“Wait a minute.” Bijou went very still. “What do you mean, you found Bob’s camera? Remy, Bob is never apart from his camera.”
Now he did feel like a real bastard. All the while he was listening for Durang to begin his descent down the stairs. The man was doing a room by room search, probably thinking the two women were hiding from him.
In spite of being angry with her, Remy put his arm around Bijou. “Bob Carson was last night’s victim. He was murdered by the bone harvester in the swamp.”
Bijou stared up at his face, shock in her eyes. “Carson is dead?”
Remy nodded. He ran a finger down the side of her face in a little caress, even though there was still a part of him that wanted to shake her for not playing it safe.
“And you think Jason Durang killed him? For Rob? Why would Rob want Carson dead? Half the time I think Rob informed Bob Carson where I’d be lately just so he could keep me in the tabloids.”
“I think Durang meant to copy the harvester’s murders in order to cover your murder. I intend to make Durang think I believe he did the other killings, but I’d be shocked if he did them,” Remy admitted, telling her the truth.
Both women reacted with shocked gasps. They looked at each other and then at him.
“Remy, do you really believe my manager wanted to kill me?” Bijou asked in a low voice.
For the first time he wished he could lie to her and make it all better. She looked . . . broken. He couldn’t blame her. She was in Bodrie’s house, and it seemed that everyone she had ever known associated with the man was corrupt.
“I’m sorry, Blue. Yes. I do. I think he gambles and loses and he didn’t want the money train to stop. When it did, he became desperate. The bone harvester comin’ back to New Orleans at the same time you did provided him with an opportunity.” He glanced at his watch. “Backup should be here. I told them to come in without sirens. This time when I say stay put, please do it, Bijou. Dash, you stay with them and don’ think about anything else but protectin’ them. If you forget what you’re doing a second time, I’m goin’ to beat the bloody hell out of you and you have my word on that.”
“I won’t, Remy,” Dash assured.
“Get back inside that room and don’t come out until I tell you we’re all clear,” Remy ordered. He didn’t let go of Bijou even as he gave the orders. She looked stricken, pressing her lips together. He glanced down at her hands. She was holding a photograph up against her heart. He held out his hand. “Show me, Blue. Is that your mother?”
She nodded and turned the picture over. The woman looked just like her. She had to have been close to the same age as Bijou was now. He ran his finger gently over the photograph. “She’s beautiful, Bijou, and you look just like her. I’ll be back in a few minutes and I’ll help you take all this back to the Inn.” Because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned into her and brushed a kiss across her mouth. “It’s almost over, chere. Hang in there with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she assured. When he turned away, she caught his arm. “Maybe you should take Dash with you.”
He loved Dash, his younger, very sensitive brother. Dash was hell on wheels in a fight, but he was made for finer things. Remy wasn’t about to risk him, not when he was injured.
Durang had a lot to lose and he knew he had the plastic sheets and surgical instruments in his car. Remy would use that against him, convince Durang he was going to be charged as the harvester in order to make him confess to the lesser crime of planning to murder Bijou. Remy wanted Rob Butterfield as well and he would do everything in his power to make certain Durang gave Bijou’s manager up. Remy wasn’t going to let the man get away with conspiracy to commit murder.
“I’ve got backup. This shouldn’t take long.” He winked at her and strode away.
He could hear Durang now, hurrying down the hall, back toward the staircase. Remy chose his spot. Durang would have to go past him to get off the last stair. Bodrie’s penchant for naked statues came in handy for concealment. He wasn’t about to allow Durang to spot him until it was too late. There wasn’t going to be a shootout. Remy couldn’t risk losing Butterfield and Durang had to flip on Butterfield.
Jason Durang came down the stairs stealthily. He was certain Bijou was somewhere in the house. He just had to find her and he could take care of anyone getting in his way. Remy let him walk one step past him and he stepped out and shoved the muzzle of his gun hard behind Durang’s ear.
“You’re under arrest. Toss the gun aside and listen very carefully to your rights.”
19
“I’M sorry, Remy,” LeBrun said. “I have nothin’ new for you. I can’t see any discernible difference in Pete Morgan’s bone and Bob Carson’s. I can tell you there were traces of ketamine in Bob Carson’s system. I found a small needle mark in his neck where he’d been injected.”
Remy frowned. “We found ketamine in the Rousseau brother’s stash of drugs for sale, and Carson had ketamine in his hotel room. This case just keeps getting murkier and murkier.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re aware some idiots use ketamine as a recreational drug. Carson might have bought the drug from the Rousseau brothers,” LeBrun said.
“I thought of that. Robert said that Bob Carson was a longtime customer of the Rousseau brothers and he liked a variety of drugs, including ketamine. But he wouldn’t have injected it into his neck.”
“That would be dangerous,” LeBrun agreed. “Injecting ketamine would be extremely dangerous. It’s fast acting. The person would be under before he could remove the needle from his arm.”
“So someone else probably used the drug to render Carson unconscious so they could get him out to the swamp. Was there ketamine in Morgan’s or Cooper’s body?”
LeBrun scowled. “If there had been, even slight trace amounts, I would have included it in the report.”
Remy had known that. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t callin’ your professionalism into question. I’m just back to square one. I’m squeezing Durang. I want him to give up Butterfield, but the surgical instruments weren’t the ones used to carve bones out of our victims. Even the type of plastic sheeting doesn’t match. So where does that leave us?”
“Back to the Rousseau brothers?”
“Maybe, but if I’m wrong, if I accept that because it’s easy . . .”
LeBrun shook his head, hitting the top of Remy’s desk with a flat palm. “Not because it’s easy, because it fits. Everythin’ points straight back to Jean and Juste Rousseau. The victims, the swamp, the drugs. You’re too close to this, Remy. You think there must be more because it seems too wrapped up and tied in a bow for you. Sometimes, it really does happen like that.”
Remy wanted the case to be solved. Everyone else thought it was solved—but it didn’t feel right to him. “You said yourself, Doc, you didn’t think there were two of them.”
“No, I said one definitely carved the bones and, in my opinion, made the altar. In fact,” LeBrun added, “you were very firm that the harvester and the man who made the altar were one and the same, yet the killin’ itself didn’t fit.”
Remy couldn’t deny he’d considered many times that there were two men doing the killings. “There was only one set of footprints goin’ from the road to the swamp, carryin’ Carson’s body,” he reminded. “Carson was tall and slender, but he weighed a significant amount. If there were two of them, why didn’t they both carry him into the swamp where they were goin’ to kill him?”
“I don’t know, Remy, but I’m tired and I’m going to believe the Rousseau brothers did it and we’ll get them eventually. They can’t live in the swamp forever. As for me, I haven’t seen my family forever and I’m goin’ home. I suggest you do the same.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Remy had no intentions of going home. He rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. He knew the Rousseaus were dead, but his gut hadn’t stopped churning and that was a very bad sign.
“Just give it a day or two, Remy,” LeBrun encoura
ged. “Step back and think about other things. You’ve been goin’ at this night and day for a couple of weeks and you’ve had to contend with other things as well. Go see your girl and don’ think about murder.”
Remy gave him a little salute and watched him leave. It was late. Most everyone had gone home already. He’d promised Bijou he’d meet her for dinner. He glanced at his watch. He still had a little time left to try to work things out. He wandered over to the murder board and studied the pictures of each suspect. Jean and Juste Rousseau were at the top of the list.
“If only it was that easy,” he murmured aloud. “You two were building your own little kingdom. You liked gangster movies and thought you’d be the lords of New Orleans.”
In their home, he’d found hundreds of DVDs, mostly mafia and gang movies. Jean and Juste definitely had aspired to build a large criminal network. They had murdered at least three women. They had forced women to have sex with them and their friends. They’d robbed and beaten the elderly. They sold drugs. There really wasn’t much the brothers wouldn’t do—so why didn’t he think they were capable of carrying out the bone harvester’s murders?
“He’s ice,” Remy said aloud. “Total ice. He doesn’t ever flinch. There’s no hesitation.” He stared at the board. “You’re one scary man. Who are you? You don’ even break a sweat when you’re carvin’ them up.”
“Remy?” Angelina came up behind him.
He could smell the cup of coffee she had in her hand for him. He turned toward her with a faint smile. She was in her late forties, married to another cop and had three children. He often considered her his secret weapon. She could find anything on anyone given time. She worked a computer with lightning speed and nothing ever stood between her and information.
“I found the insurance policy. It was taken out with Forbes and Regency. It’s a big payoff if Bijou dies. Thirty million dollars, Remy.” She sounded worried. “Definitely the kind of money someone kills for.”
“You’re an angel, Angelina,” he said. “That gives me everything I need to break Durang. He’ll give up Butterfield.”
Angelina turned away from him, hesitated, and then turned back. “Remy, I’ve worked with you a long time. You have good instincts. If you aren’t satisfied, don’t listen to anyone else’s conclusions.” She looked up at the murder board, at the photographs of Juste and Jean Rousseau. “If your gut says it isn’t them, then I’m putting my money on you. You’ll find out who really did this one way or another.”
“Thanks, Angelina. I appreciate the vote of confidence. Leave the report on my desk. I think I have just enough time to run over to the gallery and talk with Lefevre before I have to meet Bijou. She’s comin’ here. Would you mind stayin’ and waiting for her? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Do you think he may have seen something that night?” Angelina asked. “He doesn’t seem interested in anything but his art—which by the way is beautiful but so far above my pay grade I can only wish.”
“He’s actually quite observant. He pays close attention to details. Both Carson and the Rousseau brothers were poking around his studio the night Carson was murdered. It’s a long shot that he saw something that could shed light on the murderer, but you never know. At this point, I’ll take anything, long shot or not,” Remy said. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to clear the pounding headache.
He couldn’t imagine that the famed—and very obsessive—sculptor had seen anything of use, not after seeing the frantic sketches of Remy’s facial features he’d been up all night drawing, but maybe he’d get lucky. Sometimes it was only luck solving a case.
“Sure, I don’ mind waiting for Bijou Breaux,” Angelina agreed. “I have every record she ever made. I know every song by heart. I never talk to her because I don’t want to seem like one of her pushy, crazed fans, but every time I see her, I secretly scream.”
He swung around, amused by Angelina, the consummate professional’s confession. His eyebrow shot up and he found himself smiling. “Really? You? Scream? I don’ believe you.”
“In my head, Remy.” She held up her hand when he looked smug, tossing her head like a schoolgirl. “But at her concerts I screamed with the best of them. Once I couldn’t talk for two days afterward.”
Remy burst out laughing. “You’re priceless, Angelina. When she comes in, talk to her. She’s actually quite shy. You’d never know it when she sings, but she really is. I’ll just be a few minutes, I promise.”
Remy caught up his jacket, shrugging into it as he hurried out. There was something driving him now, and that usually meant he was close to breaking a case. He should have considered talking to Lefevre right away. The artist was good with details and few people had his observation skills. He might have even noticed something earlier, when they were in the gallery itself.
He walked the short distance to the gallery where Lefevre had his showing. He wasn’t surprised to see it had already closed, but the lights were on and he could see the artist inside, hunched over a large sketchbook. Several drafts of whatever he was working on were scattered at his feet. He looked as if he hadn’t slept since the showing. In fact, Remy thought he might have been wearing the same suit.
He wasn’t surprised to find the door unlocked. He knew the gallery owner would come by later to double-check that Lefevre had remembered to lock it. In the meantime, he had offered his place to the artist to work, knowing it would only make his gallery more prestigious with clients.
Remy stepped inside. Arnaud didn’t even glance up. He worked furiously, concentration creating deep furrows between his eyebrows.
“Mr. Lefevre?” Remy said, hoping not to startle him.
The frowned deepened and impatience flickered across the Frenchman’s face. He waved his hand toward the door without looking up. “Go away. I’m busy.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping you could help me with an ongoing investigation. I just need a few minutes of your time.”
Arnaud’s breath hissed out between his teeth. He looked up slowly, his expression exasperated. “What is it?” Even as he snapped the question, the aggravation disappeared.
Remy stepped closer. “Do you remember me? I’m Bijou’s friend, Remy Boudreaux.” He showed his badge just in case he’d spooked the artist. “I’m a homicide detective and we had a murder last night. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
Arnaud’s mood changed instantly. His gaze was riveted to Remy’s face. He tossed his sketchpad aside and leapt up, a smile on his face. “Of course I remember you. Your eyes are extraordinary. I’ve been trying to capture that look, but it isn’t right.” He gestured to the many discarded drawings scattered around the floor. “I thought if I came here instead of the studio, I’d remember better and get the actual piercing intelligence and focused danger in your eyes.” He sighed in frustration. “Maybe I could draw your face while we talk?” he said hopefully.
Lefevre was still wearing the same suit he’d had on the night before. Remy thought it should have been a little more rumpled since he’d worn it all night. Clearly he hadn’t slept, but he still looked elegant. Even his hair seemed to fall naturally into place.
Remy sighed, grateful Bijou wasn’t interested in Lefevre romantically. There was no competing with the wealthy, talented artist. Remy’s leopard despised him on sight. If only he could get his leopard to understand Bijou wasn’t at all interested in the man, maybe it would be easier to be around him.
“Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I don’ have a lot of time, but I’ll come back if you don’ get whatever it is you’re lookin’ for.”
Arnaud indicated a chair where the light spilled directly into Remy’s face. “Sit there. Can you just look at me the way you did last night, when you first walked in?”
“I’ll try,” Remy said. “I’m not certain how I was lookin’ at you.”
“Like I was your prey. Very focused. What were you thinking about? Maybe that would help,” Arnaud suggested as h
e collected his drawing pad and pencils. He sat across from Remy.
Remy had been thinking he was going to tear the artist limb from limb because Bijou was smiling up at him. He couldn’t very well say that. “Last night there was a murder. A photographer by the name of Bob Carson. He’s the same man who had been stalkin’ Bijou.”
“Yes, yes of course. He pushed my rented car into the bayou. I’ve got my lawyers dealing with that,” Arnaud said dismissively. “Turn your head a little to the right.”
Remy complied. “He was here at the gallery last night for your showing. He was taking a lot of photographs of the event as well as everyone who was here.”
“Yes, I remember,” Arnaud agreed, his voice almost dreamy, as if already Remy was losing him to his art. His attention seemed to be drifting away.
Remy grit his teeth. His brothers would be howling over him sitting there like an idiot while Arnaud Lefevre drew his portrait, or more specifically—his eyes.
“Did you see anything unusual in the gallery that night? Anyone who might have been watchin’ Bob Carson? Did he talk to anyone?”
Arnaud scowled darkly, tore off the sheet of paper he’d been working on and flung it on the floor. He began again. “I noticed him talking to Bijou’s manager. Butterfield slipped him something. But, that wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary.”
Arnaud continued to draw, glancing up at Remy to look at his face and eyes, his mind on his work, rather than Remy’s questions.
“Not out of the ordinary?” Remy prompted, his teeth snapping together. He detested sitting there like an idiot. His leopard snarled and raged, making it difficult to stay even-tempered. He’d known Arnaud would be difficult if he was working. He’d seen Bijou practically have to babysit him.
“Yes, they often had clandestine meetings no one was supposed to see and Butterfield always gave something to Carson. Really, it was quite childish the way they acted.”
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