his cup of coffee and stared intently at her, listening. She thought she managed not to breathe in his scent and think about their upcoming date too often.