As Anna refused to acknowledge him with so much as a glance, Eric turned his attention back on Jerry. “I understand you’ve finally got a break on the killer.”
“Who told you that? Senator Strong?”
“My dad, as a matter of fact.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Why not, when it involves catching the man who murdered the governor’s grandchildren.” He moved to the door. “Donovan in his office?”
“Donovan’s not telling you shit. If he does, I’ll have his shield. And by the way, how is J.D. holding up?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Because he’s your brother?”
Eric smirked and entered the building. Jerry shook his head. “That guy’s a fucking snake.”
“So is Jack Strong.”
“I’ll have a word with Killroy. I suspect he called Charles Damascus the minute we put an APB on Barker’s suspect.”
“Killroy your snitch?”
Jerry raised one eyebrow, then shrugged. “Killroy is one of the good guys.”
“Come on, Jerry. Are you going soft on me? We both know when it comes to murder there are no good guys. Everyone is a potential suspect. Guilty until proven innocent.” She shook her head. “The perp who attacked Barker might be trash and one brick short of a load, but he’s not your serial killer. I’d wager my shield on the fact that the French Quarter serial killer is good looking, clean, and an overall charmer.”
“Is that the profiler talking or the PID?”
She shook her head. “Barker herself said the guy was a creep. Filthy. Stank to high heaven—like fish. Probably works the docks.”
She rubbed her temple, the images she had received at Bobbie Cox’s apartment distinct in her mind.
This guy isn’t so bad. Good looking, clean, compassionate. Hands reach for the keys—nice hands, well manicured.
“The M.E. reports all described the victims as between five six and five eight. Your killer is taller. Six feet. Your height. Maybe.” She smiled and looked into his eyes. “The perp who attacked Barker was five six. Same height as she is.”
He stared at her. “So what the hell makes you think the killer is six feet tall?”
She tips back her head and looks into his eyes.
Jerry looked into her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Understood.”
Chapter 5
AT FOUR-TEN A.M. Rosalyn Barker identified Angel Gonzales as the man who assaulted her. An APB for Gonzales was immediately dispatched.
At seven, Anna sat on her hotel bed, watching the morning news and images of Jerry and Captain Killroy sharing their mutual enthusiasm over at long last identifying the man whom they believed to be the French Quarter Killer.
Anna smiled up at Jerry as he handed her a cup of coffee and sat down on the bed beside her.
“I wish you looked more excited.” He sipped his hot coffee as Anna looked back at the television screen.
“You’ve identified the man who assaulted Rosalyn. I’m very happy about that.”
“But you aren’t convinced he’s a serial killer.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Gonzales might have killed her if he had the opportunity. Probably not. I think his threat to cut off her head was an attempt to scare her. The knife he used to assault Rosalyn doesn’t even match the M.E.’s description of the weapon used to eviscerate the previous victims.”
Jerry stood up and began to pace. Anna watched him, knowing only too well what thoughts were going through his mind. Jerry was damn good at his job—prided himself at being the best D.A. in the state.
“I understand how you’re feeling—”
“Do you?” He raked one hand through his hair. “My neck is on the line here, Anna.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve got the senator and governor breathing down my neck, not to mention this city—the safety of this city—and the media—”
“You’ve never let them manipulate you before, Jerry.”
“I’ve never had a situation like this, Anna. Not on my watch.”
“Is Senator Jack Strong or Governor Damascus going to stand beside you if you bungle this, Jerry?” She set her coffee cup down and left the bed, caught his arm so he was forced to stop pacing. “Hey.” Touching his cheek, she smiled. “We both know they won’t. If you’re wrong about Gonzales, it’ll be you the people of this state will fry.”
He took her in his arms and held her. “I want this son of a bitch, Anna. The freak killed my godson and goddaughter. He destroyed my best friend’s life.”
“Don’t let it get personal, Jerry. You can’t. You know that. When the heart gets involved…” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “The mind gets confused.”
He held her tighter, and although she knew she should pull away, she couldn’t find the strength to do it. She was ignoring her own advice—but it’d been so damn long, she’d missed him so much. Men had come and gone in her life the last six years and still no one had managed to touch her in the ways that Jerry Costos could.
Not emotionally, or physically.
They lapsed into silence as they held one another, Anna’s ear pressed against his warm chest, the noise from the morning traffic outside the window dwindling with the sound of her heart beating in her ears.
“Anna,” he whispered, the words spoken so softly they were almost lost amid the hum of the air-conditioning unit fluttering the curtains over the window. “I want to make love to you.”
Her mouth partially opened to deny him, once again—too afraid to go there—too afraid of getting hurt, of hurting him, but his mouth moved across her lips, silencing her protests.
He groaned as the heat of his body magnified against her own. She moved her hands over him slowly, fingertips exploring the back of his neck, the moist skin behind his ear, the abrasiveness of his unshaven cheek.
Anna’s hands slid around his neck, pulling him harder into the kiss, flirting her tongue with his, skin shivering as she felt his fingertips trail under her T-shirt and up her back, closing around her rib cage, which felt vulnerable beneath the strength of his hands. He kissed her cheek, her chin, her throat, and nuzzled the tender skin over her collarbone. Her fingers twisted in his hair and clutched at his shirt—she gasped as he brushed her nipple with his thumb.
The phone rang.
Anna groaned.
Jerry groaned. He held her fiercely and said in her ear, “For God’s sake, don’t answer it. Not now.”
It rang again, and again, refusing to be denied.
With a silent curse, Jerry turned away, leaving Anna standing alone while the phone shrieked its insistence. She fought to steady her voice as she answered, “Travelli.”
Silence, then, “It’s Jeff. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
Anna heard the hotel door slam, and she sank onto the bed, her lips curling in a tight smile. “No, as a matter of fact.” She sighed. “Your timing is perfect.”
ONE WEEK AND no sign of Gonzales, despite the NOPD’s investigation. Since no further killings transpired, Killroy felt certain that Gonzales was the serial killer and had hauled butt out of New Orleans the first time his photo was splashed across the newspapers and television screens. Anna didn’t buy it, still. No way did she believe Angel Gonzales was the French Quarter serial killer—not after the visions she had picked up at the Bobbie Cox crime scene—but she had talked herself blue in the face to Killroy, Costos, and Donovan, and none of them were ready to back off their suspicions regarding Gonzales, especially since life, and business in the French Quarter, had resumed its normal raucousness.
She paced her hotel room, phone to her ear. “You’ve totally tied my hands, Jeff. I’m useless here. Why don’t you pull me in? Put me on a case where I might actually accomplish something.”
“I can’t do that, Anna. Not if you’re certain about the images you picked up on the Cox case. Simply bedazzle them with your brilliance as you have in the past.”
Anna flopped on t
he bed, fell to her back, and stared at the ceiling. “I want out, Jeff. I want a normal life again. I want to work cases just like any other regular agent.”
Silence.
“I’m tired of keeping men at arm’s length,” she said, her voice weary. “Tired that I may do or say something to give the division, or myself, away.”
“Costos is wearing you down, I take it.”
“Negative.”
“Anna, you must realize that there is no going back. You are what you are.”
“A freak.”
“This gift was there even before you joined the FBI. We simply helped you hone it, control it, and better understand it. You can walk away from the division, but the gift won’t go away. It’s what you are, Anna.”
“Special Agent Anna Travelli is what I am, Jeff. But it’s not who I am…and it never will be.”
A TROPICAL STORM moved in two days later. The rain fell in bursts that ran along the street, swirling with dust and litter. It did little to hamper the heat. If anything, the occasional downpour exacerbated the unbearable humidity that clung to their skin and clothes. The turbulence also brought out the wickedness in men whose main source of entertainment was the back-alley whores. Fewer witnesses. Fewer squads and cruisers. Rain to wash evidence into oblivion.
Anna stood at the window and looked down the street, at the boozed-up browsers from the Quarter gyrating to jazz bands like Rockin’ Dopsie, Jr. and the Zydeco Twisters, Counting Crows, and Ladysmith Black Mambazo, none of whom could care less if lightning were to streak from the sky and incinerate the cymbals on their washtub drums. Anything to make a buck. Anything to survive one more day in the Vieux Carré.
Scarlett Brown and Jenny Decker smirked as Detective Armstrong completed the task of wiring them, not an easy chore since their clothes consisted of crotch-length spandex skirts and halter tops. Their expressions were concerned, their laughter tight with emotion they wouldn’t dare show to the cops who were taking great care in hiding the transformers the best they could under the hookers’ meager clothing.
Anna didn’t care much for Detective Donovan’s plan. The French Quarter Killer was smarter than to take this kind of bait. Since word had been blasted across the city, indeed the entire country, the French Quarter Killer hadn’t made so much as a move. Anna suspected he was simply relaxing, if not in New Orleans, then someplace else, watching the circus of panicking tourists and mountingly frustrated cops who were focused on finding Angel Gonzales—still believing him to be the serial killer.
Although Detective Mike Donovan agreed to go along with Killroy and Costos’s plan to put decoys on the streets, he kept his mouth closed as much as possible about his hesitancy. Not only was he putting Tyron Johnson’s girls in a sticky situation, not to mention a number of undercover female cops, he was well aware that his own reputation was on the line. The media, both the television and the papers, were coming down hard on them. Just the night before, MSNBC had done an hour-long special on the French Quarter Killer—interviews with distraught parents of the murdered women, and even with Anna, Donovan, and Killroy. By now the entire country believed that Gonzales was the serial killer and since his face had been blasted from one coast to the other, the citizens were frothing over the fact that he had not yet been found.
Throughout the reporter’s overeager grilling, Anna had kept her opinions to herself. It simply wasn’t good form to publicly argue the police department’s stand on the investigation. Remaining closemouthed through the interrogation was not her style, but as Dr. Jeff Montgomery had pointed out, better to let the real killer stew in his self-satisfaction. With the department focusing on Gonzales, the real French Quarter Killer would do one of two things. His annoyance that someone else was taking the credit for his killings would drive him out to make a statement, or another killing. After all, it was simply a game to him. A power and control issue. He was a man who needed the attention to bolster his importance in the world.
Gonzales, on the other hand, was a thrill seeker. Such assaults were sporadic sprees—strike out at anyone—man, woman, child.
The FBI’s VICAP Division had processed this case in record time. The only case files that had come close to matching the French Quarter Killer involved four prostitutes murdered in Maryland the year before. Evisceration, decapitation, and total dismemberment—heads missing—but no removing of the heart. Just like the New Orleans killings, their apartments had been clean of evidence even though the crimes had been committed there.
Anna tailed after Costos and Donovan on the evening they intended to plant the wired hookers throughout the Quarter.
“Just listen to me,” she said. “Think about what I’m saying. If this guy was going to hit again, he would have already done it. He might be crazy, but he’s smart. You’ve got squad cars and cruisers crawling along these streets like a damn funeral procession. Your so-called hookers have UNDERCOVER COP
stamped on their foreheads. Anyone who frequents these girls on a nightly basis is going to know them. They stand out like a freaking neon sign.”
Donovan entered his office, tossed his files onto his cluttered desk, and dropped into his chair, glancing at Costos. “Does she ever shut up?”
Jerry glanced at Anna, his eyebrows lowered. “Not if she can help it.”
Anna planted her hands on Donovan’s desk and leaned toward him. “You listen to me and you’ll make First Grade Detective and get all the pats on the back you can take from the governor and senator. The citizens in this town will put a statue in your honor on Jackson Square.”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “So talk. But make it fast. We’ve got eight undercovers wired and ready to walk.”
Anna sat in a chair and crossed her legs. “Okay. Listen. Don’t so much as breathe until I’m finished.” She glanced at Jerry. “That goes for you, too.”
Jerry propped one shoulder against the bulletin board on the wall where photos of the slain women were thumb-tacked to it.
Anna never took her gaze from Donovan’s blue eyes. He looked haggard and sleepless. But for the shoulder holster and gun he wore over his shirt, he could have passed for a hungover Tulane student.
“Look, Mike. We haven’t exactly seen eye to eye during this and previous investigations. You don’t like the FBI shouldering its way into your job. You specifically don’t like me—a profiler. I understand. You feel we come with crystal balls and tarot cards.”
“Hey, I never made that comment. That was Armstrong.”
“Profiling is a…science. Statistics that rarely fail.”
“Get to the point, Travelli.”
“You call this creep’s bluff. Call in the media. Inform them that you’ve made an arrest of the man you feel is your French Quarter Killer. Refuse to release his identity. You might even say your supposed perp has already confessed, not just to the serial killings but to the assault on Barker. Pull in your cruisers and squads.”
He stared at her. “You’re nuts.”
“These creeps know they can’t take any risks at this point. Wouldn’t dare. So you accomplish two things. One: Gonzales is going to feel safe and go on the hunt again—beat up and rape a hooker or two. Two: Your serial killer is going to be mighty pissed that someone is stealing his thunder. Both men will hunt again. Your serial killer is going to make one hell of a statement. He’s going to try his best to make the NOPD and the FBI look like idiots. Remember, it’s the power and control he’s after. Notoriety. He’s got something to prove, Mike. Right now he’s feeling untouchable and arrogant enough to believe he can continue to get away with murder.”
Donovan slumped in his chair, looking as if he hadn’t slept in a week. The normally pristine, starched white shirt he wore was sweat-stained in the armpits, and his tie lay curled on his desk like a sleeping navy blue snake. He hadn’t shaved in days. He needed a haircut. A lock hung down his brow, accenting his dark blue eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness.
“Seems to me, Travelli, that you’re still assum
ing that Gonzales is not our serial killer.”
“He’s not,” she snapped, then glanced at Jerry, who raised one eyebrow and shrugged.
Donovan narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you just go back to Quantico and do whatever it is you do. I believe my department has this case well in hand without your help.”
Anna slowly left her chair and leaned her weight on his desk, hands propped upon the stack of files open before him. “I would like nothing better. Right now we’ve got a child killer in Baton Rouge. Cult stuff. Sacrifices. I’ve got a killer in East Texas that the populace is convinced is an alien from outer space who’s kidnapping women and cutting out their uteruses, leaving their bodies as calling cards in crop circles. Nasty business. But my superior is convinced that the French Quarter Killer is going to strike again given the first opportunity and you guys are fighting us tooth and nail. Stop being such a damned macho, bullheaded cop and cooperate.”
Donovan fingered his lower lip and glanced at Costos. “So you’re saying not to put the girls out tonight.”
“Not in the least. Put ’em out. Just, for a few days, feed the press and public what they want to hear. I’ll guarantee Angel Gonzales and your serial killer will hit again the moment they think they’re off the hook.”
Donovan lowered his dark eyebrows and chewed on a toothpick, glanced up at Jerry.
Less aggressively, Anna rewarded Donovan with a smile. “I know your reputation, Detective. You haven’t made Second Grade by sitting back on your laurels and watching the uniforms catch the bad guys. Gonzales is going to strike again. And so is your killer. Maybe next time it won’t be hookers. Next time it might be little girls.”
ANOTHER WEEK PASSED. No one booked but the usual drunken tourists with pockets full of cheap Vieux Carré souvenirs. It was midnight when the phone rang, jarring Anna from sleep.
“Donovan. Okay, Travelli. You win. We do it your way. Are you happy?”
“You’ve let the media know?”
Lover Beware Page 17