Читать книгу Shiver - Cynthia Cooke - Страница 9

Thunder boomed overhead and electricity crackled through the air, prickling the hair on the nape of Detective Riley MacIntyre’s neck. The large drops of rain wetting his shoulders didn’t relieve the stickiness of the hot August night as he approached the crime scene. Someone yelled for a cover and umbrellas were quickly opened above the body. Then a tarp was stretched over the area.

Sweat, partly from the heat and partly in expectation of what he’d find, ran down Riley’s back, further dampening his shirt as pulsing red and blue lights flashed on and off centuries-old brick in a strange melodic symphony. He stepped over the yellow caution tape encircling the crime scene and made his way toward the group of people congregating in front of the Village Carré Hotel.

Mike Parker, a young officer from the Eighth District, approached him, his footsteps matching beat for beat the music echoing down Bourbon Street. “We have everything under control, Detective MacIntyre.” A hint of wariness creased his eyes. “We can handle this. You don’t need to be here.”

Riley cocked a smile but couldn’t quite soften the edge of annoyance in his voice. “The last time I checked, this was my case.”

“We haven’t established if this is part of the night stalker case. This one is, uh…different.” Parker looked down, fidgeting.

Riley frowned. “You obviously need some time off, ’cause you’re not making any sense. All homicides are handled downtown. You know that. It doesn’t matter if it’s related to the night stalker case or not.” He patted Parker’s shoulder, then strode off, annoyed that his routine crime-scene approach had been thwarted. He liked to walk a scene to get a sense of the perimeter—the sounds, sights, smells—before approaching the victim. Sometimes the brutality of murder deadened his perceptions. Then all was lost, his case compromised.

He tried once again to recapture the scene, absorbing the music, the scent of onions and garlic and simmering jambalaya, a constant yet comforting smell in the French Quarter. As he approached the building, a roach popped out of a broken stone tile in the sidewalk, then scurried into a cracked grate.

In the crevice between the structure’s brick wall and the steep cement steps leading into a doorway, a body leaned haphazardly, the face hidden beneath a thick mass of blond curls. Blue-jean-clad long legs stretched out on the sidewalk. His gaze lingered over turquoise spiked heels adorning perfectly shaped feet. His gut twisted; sweat dampened his palms.

He took a step closer, though for the first time in his career something urged him to turn away—some gut instinct that was his strongest, most prized possession as a detective in the New Orleans Police Department. He looked back at Parker, who was still watching him, shifting from one foot to the other.

Something wasn’t right.

He took another step. Tony Tortorici, his friend and partner, stood from his examination of the victim. Suddenly, Riley could see her clearly—her deep purple shirt, loops of bright beads hanging from her neck. Pulse racing, he saw how two strands of gold-and-green plastic dice were entwined tightly around her neck, pushing into her delicate skin.

His breathing went shallow as he took in the ugly purple-red bruises beneath the beads and the gold locket lying snug between her breasts. Tony walked toward him, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his eyes filled with sympathy. Riley couldn’t move, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t draw enough of the thick, foul air into his lungs.

He focused on the thick mass of blond hair, hair that he remembered could look like silk billowing in the wind. A sharp twinge shot through him. In her lap, her hands, crossed one over the other, rested against the light blue fabric of her shirt, her pinkies interlaced. The position was strange, but before he could think on it further, his eyes locked on the contrasting colors between the top and the bottom of her shirt.

Pain surged through him, slicing his heart as surely as the killer had sliced her throat, turning the blue fabric dark purple with her blood. Blood that had pumped from a heart he’d known since childhood.

“I’m so sorry, man,” Tony said as he reached him.

The compassion on Tony’s face hit Riley like a blow to the stomach. Anguish loosened his neck muscles and his head rolled back. He stared into the night sky. Drops of rain pelted his face as agony welled up inside him and broke free in a heart-wrenching roar.

Michelle.

DEVRA MORGAN dreamed of death again—another blue-eyed blonde. She sat up with a start, her heart beating against her chest, her breath coming fast and hard. She brought two shaking fingers to the soft skin of her throat almost expecting to feel a deep gash and the sticky warmth of blood.

Her cat, Felix, meowed in protest as she threw the covers over him and stumbled to the bathroom. Cold sweat chilled her. The distinct scent of the Quarter, with its heavy air and heady taste of the Mississippi, still lingered in her mind. She stood under the hot spray of the shower, scrubbing until her skin ached.

Why now?

Pulling on a plush white robe, she trudged to the kitchen, put the teakettle on to boil and closed her eyes as an onslaught of chills shook her. She couldn’t go through this again. Not now. Not after she’d actually convinced herself they were over—the horrible dreams that had destroyed so much of her life.

She picked up Felix and squeezed him against her chest, burying her chin in his soft fur. “Why is this happening now?” She set him down and opened a can of cat food. “I’ll have to move again,” she muttered. If she didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before the police came calling and her world came crashing down around her. Again.

She sighed, added a spoonful of honey to her tea and strode toward her office. The quicker she got down on paper what she’d seen in her dream, the sooner she could purge it from her mind. Her writing had become an amazing catharsis over the years. Her only means of escape from her nightmarish reality had turned into her salvation and allowed her the freedom and the anonymity she needed to survive. She sat behind the large white desk, turned on her computer and began to type.

“Hey, lady, looking good tonight. Want me to read your fortune?”

The woman glanced at the tarot card readers and threw the cute one a wave. “No, thanks. Tonight I make my own fortune.”

Devra’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she slipped into her “zone” where each story overcame her. She typed steadily reliving her dream careful to get down every detail, hoping somehow, some way, her dream would help. Not that they ever had before. Town after town, she had to watch women die and yet was never able to stop it from happening or help find their killers. The dreams always came too late.

He took something gold and shiny and slipped it around her neck. A gold heart with a rose etched across the front dangled between her breasts, nestling amidst the rivulets of blood seeping from her throat.

Devra stopped typing and stared at the words on her screen, her heart pounding anew. She closed her eyes and pictured the locket in her mind. Her locket? Her stomach muscles clenched with fear. The one she’d lost last week, the one her parents had given her on her thirteenth birthday. The one with her name inscribed on the back.

Her vision swam as she stared at the screen. How had this monster gotten her locket? And why had he left it on that poor girl? Was it a message for her? The realization hit her hard. He stole her locket!

He knew who she was.

THE NEXT MORNING, Riley and his partner sat parked outside a well-kept, small yellow house in the Garden District. Through the plastic bag, he read the word etched on the back of the locket. Devra. He turned to his closest friend and partner, Tony Tortorici. “I can’t believe you found her so fast.”

“Hey, with a name like Devra, tracking her was as easy as slicing into one of Mama’s homemade pecan pies.”

“What do we know about Miss Morgan?” Riley asked, letting his gaze wander over the manicured lawn and abundant flowers. There was nothing unusual or even rundown about the house, and yet a prickle of anxiety ate away at him.

“Not much. She’s clean.” Tony inspected her file. “Just moves around a lot.”

“For her sake, she’d better be clean.” Riley tried to squeeze a character type from the place she lived, but it was nondescript, a typical modest home in the lush Garden District a few blocks down from the opulent mansions that saw a steady stream of tourist traffic.

Concern filled Tony’s large Italian eyes. “You shouldn’t go in there. You shouldn’t even be here now. Go home and be with your family. With Mac.”

Riley fought the guilt and weariness that threatened to overcome him at the mention of his brother’s name. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of his sister-in-law propped against the wall, her throat slit from ear to ear, was painfully etched in his mind. “I can’t.”

Tony’s dark eyes intensified. “You can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? Michelle was taking this case too personally.”

“You couldn’t know she’d go undercover and try to flush the night stalker out alone.”

“I knew some sicko was slicing up prostitutes in the Quarter. I should have watched her better. I should have been more—” inwardly, he cringed as he said the word “—protective.”

“She would have been insulted, and she would have thought you doubted her abilities as a cop. You know that. You also know if you go in there and confront Miss Morgan, you could blow this investigation.”

“You’re right. But Tony, Michelle was family.” A lump the size of a crawdad caught in his throat. “I should have done something. If only—”

“Michelle was a strong-willed cop. She did what she wanted and damn the consequences. You knew that about her, and so did Mac.”

Riley scraped a thumb across his unshaven jaw. “I’m going to track this guy down. I won’t let him get by with this. And I won’t blow this case.” His gaze drifted over the roses, blooming in a riot of color lining the walk. “I’ll turn on ‘Mr. Charm.’ I’ll be on my best behavior. I just need to see for myself how she responds when I show her the locket.”

Tony closed the file and slid it between the seats. “All right,” he relented. “Two of us will spook her. I’ve been up all night tracking down Miss Morgan and I’m in desperate need of some caffeine. You’re on your own. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Don’t blow it!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Riley opened the car door. “I’ll find out exactly what she knows about Michelle’s death. Whatever it takes.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Tony muttered, and pulled away from the curb.

Although it was only 9:00 a.m., the hot August heat was already intolerable. Riley walked toward the front door, pulling at his shirt collar, lifting the fabric from his skin. He rapped on the door, waited a minute, then rapped again.

He stood on the front stoop listening to the incessant buzz of bees surrounding a gardenia bush, growing hotter and more impatient with each passing second. As he started to knock again, a shape moved behind the front door’s frosted glass.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath.

The door opened. His wide “Mr. Charm” smile froze on his face and his heart stopped at the sight of the woman in the white terry robe. A mass of golden curls framed her face, falling in reckless abandon around her shoulders. Blue eyes, tired and disoriented, held a dim sparkle deep within their depths.

Michelle.

“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked, clutching the opening of her robe.

Her sultry voice held no hint of Michelle’s Southern accent. Otherwise, she looked enough like Michelle to halt the blood in his veins. “Devra Morgan?” he asked and wasn’t at all surprised by the catch in his voice.

“Yes?”

He couldn’t help staring. She clutched the robe tighter. “I’m Detective MacIntyre with the NOPD. Is this yours?” He held up the plastic bag containing the golden locket in one hand, and his badge in the other.

Her eyes widened, turning a deep cobalt blue and becoming even more beautiful than he’d previously thought. “Wh-where did you find it?” she asked.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Come in.” She stood back, allowing him to step into the entryway. He followed her into a darkened living room. The furniture was sparse with no plants, no pictures, not much of anything personal or otherwise.

“Please, have a seat,” she offered, and gestured toward a small table in front of the window. As he sat, she reached behind him and pulled the cord that lifted thick wooden blinds. Sunshine filtered through the slats, setting fire to the gold in her hair.

She smelled faintly of vanilla and he caught himself inhaling deeper. He couldn’t stop staring at her hair falling in long lazy curls down the middle of her back. He was sorely tempted to touch it, to run his fingers through the delicate strands.

She looked down at him, catching his gaze. Her eyes flickered with a myriad of colors and emotions. There was a longing in her expression—something she wanted or needed—but it quickly disappeared and her expression turned wary. She ran a hand through her hair. “Would you excuse me for a minute, please?”

He nodded and watched the soft sway of her hips as she turned the corner. While at first glance her resemblance to Michelle was overwhelming, she was different in many ways—her walk, her height, the flawless texture of her skin and her lips. Michelle’s lips had been thin and expressive, but this woman’s were wide and luscious. Lips made for devouring.

He stood, annoyed at his thoughts, and pushed them from his mind. Obviously, he was tired and not thinking too clearly. He began a preliminary search of the room, just to get a handle on the woman and what she was about. Opening an old cabinet in the corner, he found a television, TV program guide and a remote control. No bills, coupons, cassette tapes, film canisters—nothing like the clutter in his house.

The mantel above the fireplace held only an old clock, the kind in a glass dome that chimed on the hour. He passed through a doorway into the kitchen and found the same bold emptiness. Had she just moved in? He pulled open a few drawers, but found only bare-essential kitchen items.

“Looking for something?” she asked, her voice low and sultry with an edge of what? Irritation? Fear?

He shut the drawer and turned ready to give her his best “hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar” excuse, but his words died on his lips. Her glorious mane of hair had been twisted severely back across her head, and large glasses covered her eyes and half her face.

The white robe was gone, too, replaced by a dull, gray sleeveless smock. She’d transformed herself into someone no one would ever notice. As he stared at her, he was finding it hard to believe she was the same sexy woman who’d just left the room. What was with the getup? Why was a beautiful woman hiding beneath such an ugly facade?

“I’m sorry, Miss Morgan. I’m afraid I’ve let my curiosity overcome my good manners,” he drawled, letting his accent roll heavily off his tongue.

She raised a skeptical brow.

“I know it must be hard to believe someone you just caught snooping in your drawers has good manners, but my mama would’ve been remiss if she didn’t pound those Southern manners into me every day of my rebellious life.” He gave her that famous MacIntyre grin, known to melt butter in frying pans and sizzle any lady’s heart. Well, except maybe this one. She wasn’t biting any more than a gator in December.

“What can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Detective MacIntyre,” he repeated.

She nodded, her eyes turning frostier by the moment.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked.

“What does that have to do with my locket?”

“First things first, all right?”

“I don’t understand,” she hedged.

“Please answer the question.”

“Three years.”

He looked around, disbelieving. “In this house?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t believe in too many possessions, do you, Miss Morgan?”

“May I have my locket?”

“I’m afraid not.” He propped himself against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest.

“And why’s that?”

Was that a quiver in her voice? “Evidence.”

Her gaze shifted down and her small white fingers fluttered like a butterfly as she played with the top button on her dress. “When, then, may I have it?”

“Don’t you want to know why it’s being held?”

A shadow passed in front of her eyes. She mouthed something, then dropped her hands to the counter between them.

He stepped closer to her, determined to discover what had her so fidgety. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

“No. I don’t,” she blurted.

“Now I find that mighty strange.” He took another step toward her, placed both hands on either side of hers and leaned in close. Close enough to see the creamy white skin of her throat flutter as she swallowed. “Why wouldn’t you want to know what happened to an obviously cherished possession?”

She took a step back, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Most people would,” he continued. “Why not you?”

She didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor between her toes and wrung those small white fingers. Fingers that could have slit Michelle’s throat? He was finding that difficult to believe, but she was afraid of something.

“Is there some point to all this, Detective MacIntyre?”

Her lower lip quivered, and he felt an urge to reach out his thumb and still it. “What do you do, Miss Morgan?”

“Excuse me?”

“For work?”

“I write.”

“A writer, huh? What do you write?”

“Would you like some coffee? Iced tea?” she asked.

“Tea would be great.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, kicking one boot over the other, and watched as she passed, sorely tempted to blow on the fine hairs that had slipped their bondage to feather against the back of her neck. He forced back the thought and considered how hard he should push for the answers to the questions she was so obviously evading.

She opened the fridge, removed a large pitcher of tea and filled two glasses. She placed a glass in front of him, along with a bowl of sugarcoated pecans.

“Thank you, ma’am. That’s mighty hospitable of you.”

Without looking at him, she picked up a pecan and bit into it. A dab of sugar creased the corner of her sweet little mouth. The tip of her tongue peeked out and licked the sugar away. The movement warmed the chill in his blood. He ignored it and gulped down his tea. Her large luminous eyes watched him, looking vulnerable one moment and calculating the next. This was a woman with a secret. One way or another, he was going to discover what that secret was.

DEVRA TOOK a deep breath to steady herself. She turned her back on the rude detective to return the tea to the fridge. She needed to stay calm, to give nothing away. Her hair tickled the back of her neck, sending an uncomfortable heat racing through her. He was staring at her again, with a look so intense she was sure he could see right through her.

She closed her eyes. Breathe—in and out, in and out. She tried to ignore the intense gleam in his eyes and the hard lines sculpturing his jaw. They made her anxious. They made him look as if he could become unhinged at any moment.

“So, what type of stuff do you write?” he asked, pinning her with another of his dark, primitive stares.

“All types,” she muttered, and dropped her gaze to wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist where tight jeans molded thick thighs. With dark blond hair and eyes as brown and rich as a cup of espresso at Emeril’s, the combined effect definitely made the man a risk. She’d have to be extra careful around this one. He could do too much to her senses without even trying.

“Published?”

“Enough to make a living.” She watched under lowered lashes as he popped a few more pralines and drank down his tea in large gulps. He exuded an overabundance of confidence and moved with the grace of a panther. A dangerous mix, and she had a good idea he could be equally ferocious.

A trickle of moisture ran between her shoulder blades. She glanced at the clock. “Look, I’ve got to go soon. Are we about done?”

His gaze, cool and assessing, studied her. “A young woman—twenty-five, blond, beautiful, married and happy—her whole life in front of her, was found dead in the Quarter with this around her neck.” He held up the plastic baggie containing Devra’s locket.

But she couldn’t look at the necklace; she was too focused on the man’s eyes, the deep brown of them melting in pain. He’d known this woman well. “I’m sorry,” she offered, though she understood it wasn’t enough.

It never was.

His eyes narrowed and his pretense of charm and suaveness disappeared, replaced by something uglier, something desperate and frustrated. “I want to know how this necklace wound up around her neck.” He slammed his glass onto the counter. She jumped, refusing to meet his eyes. There was nothing she could offer that would help him or that woman.

“When was the last time you saw your necklace?” He was close—too close—stealing her energy, her breath, her feeble hold on her senses.

She stared at the locket through the plastic, focusing on the small rose etched on its face, on anything but him. “Last Saturday, at the Children’s Hospital.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I mean…I think I am.”

“Can you think of any reason why your necklace would have been found on a murder victim?”

Because I’m next? “No,” she whispered. She looked up at him, her gaze colliding with his. Big mistake. His doubt, his anger, riding so close to the surface, frightened her. “I don’t know. Maybe she found it,” she offered in a voice barely above a whisper.

“No one has ever seen her with it before. Plus, it has a picture in it of a couple I’ve never seen. I know her. She wouldn’t wear a locket with someone else’s picture in it.”

Devra nodded slowly. Of course she wouldn’t.

“Who are they? The couple in the picture.”

She hesitated, her tongue seeming to thicken and fill her mouth.

He stepped closer. She could smell him now…rich, spicy, male.

“Who are they?” he repeated.

“My parents.”

“Where do they live?”

“Washington State.”

He pulled a notepad out of his back pocket. “Their names?”

She hesitated.

He looked at her, waiting, coldly calculating.

She said the names she hadn’t uttered in fifteen years. “William and Lydia.” William and Lydia Miller. But she wouldn’t tell him that much, not if she could help it. He closed the notepad and shoved it back into his pocket. She let out the breath she’d been holding and waited for him to back away.

He didn’t.

“Is that all?” she stammered.

His piercing gaze looked right through her. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“Like what?”

“Do you have a record?”

An ice pick of fear pierced her heart and sent a cold shiver pulsing through her. She knew what was coming, knew what he’d ask next. He stepped closer stealing her air. “Have you ever been arrested?”