Remy realized Arnaud looked as wealthy as he was. He sat alone in a well-lit room where anyone hard up for money and willing to rob him would see. He probably appeared to be the perfect victim, a man who was so focused on his work he wouldn’t notice intruders until it was too late.
“He didn’t get their faces,” Remy complained. “But they look as if they could be Jean and Juste Rousseau. What do you think?” He handed the camera back to his brother and turned to look at the body one more time.
The forensic team had arrived, and the photographer was busy getting shots of Carson from every angle. The sunlight came in through the cypress trees and spilled over them. Remy crouched low, angling from one side to the next to better see the body. It was right there. Right in front of him. Frustration had him rumbling low, under his breath.
“Make certain you get some good shots of the altar for comparison,” he snapped.
The photographer scowled at him, but refrained from speaking. He knew his job and was irritated that Remy might not think he did.
Remy wasn’t even looking at him, instead he was staring at the body. He stood up slowly, light dawning, the pieces falling into place. He knew exactly what was different.
“Gage.” He waited until his brother turned to face him. “It’s wrong. This is all wrong.”
“What is?” Gage moved closer, frowning, trying to see whatever it was his brother saw.
LeBrun, the ME, stopped what he was doing. Even the photographer paused. Remy was good at his job and usually spotted discrepancies before anyone else. He had an eye for murder and an uncanny knack of solving them.
“He doesn’t do this.”
“This is exactly what he does,” Gage argued, frowning at Remy.
Remy shook his head. “No, Gage.” He indicated the torn chest with a sweep of his hand. “This is wrong. He has a pattern, and he’s broken that pattern.”
“I don’ understand.”
“The bones. He already took those bones with the first victim. He should be takin’ bones from the legs, but he didn’t. He follows a pattern, and he never takes the same bones,” Remy said.
LeBrun nodded his head. “That held true four years ago. But maybe he doesn’t always do that.”
Remy shook his head. “I studied every murder he’s committed that I could find over the years. He always kills four victims and he takes the bones in a specific order. He’s never deviated.”
“A copycat?” Gage ventured.
LeBrun huffed out his breath. “His technique can’t be copied, and this is the same man who carved up the others. I would never mistake his work.”
Remy nodded. “So there’s definitely a reason for the change. That’s twice he’s deviated from his usual ritual. Cooper was personal, and now he changed his bone pattern. He’s too methodical and ice-cold to have panicked and done something different. Taking the same bones from victim three as he did from victim one was as deliberate as keeping Cooper alive as long as possible.”
“There’s no sign of panic that I can see,” LeBrun said. “This man could be a brain surgeon, operate in the middle of a war zone and never break a sweat.”
Remy turned his head to look at LeBrun. “He’s strong as hell, Doc. I’m beginnin’ to think he’s one of Jean and Juste’s demons.”
“Don’ say that out loud,” Gage advised. “Half my people believe in the Rougarou and the other half believe in voodoo. We’re a superstitious lot, Remy, and this case is just adding to the growing legends around here.”
Remy turned to the medical examiner. “I’d like to rule out the Rousseau brothers if possible. The tracks indicate only one man came here with Carson, but let’s be certain. We’ll be picking up Butterfield and Durang as soon as the warrants come through. If we’re really lucky the surgical instruments will be in one of their vehicles. I’d like to see them explain that away.”
He indicated the body. “Doc, if there’s anything different about the bone harvestin’, any reason that you can see from comparing Carson’s bones to Pete’s bones that might give us a reason why he took the same ones, call me right away.”
“Will do,” LeBrun agreed. “But, Remy, Pete was as healthy as a horse. His bones were dense and strong, and as far as I can tell, so are this man’s.”
Remy sighed. “Gage, I’m heading into town. I’ll want those pictures developed as quickly as possible.”
“We’re on it,” Gage said.
“I know the answer is here. I just can’t grab hold of it,” Remy said with a sigh.
“Durang is looking good,” Gage said. “He’s got a long history of particularly brutal violence. He’s certainly capable.”
Remy shrugged. “I wish I believed that, Gage. I want it to be Durang, I really do, but my gut is tellin’ me I’m missin’ something. Durang was in prison when a few of the murders took place, and we couldn’t find any evidence of a passport for him. He’s a two-time felon, so chances are slim he went overseas.”
“Butterfield then,” Gage said.
“Maybe. But I don’t think he’s capable of this. He’d pay someone to do it, but he’d never get his hands dirty. My guess is, he wanted Durang to kill Bijou for insurance money and Durang wanted his own insurance. He probably insisted Butterfield get the tools and other things he needed so he would be implicated if he got caught. Durang might not be terribly smart, but he’s cunning. He isn’t going to take the fall for Butterfield.”
“I hope you’re wrong too,” Gage said.
Remy could tell by Gage’s tone that he thought Remy was probably right in his conclusions—he usually was. Remy took a last look at the carcass that had once been Bob Carson. He didn’t want to ever come across another body like Carson’s. This had to be the last one. He had to figure it out. A part of him hoped Arnaud could shed some light on things—maybe he’d seen the Rousseau brothers take Carson prisoner, but somehow he knew it wasn’t the brothers. Jean and Juste were violent, and they even were murderers, but they hadn’t killed Morgan, Cooper or Carson—he was certain of it.
He drove through the narrow roads leading back to New Orleans, his brain trying to work out the puzzle. He had the pieces. Why didn’t they fit? By now he should have figured it out and if he didn’t, more people were going to die. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, and sat there for a long time.
He needed to see Bijou. Just for a moment. Maybe it was silly, but she was warm and alive and a bright light in a world of madness. He’d never realized just how dark his world was until he’d found her. He’d been driven to right the wrongs, maybe stemming from that one moment when he’d failed a child and he’d vowed it would never happen again. Funny how his world revolved around Bijou.
He pulled out his cell phone and texted her, asking where she was. Her answer surprised him. She and Saria had gone to Bodrie’s estate. She was intelligent enough to mention that Dash had accompanied them, so not to worry.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel, and he sat for a moment, forcing his temper under control. Just because the Rousseau brothers were out of the picture didn’t mean that she was out of danger—not until he had Rob Butterfield and Jason Durang locked up. He picked up his radio and inquired on their whereabouts. To his consternation, neither man had been at their hotel when the police had gone looking and neither car had been spotted yet.
He immediately got back on the road, driving fast, using his siren occasionally to move cars in front of him out of the way. Bodrie’s estate was on the other side of the city of New Orleans. He sent Dash a message to be on the alert. He resisted the urge to send officers to the mansion to guard her. He didn’t want to overreact, but he did drive faster than was probably wise.
The double ornate gates were wide open, and he swept through, going up the long winding drive to the huge house. The grounds were well kept. Bijou obviously employed a staff that took care of the estate. Just walking up to the door made him feel a little sick to his stomach. He couldn’t imagine what Bijou felt. He understo
od why she would prefer to burn the entire building down.
He didn’t bother to knock. It was Bijou’s house now, and whoever she employed would just have to learn fast that he was part of her life. He entered the high-ceilinged foyer with its white gleaming marble floors. The house was quiet. Too quiet to suit him. He inhaled, testing the air for scents. He caught the faint scent of lavender, and his sister’s comforting smell of spice and homemade bread. Dash smelled like cold medicine. More, he caught the scent of blood. Remy loosened his gun in his harness.
It was a large house, two stories, with numerous rooms. The house sprawled out lengthwise. He had only been in the big room where her father seemed to do most of his entertaining. He went there first. Immediately he felt as if he’d stepped back in time. The room was arranged exactly the same as the last time he’d been there, back when Bijou had been eight years old. It was as if someone kept the house as a shrine to Bodrie.
His stomach lurched again. Everything Bodrie Breaux represented went against everything Remy believed in. Had the man never married and produced a child, Remy wouldn’t have cared how he lived. Even if he’d dumped Bijou onto someone else to raise, Remy might have had a little more respect for him, but Bodrie was too selfish. He liked the idea of a single father struggling to raise his child alone. It played well in the tabloids and always garnered him more attention.
He didn’t want to search this empty mausoleum room by room looking for Bijou and Saria. Eventually his nose would take him to them, but in this instance, it was easier to use his phone. He didn’t want to spend one more moment in the house than necessary. His leopard detested the place, prowling close to the surface, uneasy, and letting Remy know all about it.
He texted Bijou. She didn’t reply. He frowned. He had full service. She’d replied earlier so he knew she had her phone on her. He tried a second time to no avail. The unease of his leopard began to take hold of him. He eased his gun from his harness and let his leopard senses take over.
The scent of blood grew stronger when he rounded the corner and entered a long hallway. The door closest to him stood open and he glanced inside, weapon ready. Dash was slumped on the ground, a pool stick inches from his hand. Clearly he’d been playing pool and not paying the least bit of attention to Remy’s earlier warning.
Remy, heart beating fast, leaned down and felt for his younger brother’s pulse. It was there, strong and steady. His skin was hot to the touch. Dash was running a fever. Dash moved, started to groan, and his eyes snapped open when Remy put a heavy hand over his mouth to keep any sound from escaping.
Dash looked mortified. Pale and mortified. Remy held a finger to his lips. Dash nodded and pushed himself into a sitting position. He gritted his teeth and touched the back of his head. His hand came away smeared with blood.
Remy leaned in close. “Where are the girls?” He kept his tone low, knowing Dash’s leopard would hear him.
“They were goin’ to the master bedroom to look for a box Bijou said her daddy kept in there. Said it was important to her and that’s why she wanted to come. She told me to play a few games of pool. I thought she wanted privacy.” Dash looked at the blood on his fingers. “I should have stayed with them, Remy. I’m sorry.”
“Who hit you?”
“I never saw them. I never even heard them. My ears are stopped up and so is my nose. I have a hell of a cold. My leopard suddenly lunged toward the surface and stupid me, didn’t realize he was tryin’ to protect me.” Shame and guilt came over his face. “I was too busy playin’ the game. You know how much I love it and this table is awesome.”
Remy let his leopard take over just enough to smell everything in the room. He’d been close enough to Jason Durang to catch his scent. “Never mind, Dash,” he said grimly. “I know who it is.”
Remy got one hand under his brother’s arm and helped him up. He glanced around them. They were surrounded by Bodrie. His platinum and gold records were encased in glass and hung on all four walls.
Dash swayed but steadied himself. He pulled a gun from his boot and held it up. “I’m with you, Remy. The room was that way,” he pointed down the hall to where one of two double doors had been left open.
The hall was wide, ceilings high. Priceless guitars hung on the walls. Remy knew each was worth a fortune, but because Bodrie had been the previous owner, each guitar could be sold for far more than he’d make in a year, and there were dozens of them.
Bijou might not realize it, but her staff was loyal to her. They weren’t stealing and the temptation had to be great. He could also see why she’d left her father’s estate alone for so long. Where did one even start sorting through things?
He inhaled. His woman was in the master bedroom and so was Saria. They were alone. The stench his leopard identified as Durang was too faint for him to still be there—but he had been. He didn’t smell blood, but his pulse jumped at the thought that the two women had been close to Durang. Did they know it? They had to. Bijou hadn’t chanced texting him back. He signaled Dash and his brother went to the left. He took the right. They entered Bodrie’s master bedroom, guns drawn, sweeping the room carefully.
There was no one in sight. The room wasn’t at all what Remy expected. There was no round, vibrating bed. No pictures of naked women. Nothing at all that indicated Bodrie Breaux was a rock legend—or even that he’d ever been in the room.
They continued to move silently through the room, signaling to one another as they approached the doors to the master bath. The room was enormous, with a step down to an indoor hot tub and a step up to the bathroom.
Dash leaned in, caught the doorknob and pulled open the door. Remy swept the room. The bathroom was bigger than the entire apartment he rented. They cleared the glass shower stall and the giant gold Jacuzzi tub as well as the toilet stall. There was no indication either woman had been in the dressing area or near the long makeup mirrors other than their scents.
Dash shook his head and pointed back toward the outer room’s closet. Remy smelled lavender much stronger as he approached the closet. She was there and she wasn’t moving. She’d been in the closet and she should have still been there.
A leopard’s hearing and sense of smell were particularly acute. He knew Durang was still in the house, although his scent was much fainter. The intruder had gone up one of the winding, spiral marble staircases and was busy going from room to room. But where were Bijou and Saria?
Remy followed his cat’s nose. The trail led straight into the wall of the closet. Dash raised an eyebrow. Remy ran his palm against the wall until he found the small button that served as an intercom. He leaned close.
“Bijou? Saria? Are you all right?”
There was a moment of startled silence. “Why wouldn’t we be?” Bijou’s voice was tearful. “Come in.”
The wall creaked and a door sprang open. The safe room was quite large and furnished comfortably. The two women sat on the floor and next to them was a box of letters, some pictures and what appeared to be a diary. Bijou looked as if she’d been crying. Even Saria looked as if she quickly blinked back tears when they entered.
“What are you doing here?” Bijou asked.
“Lookin’ for you as usual,” Remy replied.
Both women caught the scent of blood at the same time. Saria came to her feet instantly, a slight frown on her face. “Dash? What happened?”
“There’s an intruder in the house,” Remy replied, never taking his eyes off of Bijou. “You don’ seem to understand the word danger.”
She made a face at him. “I understand perfectly. The Rousseau brothers can’t hurt us. And what intruder? Dash, did you get hurt?”
Dash looked more mortified than ever as his sister fussed over the back of his head and Bijou jumped up to look at the cut as well.
“He snuck up on me. I was so into my game I wasn’t payin’ attention to my leopard.”
“He who?” Saria asked.
“Jason Durang,” Remy said, his tone grim. “I’m really sho
win’ restraint, Bijou. I’d like to shake you until you show good sense, if that’s even possible.”
“Jason Durang is in this house?” Saria asked. “We were in the safe room, and unless the intercom is on, you can’t hear anything. The room is sealed. Bijou guessed Bodrie kept her mother’s things in here.” She frowned again. “Who is Jason Durang, and what’s he doin’ in the house bashin’ Dash over the head?”
“Shouldn’t you be arrestin’ him for trespassin’?” Bijou asked Remy, a mixture of challenge and defiance in her voice.
Remy caught her arm and pulled her to him, needing to touch her more than he wanted to admit. The relief at finding her safe overshadowed his anger at her for not being more careful—by just a little bit—he told himself.
“I wouldn’t mind arrestin’ you,” he hissed at her. “You’re goin’ to give me gray hair if you keep this up. You knew Durang was still out there.”
“Actually, I didn’t think about it,” Bijou said. “I’m sorry, Remy, I shouldn’t have put Saria in danger, but I just got excited about findin’ out about my mother.”
“It was my suggestion,” Saria admitted. “I thought the threat was over and it seemed a good time to find her mother’s things. Who is Jason Durang and what does he want with Bijou?”
Remy detested that Bijou’s soft little apology struck at his heart and that when she looked at him with her blue eyes his anger melted away. “Jason Durang does her manager’s dirty work. In this instance, I believe they planned on killin’ Bijou for the insurance money. They planned on makin’ it look like the bone harvester killed her.”
Saria gasped. “Are you certain?”
“We found Bob Carson’s camera, and he caught Butterfield and Durang transferrin’ plastic sheets and surgical tools into Durang’s vehicle. There’s an all-points out for them both, and what a shocker, Durang is right here, followin’ Bijou.” He knew he was being a bastard, trying to scare both women, but he never wanted to relive the last few minutes again.
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