Anna extended her hand. “I’ll take that.”
Molly glanced at Jerry. He nodded, once again feeling the dart of annoyance from the detectives’ eyes.
Anna flipped open the file; bypassing the autopsy photos, she read the report, then crushed out her cigarette. “Gentlemen, you may, or may not, have a break here.”
Donovan reached for the folder. Killroy jumped from his chair, as did Armstrong. As they hovered over Donovan, he slammed his fist on the table. “Sonofabitch. Evidence of intercourse and a collection of seminal fluid.”
Armstrong grinned. “This has gotta help us, right?”
“Not necessarily.” Anna crossed her arms over her breasts as she rested back in her chair and waited for their full attention. Slowly, their gazes came back to hers. “She’s a hooker. It’s realistic to think that she was with another john before the killer got to her.”
“And maybe not. Maybe he just liked this particular piece of ass,” Killroy said, causing Armstrong to chuckle. Donovan flashed the younger detective a look that shouted his annoyance.
Jerry cleared his throat and checked his first instinct to punch out Killroy’s lights. Then he told himself that if Anna expected anything else from these men she was in the wrong business. Besides, Anna Travelli could give as good as she got, and then some.
“There are obvious differences between the Bobbie Cox and Damascus cases,” she said. “Aside from the evidence of intercourse as reported in Bobbie’s M.E.’s exam, the signature of our killer is identical to the previous killings. He bound her wrists and ankles to the bed with thin wire, tortured and mutilated, decapitated, and left her body as is.”
She turned to Jerry, one eyebrow raised and her lips curved in a smile that raised every cautionary instinct in him. “If we’re to discount the idea that the Damascus murders were perpetrated by a copycat, then I must assume you haven’t allowed the media in on all the particulars of these cases.”
Jerry looked away, drummed one knuckle on the table as he glanced at the detectives.
“Wonderful.” Anna shook her head. “So you’ve got a snitch leaking information to reporters. So we may very well be looking at a copycat.”
He reached for his coffee, his gaze still locked with hers as he drank, inwardly cringing over the cold, bitter brew and the sharp assessment in her green eyes.
Her smile flattened. “Right. ’Nuff said. So who was the idiot who leaked classified information to the press?” She turned her attention to Armstrong.
He frowned. “Why the hell are you lookin’ at me?”
“Because you look like the kind of idiot who would do such a thing.”
His mouth dropped open and his face flushed.
“So what, exactly, did your snitch leak to the press about the killings?”
Donovan’s mouth flattened and his face became hard as stone. “Obviously the decapitation, evisceration, and the binding of the hands and feet—which were obvious to the witnesses who discovered the victims. The UNSUB cut out their hearts and placed it in the cavity of what was left of their uteruses. Among less gruesome tactics, this information was not made public knowledge…until Carla Simpson, the hooker who was killed before Laura. At that time, somehow, this information was leaked to the press.”
“For a price, I assume.” Anna shook her head and looked Donovan straight in his blue eyes. “Find out who’s recently bought himself a BMW and you’ll find your snitch.”
She flipped through the reports again. “You’re going to continue to grill Tyron Johnson, right? As well as this Marcus DiAngelo character. What else have you got on Johnson?”
Jerry leaned back in his chair. “High school dropout. Dumb as a box of rocks. He’s mean as a snake, but his girls stand by their belief that he’s not a killer.”
“Could be they’re scared of him—of retaliation.”
“I suspect those girls would spill their guts if they thought he was butchering his own,” Killroy said.
“Maybe.” Anna shoved back her chair and stood. “I need time to go over these files. Alone. Do you gentlemen have a problem with that?”
Jerry stood and moved around the table. “I have an office you can use.”
She collected the files and tucked them under her arm, didn’t so much as give the glaring detectives a second glance as she moved to the door. Jerry caught up to her in the hallway, took hold of her arm, and turned her to face him.
“Attitude isn’t going to win you any friends around here, Anna.”
“I’m not here to make friends, Jerry. I’m here to do a job. But as long as you want to bring up attitude, I can certainly do without yours.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The hump you’ve got on for me, that’s what. Get over it, Jerry. I have.”
She turned away. He grabbed her arm again.
“Hey, I had no intention of digging up our past—no point—not here—but since you have, let’s get something straight, Anna. You got over it damn easy because you were the one who walked away. Not me. I think my so-called hump is pretty damn justified.”
Anna looked down at the grip he had on her arm, then back into his eyes. “It’s history,” she said, her voice tight with emotion. “We’ve both got on with our lives—”
“Maybe you have. You weren’t the one who was practically abandoned at the altar.”
“If my future had been left up to you I’d have six kids hanging off my arms and legs and another one in the oven.”
His mouth flattened. “People change, Anna.”
“Do they? Then why did I get a gut feeling that you were getting some kind of perverse pleasure over those guys’ behavior toward me?”
“What did you expect, that they would appreciate the fact that you questioned their abilities to rightly judge this case and the evidence?”
“If you didn’t question it yourself you would never have contacted the agency for help. Right or wrong? Or maybe it goes beyond that. Maybe you didn’t want the agency involved at all. Maybe you’re getting pressure from above. Governor Damascus breathing down your neck, Jerry?” She glared at him, then nodded. “Figured as much. No doubt he’s playing the grieving grandfather, right? Might win him a few sympathy votes in the next election. From my understanding, he’s going to need them. The bastard is going down in Louisiana’s record books as one of the most unpopular governors in the state’s history…and that’s saying a lot.
“I know exactly where Charles Damascus is coming from. He can’t have this sordid publicity hurting the tourist business so he’s leaning on you to clean it up, and fast. So you go through the motions. Call Quantico, but not for anything more than an advisory. If you really gave a damn about solving this case in an expedient manner, you would have handed it over to the agency completely. But that wouldn’t get you and the force the accolades you want when—if—you catch this creep. And Charles Damascus couldn’t use that success in his reelection campaign.”
Jerry stared down into her eyes. “If you were a man, I’d belt you.”
“If I were a man, Costos, those detectives in that room might have actually listened to me.”
She slapped the files against his chest. “I’ve seen everything I need to see here for the moment. Now I want to go to the Bobbie Cox crime scene.”
“Fine,” he said through his teeth. “I’ll speak to Donovan and the captain. They’ll need to come along.”
“You do that,” Anna said more softly.
Chapter 3
JERRY INSISTED THAT he ride to the crime scene with Anna. She didn’t like it. Aside from the fact that she needed time alone to prepare herself for what was to come, his close proximity rattled her. She suspected he had more on his mind than her handling of the investigation.
He had removed his suit coat and tie, rolled his shirtsleeves up his forearms, and slumped comfortably into the car seat. For the first five minutes of their bumper-to-bumper crawl through the French Quarter, he’d said nothing, just stared ou
t the passenger window, fingers drumming on his thigh—a certain indication that he was formulating exactly what he intended to say to her.
“Hot summer,” he finally said.
Anna hit the blinkers and made a right on Pauline.
“The hottest summer in fifty years.” He searched the sidewalks of perspiring tourists.
Anna’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
Finally, he looked at her—silent for a long moment. “So how are you, Anna?”
She nodded. “Great. And you?”
“I’ll be better once we solve this case.”
“Have you spoken with J.D. today?”
“I talked to Beverly. He had a rough night. Spent most of it at the cemetery.” He raked one hand through his dark hair. “Christ, those kids were his world, Anna. He’s blaming himself for this.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“He was supposed to have come home the day before the murders, but didn’t. She wanted a divorce. He was into avoidance.”
“The marriage was never good, Jerry. We both know that. I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did.”
“He loved his kids. I loved his kids. You know how I feel about kids.”
She glanced at him, into his eyes that were blue and searching. “I know.” She smiled. “I expected you to be married by now with kids of your own. What happened?”
“I keep looking for another Anna Travelli, I guess.” He grinned. “Only one who wants kids.”
“I never said I didn’t want kids. I just didn’t want them so soon. I had a right to my own dreams. It was your own problem with those dreams that screwed it all up.”
He looked away again, out the car window, his hand clenching into a fist. “I had no problem with that. I simply didn’t want my wife wearing a shield and possibly staring down the barrel of some nut’s .357. So hang me, why don’t you? What the hell kind of husband wouldn’t worry over burying his wife?”
There it was. The same old problem. Funny, however, that hearing it now from his lips, she had a hard time dredging up all the old arguments. How could she? Over the last six years she’d attended five funerals for agents killed in the line of duty. Good husbands and fathers who had left grieving wives and children behind.
Laying his head back against the seat, Jerry closed his eyes. “Maybe I was wrong. I probably was. Maybe if I had it all to do over, I’d do it differently. All I can say, Anna, is I’ve missed you like hell. Once I got over my desperate need to choke you for walking out on me.” He grinned. “So, have you missed me? Have you pined away for me these last years? Are you in love with someone? If you are, I don’t want to know about it. I think it would break my heart.”
The gentle confession roused the old, recognizable heat in Anna’s heart. A flame that had never burned more hotly for any man since Jerry Costos. And probably never would.
“There isn’t anyone,” she heard herself admit, knowing even as she did so that she was opening the door to something she wasn’t certain she could handle, or wanted to.
Ahead, the crime scene had been taped off and barricades erected, blocking the street from pass-through traffic. Reporters and curious bystanders hovered along the verges like vultures drawn to the scent of death. Uniformed cops kept a sharp eye out for anyone whose ghoulish curiosity might impel them to slip under the tape and intrude on the scene.
Anna parked the car next to the curb, glanced into the rearview mirror to see Detectives Donovan and Armstrong park behind her.
Jerry reached for her hand, his own closing warmly around hers. “Are you saying that I have a chance with you, Anna?”
Her gaze went back to his as she tugged her hand away. “I came here to do a job, Jerry.”
“Is that a nice way of saying go to hell, Costos?”
She opened the car door.
“Fine,” he said. “I get the picture.”
As she stepped out on the street, the unbearable heat and humidity bore down on her, and the sun’s reflection from the old brick pavement momentarily blinded her. Donovan and Armstrong joined her, the younger detective popping gum between his teeth and Donovan mopping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
“So what exactly is this BSU Special Division?” Armstrong asked, his gaze slowly moving down her, then up again to her breasts.
“Specialized agents capable of dealing with machismo assholes,” she said. “And if you continue to stare at my breasts, Armstrong, you’re going to find out exactly how we deal with the situation.”
She gave him a flat smile, then turned and walked away, dipped under the crime tape, and moved onto the sidewalk while Jerry joined Donovan and Armstrong and followed.
“I don’t get her,” Donovan said. “This isn’t normal profiler stuff. They usually do their thing at Quantico. What the hell is she doing coming to New Orleans anyway?”
“What difference does it make,” Jerry snapped, “whether you talk to her on the phone or face-to-face?”
“I don’t know what the hell she expects to find on-site. She acts like my CSI don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground. They got their photographs and evidence, and then some. What more does she need?”
“Suck it up and shut up, why don’t you? Let the lady do her job.”
Anna moved along the sidewalk, her gaze sweeping the area. A stretch of warehouses formed a barrier to the south, the river beyond a wide brown stretch where flatbed barges crept. She paused by the One Way street sign near the curb.
The visions always began with a flash. This one came at her so unexpectedly she felt as if someone had blindsided her.
“Anna?” Jerry touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
Anna briefly closed her eyes. Come and gone. Too fast to grasp. She gave Jerry a reassuring smile and nodded. “Okay. Just the heat, I think.”
“You’re white as a sheet.”
She rubbed her temple and squinted as the sun bore down on her. The traffic noise pounded at her head, as did the conversations of the cops surrounding her. Whatever insight had winged at her had been obliterated. No doubt about it, however. The crime that had taken place the night before had begun here. ONE WAY spotted before her eyes like the afterburn of a camera flash.
Followed by Jerry, Donovan, and Armstrong, Anna moved down the alleyway, into the shadows, high weathered brick walls towering on either side of her, carefully sidestepping the overflow of trash from a Dumpster, ignoring the cops who paused to watch her, their conversations a distant murmur as she did her best to focus. Jerry had his hand on her arm. Distracting. Too distracting. She pulled away.
Bobbie Cox’s apartment was little more than a hole in the wall. An efficiency. One room and small bath to one side. Blood stained the tattered mattress, the walls, and much of the floor. Evidence of the CSI’s search showed in the print powder they had used on the furniture and walls.
The stench of blood took her breath away. She fought back her gut reaction to gag as she moved to the middle of the room and turned slowly, focusing her attention on the bed.
“Just what the hell is she doing?” came Donovan’s voice.
“She’s FBI, man.” Armstrong laughed. “What difference does it make?”
“Knock it off,” Jerry said.
“Ooo, touchy.” Armstrong elbowed Donovan. “Kinda tender over Ms. Travelli, isn’t he?”
Jerry moved up beside her, regarded her sternly. “What the hell are you doing?”
She flashed him a look. “My job.”
He cleared his throat. “You looked at the files. I hardly think that you’re going to find anything more here than you did in the reports.”
“I work better up close and personal, Jerry.”
“The smell of blood must trigger her bloodhound instincts.” Armstrong grinned at Donovan. “Maybe if I dab a bit behind my ears she’ll come sniffing at me.”
Anna narrowed her eyes at Armstrong. “Not in this or a hundred lifetimes, pal.”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Too many distractions. She was drawing a blank and the longer she stood there in the unbearable heat the queasier she became as the foul odor of blood crawled up her nostrils.
“This is futile. I can’t concentrate.” She pulled Jerry aside. “We come back later. Tonight. Just the two of us. No interference. Okay?”
“What difference is it going to make?”
“Trust me on this one, Jerry. I need my space.”
He frowned and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “Killroy won’t be happy.”
“Killroy answers to you—right or wrong?”
“Damn it, Anna. I’ve got the entire department pissed at me for bringing you in on this. Now you’re trying to strong-arm the case detectives out of the process?”
“Hardly. Hey, if you want me to walk away, I’ll walk away. Otherwise, I have the freedom to do what I’ve got to do the way that I do it.”
He sighed. “Fine.”
ANNA SPENT THE next long hours at the police department memorizing the Cox reports and photographs, comparing them to the Damascus murders. Donovan brought Tyron Johnson in for questioning—grilled him out the ying-yang but the sleazy pimp never backed off his story about being with Marcus DiAngelo on the night of the Damascus murders. He had alibis as well for the times of the other murders and went so far as to demand a lie detector test. But when pushed for the names of the girls’ regular johns, he shut up tight as a clam, declaring his clients were above reproach. He didn’t hand over his girls to just anyone and pointed out that most of his girls’ clients were pickups anyway. Tourists out to experience the heights of good old New Orleans debauchery along with the bars on Bourbon Street. Then, of course, there were the Tulane students with a pocketful of Daddy’s money to burn. Nameless johns came and went.
Right. That very fact was what made this kind of case the most difficult. And why the perp was harvesting the heads of the lost women walking the streets at night. They were easy prey. Most had broken ties with their family. Friends were scarce. Few, if any, would miss them when they were gone.
Anna arrived back at her hotel room at just before ten P.M. Jerry would pick her up at eleven thirty. She showered. The hot water did little to wash away the stink of blood that had permeated her skin and hair.
Lover Beware Page 14