But no one deserved to die for it.
Letting the envelope close again, he put it, too, in an evidence bag and labeled both before stripping off the gloves and turning toward her. “So either one of your friends told someone the details of what you’d done, or someone was watching you in the woods that night.”
Lord, she was tired of shivers racing down her spine. Was it possible someone had followed them and spied on them that entire evening, two, three hours or more? That while they laughed and passed a joint and a bottle and acted their silly selves, someone who was truly evil had waited near enough to hear what they said and see what they did? Had he intended to confront them, hurt them, maybe kidnap or even kill them, or had he been satisfied at that time with being a simple peeping pervert instead of a murderous one?
“I can’t imagine they told anyone. Like I said, it destroyed our friendships. It changed our entire lives.” She worried the edge of her lip between her teeth for a moment before sighing. “I guess someone could have followed us. We weren’t the smartest kids around. We thought the world pretty much revolved around us.”
“Did you have any enemies?”
Though she’d watched enough TV shows to expect the question, it still seemed totally surreal to her. They’d been seventeen and eighteen years old—kids. Shouldn’t developing enemies capable of murder have to wait at least until they were grown up? “I don’t think Sybil Merchant waited twenty-four years to kill Callie for stealing her boyfriend.”
DiBiase reached for his coffee. “You were pretty girls who liked to have fun. I’m guessing the guys liked you, and the girls wanted to be part of your group.”
She’d really never given it much thought, but yes, they’d been popular. They’d all made friends easily, and boyfriends had come even more easily. And their little clique had been exclusive but not by design. They’d been best friends forever. They hadn’t deliberately shut anyone out; they’d just had no reason to let anyone in.
“We weren’t mean girls,” Martine said at last. “Callie didn’t really steal Sybil’s boyfriend. He’d already broken up with her, and Callie only went out with him once. We were nice...enough.”
“But you were the cool girls, and other girls wanted to be one of you. Other guys, besides Sybil’s ex, wanted to be chosen by one of you.”
“I guess. Yeah. But it was just high school. It wasn’t the best years of our lives. It wasn’t the wonder years that we would look back on with great fondness and relive at every reunion that came along. It just wasn’t that important.”
He grinned. “Maybe not to you, and definitely not in the greater scheme of things. But you’d be surprised how many people do consider it the best time, the wonder years. A lot of people are just older versions of who they were then. Life hasn’t lived up to their expectations, so they live in the past. They still hold the same petty grudges and jealousies. They still envy the cool kids and are intimidated by the smart kids and scared of the tough kids. It made them who they are today, and they can’t let go. So...any enemies besides Sybil?”
“Who went to college in Los Angeles, by the way, married and divorced a very successful movie producer and now lives on the beach in Malibu when she’s not at her Paris flat. The boyfriend who broke her heart sells cars in Shreveport.”
The liquor was doing its job. At least, she hoped it was the reason the chills had finally left her and at least some of the tension had drained from her body. She dearly hoped it had nothing to do with the fact that the biggest womanizer—heartbreaker—charmer—of the New Orleans Police Department was focusing all his attention on her.
Suddenly even warmer than before, she shifted away from the fire to get more comfortable. “Honestly, none that I can recall. The aftermath of our dabbling in voodoo was the only traumatic thing that had happened. Our parents were all still together, our families were close, we had friends and boyfriends, we made good grades, we were looking forward to college or moving away. Most people liked us. Some didn’t, but even with the ones who didn’t, it was no big deal. It was just normal life.”
The humor that had lit DiBiase’s face a moment ago faded, leaving the intensity back in place. “Callie and Paulina are dead, Martine, and their deaths are somehow connected to that night. It was a very big deal to someone.”
* * *
Jimmy drained the last of his coffee. “I’m going to get this stuff to the lab—” or maybe have a patrol officer meet him somewhere and deliver it for him; his bed was still calling his name “—then I need to get to sleep. I’m going to Marquitta tomorrow to look around, talk to some people. You think you could go? Show me where you did the ritual if it still exists?”
As he stood up, so did she. “Okay. When will Jack be back?”
Hoping that if he got back overnight, he could be the one taking her for a drive tomorrow? Jimmy kept his sigh to himself. Whenever Jack did get back, he would defer to Jimmy on pretty much everything about this case. They may have started out sharing it, but his leaving made it primarily Jimmy’s case. He wouldn’t tell her that, though, not now. “He doesn’t know. Bad weather, and the guy’s lawyer is trying to keep him in Nebraska. Here he faces two first-degree murder charges. They’ve only got him on armed robbery there. Is your Jimmy fun-meter on overload?”
She didn’t make the kind of caustic remark he’d come to expect. Instead, her mouth curved, nowhere near enough to suggest a smile, but it was a start. “Evie doesn’t like for him to be gone.”
“Why don’t you spend the night over there? She’d be happy to see you, and the kids would scare away most of your basic stalker types.”
For a moment, she looked tempted, but then the look faded. “If someone’s watching me, I couldn’t possibly lead them to Evie’s door. When she and Jack were getting back together and she got caught up in that case of his, we agreed to keep our potential killers away from each other.” Her face screwed up into part frown, part bewilderment. “Of course, at the time, I didn’t think I would ever have a potential killer.”
“And your killer doesn’t know you’ve got me.” She’d had him for a long time in one way or another: interested, attracted, intrigued. In the beginning, he’d considered her a possible friend with benefits, then an enemy whom he could surely convert if he made the effort, an acquaintance, a thorn in his side, an annoyance and, still, someone who drew him in a way no one else ever had. But that was his secret.
He forced what Evie called his crap-eating grin: big, broad and confident. “In fact, if he knew I had this case, he would probably just mark you off the list and move on out of town. I have a reputation, you know.”
His words and action made her expression go dry. “I know your reputation. I doubt there’s a woman in the city who doesn’t.”
“I’m talking about my reputation as a damn good detective.” He went into the kitchen, rummaged through the slicker pocket and pulled out the pepper spray. “You know what this is?”
She nodded from the doorway.
“You ever used it?”
As she shook her head, she slowly closed the distance between them.
“It’s small enough to carry in your pocket. Don’t put it in your purse, then have to dig it out. Shake it up really good before you go out, and if you need it, make sure you’re upwind and slide your finger right in here and press.”
He held it out, but she didn’t take it right away. “Does the police chief know you go around arming citizens?”
“Who do you think put the idea in my head?” He pushed the can a little closer, and finally she wrapped her fingers loosely around the bottom part of it. “Hold it firmly. You don’t want someone grabbing it out of your hand. Up here.” He loosened her fingers, then slid them higher. “There’s no safety, no on/off switch. You slide your finger under this little flap, you point and you spray, then run like hell the other way.”
&nbs
p; Her fingers were cool and unsteady beneath his. He guided her index finger along the length of the can, until the tip was resting lightly on the button. If she wanted, she would need only two seconds to tilt the can upward and blast him in the face. He’d seen her a time or two when she might have been angry enough to do it. That passion had surprised him. He’d figured a woman her age, not married, as independent as anyone he knew and open to a one-night stand wouldn’t give a damn about that one-night stand’s marital status.
He’d figured wrong. Vows, fidelity, infidelity—hers, his, anyone else’s—were important to her. She believed they said an awful lot about a person—in his case, an awful lot that was bad.
And his attitude hadn’t helped any. The next time they’d met, this time out to dinner with Evie and Jack, Jimmy, surprised by her disdain, had remarked, So you almost slept with a married man. If it’s okay with me, and I’m the one who’s actually married, why is it such a problem for you?
He should have kept his mouth shut and his hands off her and definitely his mouth off her. He should have thought, Damn, she’s gorgeous, and when I’m divorced and not with anyone else, I’m going to ask her out.
And now he should keep his mind on what he was doing.
Slowly she removed her hand, and the pepper spray, from his. “Will you get in trouble loaning this to me?”
“It’s mine, not the department’s. No one will care. Same with this.” Reaching behind him, he unclipped the Taser holster and set it on the table.
“I’ve never used a gun.” Martine backed away, a bit of panic in her voice.
“It’s a Taser. Less-lethal force. You shock the hell out of someone, knock ’em to the ground for a bit, and you run like hell. It’s got a laser sight, so wherever you put the dot is where the barbs are going to go. You can shoot it from as far as fifteen feet, and the shock lasts thirty seconds, which gives you time to escape.” He removed the weapon from the holster and showed her the power button, the safety, the flashlight and the laser. He removed the cartridge and showed her that, and how to reinsert it, and how to use the Taser without the barbs as a stun gun. Then he offered the black-and-yellow weapon to her.
“I’m not asking you to go around armed all the time. I don’t believe people should carry weapons for self-protection unless they’re absolutely committed to using them. A gun does no good if the bad guy takes it away and uses it on you.” He shifted his gaze from the barrel of the Taser to her face.
“But you’ve got some wingnut out there who wants to hurt you for something you didn’t do. He knows where you work and where you live. Now that Paulina’s out of the way, he’s probably watching you. Neither the pepper spray nor the Taser are going to kill him, but they will give you an advantage, and when your life is at stake, Martine, you take every advantage you can get.”
He watched the emotion flicker through her eyes, from a clear desire to refuse to some degree of interest, from distaste to fear to resignation to relief. He rarely felt physically vulnerable; he’d always been big, strong, fast, more than capable of holding his own. He’d learned to fight in school and honed it on the job, and a pistol on his hip or in his hand was as natural as a cup of coffee to someone else.
But he understood how vulnerable people could feel, just going about their everyday life, and Martine was in a much worse situation than that. No one knew how the killer had gotten his hands on Callie or Paulina. They had no clue just how much he had known about their daily activities. Had they been safe at home when he took them? Had he persuaded them to meet him? Had he grabbed them off the street?
“When this is over, when we catch this guy, you can give them back. You’ll never have to pick up a weapon again...unless you decide you like being prepared to defend yourself. But for now, Martine...please. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Again, emotion flickered through her eyes. Surprise at how serious his last words had sounded? Before she could give it too much thought, before he could give it too much thought, he grinned. “If you get hurt on my watch, Evie and Jack will give me hell every day of my life.”
She took a breath, wrapped her fingers around the Taser grip and blew out a deep breath. “Okay. Run through this with me again.”
* * *
Martine went to bed Wednesday night convinced she wouldn’t sleep, but fatigue won out...maybe, with a little help from the pepper spray and the Taser hidden beneath the extra pillow on her bed. Less-lethal force, DiBiase had called them. She didn’t want to kill anyone, but she didn’t want to die, either. If his weapons could get her out of a life-or-death situation without having to kill someone else, she was happy to hoard them close.
He’d said he would be by around ten to pick her up for the trip to Marquitta. She didn’t want to spend hours in a car with him. Didn’t want to show him that spot out by Twins’ Landing where she and the girls had their last big hurrah. Didn’t want to see the town and the familiar faces, familiar places, that would remind her of them. She just didn’t want to go, period.
But she owed it to her girls, to herself and to DiBiase. And who knew? The life she helped him save might be her own.
She’d called Anise, asking her to come in early to open, eaten a small breakfast, inhaled three cups of coffee and changed pants four times. She wasn’t looking for the pair that flattered her most, she reminded herself with a scowl in the mirror. She needed pants with a pocket big enough for the pepper spray and with a substantial enough waistband to make wearing the Taser as comfortable as she was ever going to be with something stuck inside her pants. She settled on olive-drab cargo pants and, to go with them, sturdy boots and a white shirt with a khaki sweater over it. With the heavy sweater tugged over her hips, no one would notice the weapons adding bulk where she didn’t have it.
When she saw DiBiase’s car pull to the curb, she grabbed her purse and slicker and trotted down the stairs. The bell rang before she reached the halfway point, and she called, “I’m coming.”
Hurry, Tine, Paulina used to shout, and she’d shouted back, I’m coming! All those years, constantly coming and going, never more than a phone call apart, so close they could finish each other’s sentences.
All gone. All those good times, all the potential, all the promises. Vanished.
She undid the locks and stepped outside. Her breath misted in front of her face, but for once there was no fog, no rain. Still no sun.
From where he stood at the bottom of the steps, DiBiase said, “Anise says this is a temporary break. The fog will be back today, and we may see some snow before it’s all over.”
Martine wrinkled her nose. “I hope she’s not dabbling in weather control.”
“Nope.” He opened the passenger door for her, then grinned. “She’s watching the Weather Channel.”
“Did you go inside the shop?”
“No, she was turning over the Open signs when I got here. She opened the door to speak.”
Martine was faintly relieved that he hadn’t gone into the shop. It just really wasn’t a good time to find out that he’d gotten another static shock from the doorknob.
“I called the police department in Marquitta,” he said as he pulled away from the curb. “I want to talk to the detective who investigated Fletcher’s murder. Find out what their case looked like before the wife confessed.”
“What does that matter? She admitted she did it. Case closed.”
“You’d be surprised how many false confessions have resulted in convictions. People trying to protect somebody else, people trying to take credit for someone else’s actions, people who have mental issues that cause them to confess to just about anything. And that’s not including the ones who are coerced into a false confession by cops.”
“You could never make me confess to something I didn’t do.”
“Of course I could. It’s called the Reid techniqu
e.” DiBiase glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. “Given enough time, I could get you to confess to killing Paulina and Callie yourself. It’s trickery, deception and psychological manipulation at its finest. You break down your suspect and build them back into someone who believes you’ll help them if they just tell you what you want to hear.”
“It sounds unethical.”
“It can be with the wrong cop.”
She hesitated, then asked, “You ever settle for a confession you knew wasn’t true?”
“No.”
He said it simply, normally, and she believed him. He might not grasp the meaning of things like forsaking all others and until death do us part, but her problems with him were with the man, not the cop.
A man she hadn’t seen much of the past two days.
A cop who’d impressed her with his dedication to the job, with his patience with her, with his need to protect people and find justice for people he’d never known.
A cop who’d come out last night after a hellishly long day, in pouring rain, to pick up evidence and to make her feel safer. Who’d brought her ways to negate her overwhelming sense of helplessness.
They drove a few miles in silence, those last thoughts replaying in her mind: impress, dedication, patience, need to protect. A few days ago, she would have claimed Jimmy DiBiase could never impress her on more than a superficial he’s-damn-hot level, and she wouldn’t have believed he could even define the other things.
What a difference a murder made.
As he merged onto the interstate, he glanced her away. “Did you ever meet Fletcher’s wife?”
Eyes narrowed, Martine focused on the past. In elementary school, she’d adored her teachers and cried each time she’d passed to the next grade and a new teacher. By senior year, all she had cared about was the easiest classes that would fulfill her graduation requirements, going to the dances and staying out of Fletcher’s reach. “If I did, I don’t remember.”
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