Читать книгу Contact - Evelyn Vaughn, Linda Winstead Jones - Страница 10

“T he dead woman,” Faith said, with the fake Virginia accent she’d adopted for these anonymous public-telephone contacts, “was having nightmares about vampires.”

“Vampires?” repeated Detective Sergeant Butch Jefferson, from his mobile.

In his background, Faith heard someone else—his partner, Roy Chopin. “She’s gotta be kidding you.”

“Y’all clearly don’t understand dream interpretation.” As soon as she’d decided to pass information from her psychic companions to the New Orleans Police Department months ago, Faith had known she must remain anonymous. For one thing, she’d been raised to keep a low profile, a habit difficult to shed. For another, explaining that she was merely speaking for the psychics, instead of as a psychic, would lessen her already shaky credibility.

Instead, when she made contact, she pretended to be a reader herself. She’d pulled the name Cassandra out of the blue, probably because she believed herself to be conveying the truth, as surely as the ancient Greek heroine had, and because, like that mythic Cassandra, Faith honestly doubted anyone in authority would believe her.

“Well then, Miss Cassie,” said Butch, his drawl far more real than hers. “Won’t you please enlighten us?”

“I would be delighted.” She readjusted the black receiver of the pay phone in the Aquarium of the Americas. She never used private numbers to call Butch. “Dreams can’t generally be taken at face value. They tend to be symbols.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“If Miss Tanner feared vampires, that could mean she was afraid of being drained of power, of energy.”

She heard Butch say, away from the mouthpiece, “She thinks maybe the dead psychic was worried about being drained of power.”

“Could be she just went into withdrawal when Anne Rice moved to the suburbs,” said Chopin.

“Could be,” insisted Faith, “that she was predicting something about her own death. Being murdered is about as drained as a girl can get, isn’t it? Did either of you nice detectives get the impression that the murderer might believe in magic?”

“I fear we’ve been too short on likely suspects to do that kind of questioning,” admitted Butch. Whether or not that part was true.

“Well, y’all should check. All kinds of details could have magical meaning, which could tell you something about your killer. For example, if you found salt at the crime scene.” She knew they had. “Salt’s a protective substance, magically speaking. Or if there’s a chance she was strangled with something made of natural fiber, that would indicate a killer who’s concerned with energy transference.”

She’d learned of the dreams from Absinthe. Moonsong had explained the significance of salt, and of a silk cord versus, say, nylon.

“You don’t say,” mused Butch. “Miss Cassie, I do believe you may be on to something here.”

Then she had to wait while he repeated the insight to his partner and fielded the usual smart-mouthed responses. Faith shifted her weight, feeling exposed in the bluish light, filtered by displays of wavering water. The Aquarium of the Americas would be closing in half an hour. She hoped to finish this call before they made any kind of announcement that would tell the detectives where she was.

She also wore a black wig and sunglasses, in hopes of skewing anyone’s description if the police traced the call and come around asking questions.

It was during long delays like this that she got the most paranoid. She also didn’t like having the time to notice that whoever had used this public phone before her had drunk more than one hurricane. It reeked of rum.

“So what’s your opinion, Miss Cassie?” asked Butch. “Was Krystal Tanner killed by one of her spiritualist co-workers?”

“No! I mean—most folks who work on, shall we say, the edge of expected reality? They understand the consequences of karma. If this man you’re after wanted to take Krystal Tanner’s energy, he’s likely some kind of untrained wannabe.”

“Why is it you think that?”

“Only two things could make him think he can escape the karmic repercussions of murder, Detective Sergeant. Either he’s got such strong personal power, psychic shields, that he doesn’t have to worry about it—in which case he’d know that someone else’s energy wouldn’t do him a whole lot of good—or he’s too ignorant to know better.”

Butch murmured what she’d said to his partner, then asked, “Do you have anything else for us just now, Miss Cassie?”

She heard a slow beeping on his end of the line, like a car door had been opened while the key was still in the ignition. They’d arrived at wherever they were going.

“If this fellow’s a wannabe magic user, he might try some kind of crash course,” she suggested. “There’s a psychic fair Wednesday night at the Biltmore Hotel.”

“The one that had those strange fires last year?” Apparently the damage had been almost entirely external. Then again, almost every old building in the Quarter had some strange story to tell.

“That’s the one. There won’t just be readers there, there’ll be experts offering classes. Someone who wants to learn about manipulating energy, chances are he’ll show up.” That had been her first introduction to the magic community of New Orleans, anyway. “And on the chance that he might be looking for more victims, that would be the place.”

“I appreciate that advice,” said Butch. “But if you don’t mind me asking, Miss Cassie…”

Which was when she felt them. Rather, felt him.

Roy Chopin was like a walking car alarm of energy—and he was getting closer. They’d traced the damn call!

“Tsk, tsk,” said Faith, frowning, and hung up.

Then she headed deeper into the aquarium, mingling with the other visitors, and was around a corner before the detectives ever made it through the entrance, much less to the pay phones.

He loved that they were all frightened of Him.

He was, in fact, the talk of the Crescent City Psychic Fair! For a while He felt happy just sitting outside one of the ballrooms at the Biltmore, watching the people come and go, listening to their conversations. He could tell some of the psychics by how they dressed—tie-dyed shirts, multiple necklaces with different charms hung on them, gauzy, sparkly skirts. They were the ones who talked the most about Krystal Tanner—that’s what the newspapers called the other night’s human battery—and their fears about who might be next. He could tell the visitors by their dazed expressions as they scanned the fair’s program, and by their uncomfortably loud jokes, pretending that they were here as a lark when, really, each of them wanted to believe. And then there were the ones in-between, the ones He couldn’t be sure about.

Like that green-eyed blonde.

She was the same one who’d chased Him away from Krystal Tanner. She’d caused trouble for Him. And she wasn’t scared.

He felt stronger, when people were scared. He felt more real. So he didn’t like her. But was she a psychic? She didn’t seem to be attending any of the workshops, but neither had she paid for tickets—readings cost between five and twenty-five dollars, in five-dollar increments, depending on how skilled one’s reader was. She wasn’t even carrying a program, and almost everyone carried programs. Instead, she seemed to just be moving from one ballroom to the other, almost…patrolling.

As if someone like her could protect these witches from the likes of Him.

In any case, if she had no abilities, she was beneath His notice. Once He saw the detectives from the other night approach her, He decided it was time to slip into one of the smaller lecture rooms, to hear about “Chakras and Personal Energies.”

Maybe then, He’d figure out how to draw more fear out of these people. Soon, if He kept feeding, even the Master wouldn’t be able to contain Him.

Then He would be free.

Faith felt Chopin’s approach, but she decided not to turn until he said something. Why advertise that she could hear his footsteps and his strong heartbeat, could smell his unique scent of coffee, aftershave, motor oil and forcefulness on the hotel’s Freon-edged air?

“Don’t tell me you believe in this junk?” he demanded, as he leaned around her elbow.

Faith blinked at him, his suit coat rumpled, his tie loose, his top two collar buttons undone to show a tanned throat and a thatch of dark chest hair. He needed a shave and a haircut, and—to judge by the shadows under his intense eyes—a good night’s sleep. That extra edge of coffee—black, and lots of it—told her he was pushing himself too hard. If it was to solve Krystal’s murder, she liked that about him.

If it wasn’t, then she was still annoyed about him trying to catch her—as Cassandra—the previous evening, even if he hadn’t succeeded.

“I didn’t know you were a believer either,” she countered, then had to laugh at the face he pulled in reaction. “Hello, Detective Jefferson,” she added to Chopin’s more easygoing partner. She knew his real title was Detective Sergeant, but since Cassandra called him that, it seemed a good idea if Faith did not.

“Call me Butch, ma’am.”

Even better. “Okay, Butch. Are you two here officially?”

“We figured we’d take a look at the kind of folks Miss Krystal knew,” explained Butch, while Chopin looked on like a kid dragged to his sister’s school concert. His mouth was in threatening mode, and his jaw was definitely a dare. “Maybe track down that missing lover. Ask a few people if they saw anything. Do you know any of the psychics ’round here?”

“Sure. All three of my roommates are reading tonight.”

Chopin let his head fall back, relieved. “So that’s why you’re here. Keeping an eye on them, right?”

Which was true, but she didn’t like his tone. “That, and to maybe get a past-life analysis or have my aura cleansed. Were you two looking for someone in particular?”

“Yeah,” said Chopin. “The killer. Any suggestions?”

She had to remember that it was Cassandra who’d brought them here, not, as far as they were concerned, Faith. But it was surprisingly easy to hesitate, to glance around. “A few minutes ago I saw the guy who tended bar at DeLoup’s the night Krystal died. But I was talking to him at the time of her murder. And none of my roommates know who Krystal was dating. I believe them.”

“Here’s a thought,” suggested Butch. “We need to figure out more about why this fellow targeted a psychic. Why don’t I make the rounds, talk to some of these fortune-teller types, while Roy here trades you a cup of coffee for an overview of this little community. How would that work for everybody?”

If everybody was Faith and Roy, they just stared at him.

Chopin snapped out of it first, shrugging his rangy shoulders. His suit coat hung open to show the gun and badge on his belt. “Uh, sure. Couldn’t hurt, right?”

Yes, it could, thought Faith. But she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t sense any threat from this man. He was pure cop, and even if she’d been a suspect through her close knowledge of the victim, the evidence couldn’t be less incriminating. He wasn’t out to arrest her. He was…

Was he interested in her?

She’d smelled that shift of pheromones often enough in her life to know that yes, he was. But she also knew physical interest wasn’t exactly an on/off switch for most men, or quite a few women. Sometimes even inappropriate men, like a professor or a doctor, or even her boss, couldn’t help their body’s reactions. All she could hope was for them to guard their behavior. Most, like Greg the other day, did just fine.

Other than calling her cute on the phone, which could’ve just been teasing, Chopin was also keeping it cool. Distant. Although as she continued to hesitate, his brows drew together into a foreboding frown, like he was taking it personally.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll tell you whatever I can, Detective Chopin.”

“You can call him Roy,” insisted Butch with a grin and a wave, veering off toward the first ballroom.

“That guy’s as subtle as an ax to the head,” muttered Roy, forcing an after-you gesture that was hardly sulky at all.

“I’m guessing you don’t get out much?” said Faith, preceding him toward the wide, curved stairway. The restaurant’s bar, the only place to get coffee, was off the lobby on the ground floor.

His presence, behind her, felt downright tangible. “Not that it’s any business of his or yours, but no, I don’t. I’m a little busy what with all the murderers and scumbags running around needing to get caught.”

“All work and no play…”

“Is exactly the sort of thing Butch would say. So how do you like your coffee, Miss Corbett?”

She didn’t bother requesting that he call her Ms. Corbett. She let him fetch the drinks, too. That sort of thing mattered to some guys. For her part, she waited at a little bistro table, her chair turned so she could watch the foot traffic to and from the stairway to the ballrooms and the psychic fair.

“So what can I tell you about the psychic community around here?” she asked, turning her back on the passersby when Chopin returned with the coffee. He was not a graceful man. She felt relieved when the drinks were on the table.

“How’d you get involved with this element?”

She blinked, unused to being taken by surprise. “Am I still a suspect, Detective? I was scheduled to go back to work tomorrow, after the memorial service, but if there’s any question…”

“No, you’re not.” Holding her gaze, Chopin leaned over the table, his presence all but enveloping her. “And it’s Roy.”

Faith considered him and the way his pulse and body temperature belied his cool attitude. “Oh. Well, if you’re asking for personal reasons…I mean, if you’re asking because you’re interested…” She didn’t quite have the guts to finish that sentence, unsure as she felt. “Anyway, you really should be clear about that, and not hide it behind official business.”

He sat back now, folded his arms, studied her. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Tomorrow’s my night off. Go out with me.”

She stared. For someone who telegraphed his emotions that strongly, he’d surprised her twice in just a few minutes!

Maybe he only telegraphed what he wanted to telegraph. The strength. The intensity. The threat. Things that would tell any suspect with a few brain cells to rub together that this wasn’t anybody to mess with. The other stuff, the more personal stuff, he hid that pretty well.

She only caught a whiff of regret when something in his intense eyes faded. “Or not,” he said, shrugging. “I just wanted to get that out of the way before—”

“Okay.” Now she’d been surprised three times. She hadn’t expected to be surprised by herself, though.

He blinked at her, then widened his eyes, raised those expressive brows. “Okay?”

“Tomorrow night. It’s a date.” Faith was so used to reading what other people gave off, it took her a moment to realize that the flip-flopping in her stomach came from her, not anyone or anything else. But that reaction, at least, wasn’t surprising.

She didn’t date. Being whatever she was—not knowing what she was—made things way too complicated. And now she’d said yes? To a homicide detective? One she was hiding things from?

But I’m only hiding Cassandra, she thought grimly. I’m only hiding that I’m not…normal.

What was she supposed to do, make every possible date contingent on a confession of her abnormalities? Magazines suggested that a person keep private problems like STDs or past relationships quiet until at least the second date…or before getting naked, whichever came first. Why was her own freakishness any different?

Now she could barely breathe past the butterflies. What had she done?

She’d taken a defiant stab at being normal, that’s what.

“Good,” said Roy, with a decisive nod. She could tell he was pleased, though he hid it well. “Now, could we move on to the important stuff? How long have you known these people? Not because you’re a suspect—but how well do you understand them?”

It was easier, talking about impersonal things like the New Orleans occult community. And the Big Easy definitely had a thriving occult community. Of course, Chopin—Roy—knew a lot already. He’d seen the Voodoo Museum and Marie Laveau’s tomb. He knew where the vampire bars were—not for true immortals, as far as Faith knew, but for wannabes marginally more Goth than Absinthe. Lord knew Roy couldn’t have patrolled Jackson Square without seeing the readers. But he’d never taken the time to learn what really motivated the psychics.

Until now. When in detective mode, he wasn’t a lousy listener.

Faith explained that none of them seemed to be cult members—an official cult had to have a leader, and the majority of psychics were self-taught. She clarified the more innocent reasons that readers often chose new names, and how careful most of them were to abide by the vice laws that—hopefully—kept people from being defrauded by cons like the old curse-removal ploy. She thought she did a pretty good job at not focusing too intently on the detective’s thick wrists while she talked, or the dark hair on the back of his wrists, or his big hands as he cradled his cup of coffee and stared intently at her, listening. She thought she managed not to breathe in his scent and think about their upcoming date too often.

Would he touch her?

Would he kiss her?

Did she want him to?

How ridiculous was it that she was freaking about something this basic at twenty-two years old! It was time to practice Krystal’s quiet breathing techniques.

“So upstairs,” he said, thankfully oblivious, “some of the readers as you call ’em only charge a nickel a pop.”

“Nothing that cheap,” said Faith. “It starts at five dollars….”

Roy grinned as if she’d said something cute. He looked a lot more approachable when he grinned, even if it was mocking. “Butch was right. You are an innocent. A nickel is five dollars, hon. And when I say that for some of those readers, you need a Jackson to get past the door…?”

She didn’t like being an innocent. It sounded too close to being stupid. “You mean a twenty? Got it.”

“So why the difference? I mean, it’s fantasyland either way. Do they actually think there’s something there?”

“It’s not fantasyland.”

He cocked his head as if waiting for the punch line.

“Really,” she insisted. “Some of the readers are so good it’s uncanny—”

“Look, Corbett, I’ve read reports. There’s all kinds of tricks people use to make it seem like they’re reading your mind when they’re just telling you what you want to hear. Now if Miss Cleo up there’s only charging a Jackson for it, I can live and let live—I mean, it would cost that much for a hand…uh, for, uh, other kinds of happy feelings that are less legal. If you know what I mean.”

He paused, examining her. “I honestly don’t know if you do know what I mean. I think I like that about you.”

She was pretty sure she did know what he meant, but it seemed counterproductive to say so. Especially when her tummy was flip-flopping just because he’d said he liked her.

Get a grip. You aren’t even sure you like him!

“So the amount they charge makes a difference to you?” she asked.

“The clients are asking to be duped. But what I want to know is, do these people honestly not realize they’re fleecing anybody?”

“Maybe you should get to know them better.” Faith couldn’t keep the ice out of her tone, and Roy visibly drew back. “If you did, you’d know that the majority of psychic readers are honest people trying to provide an honest service. They aren’t fleecing anybody. They decide what to charge based on who’s been practicing the longest and who has the best track record.”

“Come on. If everyone up there was really psychic, why wouldn’t they win the lottery instead of getting paid a few Jacksons at a time?”

“This is a psychic fair. It’s community outreach. Personal readings cost a lot more than a few Jacksons.”

“Not an argument in their favor.”

“And psychic abilities don’t necessarily work that way. How’s your eyesight?”

Damn, but he had expressive eyebrows. “Come again?”

“You’ve got pretty good eyesight, right?”

“Sure.”

“So tell me who’s standing in front of the Eiffel Tower right now.”

He snorted. “I couldn’t say.”

Faith folded her arms, trying to look severe. “I thought you had good eyesight. Were you conning me when you said you had good eyesight?”

“But,” he countered, clearly enjoying himself, “if I got on a plane and flew to Paris, I could describe anyone in front of the Eiffel Tower. Why wouldn’t one of those psychic types get on their imaginary plane and fly wherever they needed to go to get a good look at tomorrow’s lotto numbers?”

Which left Faith with nothing better than, “It doesn’t seem to work that way.” It sounded lame, even to her ears. “And then there’s karma.”

They scowled at each other. Then Roy tried a different angle. “So how good a rep did Krystal Tanner have? As a reader, I mean.”

“She was one of the best.” And she was. You’re so lonely, she’d told Faith during that first reading, and that without even touching her. Because you sense so much, you try not to sense anything at all. You haven’t found your soul mates yet—or they haven’t found you. You’re scared to let people know your secrets. So’s the woman who raised you…your mother…?

“Who else is considered good?”

Faith gave him a few names, most of whom were upstairs, several of whom were published. “Then there are some who don’t do the public fairs.”

“Name one.”

“Celeste Deveaux, I guess—she was a lousy fortune-teller, but she’s supposed to be an excellent medium. She doesn’t like doing readings for people whose grief is still fresh, so she avoids walk-in readings like this. There’s a witch who goes by Hecate who’s the real deal, but she’s out of state right now.”

He actually had his notepad out of his pocket, writing these down. “A witch. Great. Give me more.”

No, she thought, annoyed with his pushiness as well as his cynicism—and still, damn it, noticing his thick wrists. Then she had a truly bad idea. An unmistakably bad idea.

So why did it appeal so strongly?

You’re playing with fire. Don’t even think about it.

“Come on,” wheedled Roy, turning on the charm. He would never be a model, not with the tired eyes, definitely not with that nose. But something about him… “Someone. Anyone.”

By now, the alternative would have been to bite her tongue off. “She’s not well known, but I’ve heard rumors of someone in town who’s supposed to be very good. Very, very good. It’s a Greek name…Cassiopeia? No, that’s not it….”

He sat up. “Cassandra?”

She widened her eyes. He liked innocence? Well here was innocence. “That might be it.”

Roy was gritting his jaw so tightly as he shook his head that she feared he might break some teeth. Wow. He really didn’t like Cassandra, did he?

Better to know that now, she guessed. “Not that I’ve ever seen the woman. Apparently she keeps to herself.”

“Yeah, but you’ve heard something.” Like that, he was leaning over the table again, warm and demanding and coffee-scented. Practically leaning over her. Practically touching. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”

Caught now, she would have been glad for almost any interruption.

She still felt a cold horror wash through her as she recognized something—a footstep, a heartbeat—behind her.

The killer was here.

And he was feeding.