Читать книгу Say You Love Me - Rita Herron - Страница 8

“IWILL FIND OUTexactly what you’re keeping from me.”

Detective Dubois’s warning echoed in Britta’s head as she searched her memory for any confession letters that might have hinted at violence or murder.

What if the killer had written to her in advance and she had ignored the warning or completely missed it? Maybe she could have saved this woman if she’d paid more attention….

Disturbed by the thought, she bagged the last two months’ submissions to carry to the police station the next day. For now, she had to take a walk. Clear her head.

The stench of beer, alcohol, smoke, sweat, urine and garbage permeated Bourbon Street. The raucous laughter and horny, groping drunken strangers were a dreaded experience.

But living on the streets had taught her how to deal with them. The thought of holing up in her apartment above the office with back copies of the magazine—alone with her own demons—was something she couldn’t face yet.

She’d walk to the Market, lose herself in the local musicians and artists, grab a bite of supper. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d missed lunch. The possibility of a nice crisp crab salad or bowl of seafood gumbo made her mouth water.

She checked over her shoulder for the hundredth time to make certain no one was following her as she wound through the chaotic crowd. A man wearing a patch over his right eye whispered an invitation for her to join him in the pub next door, but she rushed past, aware the man tracked her as she disappeared into the throng. Next door, another club offered half-priced drinks along with pole-dancing, featuring the mammoth-breasted Moaning Mona. Two dregs wearing ratty T-shirts that read “I fuck like a Mack Truck,” grunted an invitation for drinks and a threesome. And a group of bikers boasting tattoos of snakes and tribal symbols huddled around an outdoor table, guzzling beer and making catcalls to the girls flashing their boobs for free drinks and beads.

She plunged through the tawdry mob, south toward Jackson Square and the French Market where the less seedy side congregated in the outdoor cafés, finer restaurants, the open market and shops that comprised the Vieux Carre. Although street musicians and artisans normally flocked to the area, now an open-air festival had been set up with artisans showcasing their creations, demonstrating techniques, offering sketches for the tourists and squabbling over prices for their treasures.

A clown created balloon animals for the children in one corner, a mime entertained in another and a long-haired hippie rasped out music on a washboard for pocket change. Down the street, the famous jazz music of Louis Armstrong flowed from a restaurant while blues tunes paying homage to Fats Domino wailed into the steamy sultry air. Patio gardens and flowerboxes from the delicately carved balconies added color and a sweet fragrance. This was the N’Awlins she loved.

She seated herself at her favorite outdoor café, ordered a glass of pinot grigio and a crab salad, then studied the crowd as she sipped the wine.

But the hair on the back of her neck bristled. Someone was watching her.

She scanned the streets again. Oblivious to her unease, the air buzzed with activity and excitement, celebrating life and the renewal of the city. A mime plucked a coin from behind a little girl’s ear, while puppeteers drew the small kids in droves. Families littered the streets, carrying tired children with painted faces, cotton candy and tacky souvenirs, tugging at heart-strings she tried to ignore.

She banished them quickly. She was not a family kind of girl.

Instead her past mocked her. And the whisper of danger echoed in her ear….

I know your secrets. And you know mine.

No. It was impossible. She’d never told anyone about her childhood. Especially about that night.

And her mother…. Surely she wouldn’t have confessed to anyone. That is, if she’d survived herself.

Then again, her mother had done other unspeakable things.

The washboard player took a break and an earthy-looking saxophone player claimed his spot, adding his own jazz flavor to old favorites. She glanced behind him, toward the edge of the street, and noticed a tall, bald man holding a camera. Her fork clattered to the table. Was he photographing her?

She craned her neck to see more clearly and he lowered the camera. Shadows from the silvery Spanish moss shrouded his face as if he’d been cocooned in a giant spiderweb. Then he lifted his right hand and waved. Her breath caught in her chest.

A series of flashes flickered like fireflies against the growing darkness. Once. Twice. A dozen times. She blinked and threw her hand over her forehead, spots dancing before her eyes.

He was watching her. Taking pictures….

For what reason?

Panic and anger mushroomed inside her and she stepped forward to go confront him, but the waiter appeared with her check and blocked her path.

“Chere? You pay before you leave us? Qui?”

She sighed, removed her wallet and paid. But when she glanced across the street, the man had completely disappeared, lost in the darkness and the sins waging the city.

HOWARD KEITH STOOD nursing a Jax, a locally brewed beer, across the street, shielded by the exuberance of the Mardi Gras festivities. Britta Berger had actually noticed him.

Of course he was at a distance and she couldn’t see his face.

Howard’s right hand went to his prosthetic eyeball and he blinked, feeling it slip out of place. He popped it out, dusted it off, then slipped it back inside his eye pocket, blinking to create enough moisture to force the fake eye to settle.

Of course, he tried not to handle the ocular prosthetic in public, at least not in front of women. They tended to balk at the empty eye socket.

Although even with his eye in place, they were put off by his appearance. They never knew quite where to look, where to focus, so they averted their gazes and studied his feet, his stomach, his hands, anything but his face. And within seconds they rushed away, dismissing him as if he was a freak.

He would show them. Prove them wrong.

His fingers tightened on the camera. Even his interest in photography had garnered laughter and disbelief. How could he truly be an artist when he had no peripheral vision? No depth perception?

The camera compensated. Its powerful lens enabled him to capture the planes and angles, the light and shadows, the depth he wanted, and record it in vivid detail. And New Orleans certainly provided enough colorful characters, scenery and entertainment to feed his camera-frenzied mind.

Then he could do with it as he wished. Create masterpieces with his sketches, mold the faces into sculptures if he chose. Give the subjects life forever. Paint the eyes.

The eyes were the windows to the soul.

Did Britta Berger have any idea that he had seen into hers? That he had been watching her for months? That he knew her schedule. The food she chose for breakfast. The way she liked her coffee. The fact that she enjoyed a glass of wine on her patio at night before she retired. That she brushed her short red hair at least a hundred times before she crawled beneath the sheets.

That she slept without underwear.

That he’d seen her naked in the shower, her own hands stroking over sensitive private places that he ached to touch.

Yet, the seductress that he saw thrived on privacy. She was an enigma. He’d discovered that in his research. In her own way, she was hiding from life itself.

The vulnerability in her eyes had drawn him. She wanted someone to reach out and make the pain of her past dissipate. But she was afraid. After all, underneath her physical beauty lay lies, weaknesses, false promises. Evil.

Yes, a bad girl lurked inside Britta Berger and he would show the world her true self, just as he would with his other subjects. If it hurt them, then so be it.

His own pain had brought him to this point. He used it. Thrived upon it. It had inspired the theme for his work, which would hopefully gain him acclaim.

Then the beautifuls would be erased, their ugliness exposed forever.

IRRITATION KNOTTED Jean-Paul Dubois’s shoulders as he drummed his knuckles on R.J. Justice’s desk. Dammit. Time was critical. He had a murder to investigate and the magazine owner had kept him waiting for half an hour.

Long enough for him to decide he didn’t like the man. That he was weird. His office collections indicated an interest in S and M, witchcraft, bestiality and photographs that bordered on porn.

Justice finally loped in, tugging at his tie. “Sorry about that. My meeting ran over.”

Jean-Paul ignored the feigned apology and studied the man’s features, sizing him up. The women might call him handsome but a cold hardness that Jean-Paul had detected in other suspects hinted that he was ruthless and calculating. He would do whatever he had to do to protect Naked Desires. And to get what he wanted in his personal life.

“You met with Britta already?” Justice asked as he settled into his desk chair.

Jean-Paul nodded. “She was very helpful.” Britta had claimed she and Justice were simply business partners. Just how did Justice feel about her?

“She was upset,” Justice said. “Were her fears justified?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Justice ran a hand over his sleek desk. “Damn. So the crime scene was real?”

Jean-Paul nodded. “We found the woman in the photo murdered earlier.” He leaned forward, his gaze penetrating. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Justice shrugged. “I realize our magazine caters to the…adventuresome side, so we get some odd mail. But we certainly don’t condone murder.”

Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes. “I asked Miss Berger to bring all the mail she’s received in the past month to the station. It’s possible this guy wrote in before.”

Justice hesitated. “I suppose that sounds fair, although I would like to keep our magazine out of the investigation when you talk to the press.”

“You don’t want the publicity?”

Justice shrugged. “I can stand it, but I was thinking about Britta’s safety.”

“Of course.” Jean-Paul cleared his throat, not certain he believed the man. What if Justice had killed the woman, then sent the photo to Britta anonymously to stir publicity?

“Do you keep a record of the submissions with the sender’s name and address?”

“Yes. In a secure file.”

“Who sent this photo?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Justice said matter-of-factly. “I checked and the envelope wasn’t logged in. Ralphie must have found it in the overnight-mail slot and put it on Britta’s desk.”

“Then I need to speak to him.”

Justice punched a button on the intercom and ordered the boy to come to his office.

Jean-Paul stood. “Mr. Justice, can you tell me anything that might help us find the killer? Did you know the victim? Had you ever seen her before?”

Justice steepled his fingers as if in thought. “No. Should I know her?”

“Not necessarily, but I have to ask.”

“What was her name?”

“We haven’t identified her yet.” Jean-Paul paused. “How about the cabin? Did you recognize it?”

Justice scoffed. “That shanty could be any one of a hundred tucked in the bayou.”

Jean-Paul pushed on, “Have you received any calls or letters yourself that might be related?”

“I would have reported it if I had, Detective.”

“Can you think of any reason the killer targeted Miss Berger with the photograph?”

Justice raised a brow. “She’s a beautiful woman. Maybe the killer saw her photo in the magazine and wanted to get her attention.”

“You’re probably right,” Jean-Paul admitted, although his gut instinct hinted there was more. And that Justice was holding back. Maybe he was the one fixated on her. Maybe he’d killed a replica of her to frighten her into his arms.

“How long have you known Miss Berger?” Jean-Paul asked.

Justice’s hands tightened by his side. A telltale sign that the question stirred his anxiety. “A few months.”

“And your relationship is…?”

“Strictly business,” Justice said with a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes.

“Has she been involved with anyone recently? Someone who might want to hurt her?”

“Not that I know of,” Justice said in a curt tone.

“You haven’t noticed any strange men hanging around? Maybe outside?”

“No.” Justice cleared his throat. “Well, except for that Reverend Cortain and his religious group. They’re harassing us.”

“By protesting the publication of Naked Desires?”

Justice heaved a sigh. “Yes. That idiot reverend is leading the madness. If you ask me, he’s a psycho himself. Maybe you should check into him.”

Jean-Paul made a note to do so. “Has he threatened you or Miss Berger?”

“He sent fliers to Britta about his protest rallies, touting some religious bunk about us leading others into sin,” Justice admitted with a scowl. “And if this murder gets out, he’ll probably accuse our magazine of triggering sexually related crimes.”

“Where were you two nights ago, say around midnight?”

Justice snapped his head up, his eyes seething. “You can’t possibly think that I had something to do with this. For God’s sake, I encouraged Britta to report the incident. And like I just said, this crime will only be fodder for Cortain’s nonsense.”

“I have to ask so I can eliminate you as a suspect.”

Justice shuffled his day planner. “I…was with a woman. I can give you her name if you want. She’ll vouch for me.”

Jean-Paul indicated a pad on the desk. “I’d appreciate that.”

Justice’s lips thinned into a straight line, but he tore off the sheet of paper and shoved it toward Jean-Paul.

A knock rapped on the door and a skinny, blond kid appeared. “Mr. Justice? You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Ralphie. Come in. Detective Dubois from the New Orleans Police Department needs to ask you a question.”

Jean-Paul gave him a once-over. Young. Naive. Khakis and a designer shirt with Italian loafers. Green under the collar.

Not a murderer.

The boy paled. “Did I do something wrong?”

Jean-Paul explained about the photo and Ralphie collapsed into a chair. “I…I thought Miss Berger seemed upset when she asked me about the mail earlier, but she didn’t tell me about the picture.”

“What did she say?” Jean-Paul asked.

“She wanted to know if I’d seen the person who’d delivered the envelope.”

“And did you?”

“No.” He crossed his feet at his ankles, rocking sideways. “It was under the door this morning when I arrived.”

Jean-Paul nodded. “So you put it on her desk? But you didn’t open it first?”

“No. It was addressed to her.” Embarrassment colored his face. “Miss Berger doesn’t like me to read the mail. Says I’m too young.”

“How did you get those scratches on your hand?”

“My dog.” He stared at his knuckles. “I just got a boxer puppy. I’m trying to train him but, man, he chews on everything in sight.”

Jean-Paul frowned. The kid obviously knew nothing. “Have you noticed anyone lurking around, maybe watching Miss Berger?”

“No one specifically. Although men always look at her.”

Yes, they would. Although Britta could probably take care of herself, a sliver of worry tickled his spine, arousing protective instincts born of years on the job.

His reaction certainly couldn’t be personal. Britta Berger was definitely not his type.

But the killer had chosen her for a reason.

Jean-Paul intended to find out exactly what it was.

And why his victim had resembled her, as well.

A GUST OF WIND from the impending storm rattled the trees and sent leaves swirling around Britta’s feet as she rushed through the mob on Bourbon Street to her apartment. The storm clouds grew darker; the sounds of feet pounding the pavement became more ominous as the night swelled with the hordes of tourists. She glanced over her shoulder, repeatedly searching for the photographer, but a fog of drunken tourists obliterated any individual from standing out.

Still, someone was out there.

She sensed him watching her, felt his beady eyes on her skin. Studying her. Waiting.

Was it the photographer she’d spotted during dinner? The killer who’d sent her the photo?

Were they the same man?

She considered calling the cops but what could she tell them? She had an odd feeling? They’d think she was crazy.

A beer can rolled across the pavement, clanging into a metal garbage can and she shrieked, pausing as a beefy hand reached down to grab it. “Sorry about that, ma’am.”

She tensed at the lascivious look in his liquor-glazed eyes, and pushed past him, shouldering her way around more groping hands until she reached Naked Desires. Neon lights dotted the street with color, highlighting the painted print and logo on the door window. Several lurid males drooled, their faces pressed against the fog-coated glass as they tried to peek inside.

Ignoring their pleas for a sneak preview of the upcoming magazine and offers to share their fantasies with her, she maneuvered her way inside, slammed the door shut and locked it. But she froze at the sight of the darkened stairwell leading to the upstairs apartment. She tried the light, but it didn’t work. Had someone messed with it or had the bulb simply burned out?

You’re being paranoid. How many times last month had it done the same thing and she hadn’t thought it suspicious?

Choking back fear, she clenched her keys, ready to use them as a weapon. Outside, the wind howled like an animal. She unlocked the door and hurried inside. With only three rooms to the tiny apartment, she raced through them all, finally muttering a silent thank-you to find them empty.

Still, she paused in her bedroom, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling. The top bureau drawer which held her underwear was open slightly. Hadn’t she shut it this morning when she’d left for work? Normally, she kept her garments neat, her bras on the left side, her favorite frilly underwear on the right. In the drawer below, she stored her teddies. Now, her underwear was jumbled as if someone had pawed through it. Frantic, she jerked the second drawer open and gasped. Her teddies had also been moved around as if someone had touched them.

Then she saw it—a red crotchless teddy lay in the center of her bed.

A low sob caught in her throat. It was just like the one the dead woman had worn in the photograph. She glanced up in horror and noticed the note stuck to the mirror.

“I always have one eye on you. You can’t run forever.”

Shaking with fear and disgust, she rushed to the bathroom and splashed water on her face to stem the nausea. What should she do? Could that photographer somehow have gotten into her place? Or the killer who’d sent her the photograph of the murdered woman?

Hands shaking, she reached for a towel, patted her face dry, then glanced in the mirror, expecting to see a madman staring at her. But only her terrified eyes were reflected back. That and images of a long-ago time she’d thought she’d forgotten. Of a terrified little girl and a man she refused to speak of….

She spun around, ran into the bedroom to grab her purse and retrieved Detective Dubois’s card. She had to report the break-in. Show him the red teddy.

But if she did, he’d ask more questions. Want to know more about her and why this psycho had decided to stalk her.

She’d thought today’s note had to do with the magazine. But what if it had something to do with her past?

D-day—the day she’d died and started a new life.

No, it was impossible.

Maybe she should just pick up and run again. She could start over. Find another job. A new name. A new city.

But the face of the young woman who’d died rose to haunt her. She was so young. Hadn’t deserved to be left in the bayou for the mosquitoes, snakes and gators to feast upon.

Memories of the night she’d fled into the bayou rushed back. She’d been dirty, hungry, terrified and so thirsty she’d hallucinated. She’d seen the devil and other wild, mysterious creatures in the marshy swampland.

And now, thirteen years later, another one roamed the streets….

She couldn’t run this time.

Not with the dead girl’s face etched in her mind permanently. It would stay with her no matter where she went. And so would her guilt and the memory of her sins.

The only way to escape them was to pay her penance.

Maybe by helping to find this woman’s killer, she could finally receive forgiveness.

LOUP GAROU—the swamp devil.

Jean-Paul grimaced. The local PD had already dubbed their newest killer with the name. The fabled creature lived on in the minds of the Cajuns as real as the day the legend started.

Only a devil could leave a woman the way this sicko had—helpless, dead, exposed in the heart of the untamed bayou.

Even though it was late evening, Jean-Paul met his captain and partner at the ME’s office. When he showed the photograph to his partner, Carson, and his lieutenant, Phelps, cursed.

“I’m sending it to forensics, although I doubt we’ll find prints,” Jean-Paul said. “Maybe they can trace the photocopy paper.”

Phelps frowned. “The son of a bitch is bragging about the murder.”

“Did he really expect that magazine to print this?” Carson asked.

Jean-Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. But for some reason, he wanted Britta Berger to see his handiwork.”

“Because of her column?” Phelps asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe there’s a personal connection.” Jean-Paul recalled her reaction to the photo. She’d definitely been shaken. And he sensed she didn’t like cops.

He’d run a background check on her to find out the reason.

“Maybe he knows her,” Phelps suggested.

“Or wants to,” Carson added.

Phelps nodded. “That’s possible. If so, Britta Berger might be in danger.”

A frisson of unease rippled through Dubois, heating his blood. He’d arrived at the same conclusion on the way back to the precinct. What if this psycho didn’t stop at one victim? The symbols he’d left reeked of a ritualistic killing.

The ME, Dr. Charles, appeared in his office and waved them back to the crypt. “Have you identified our Jane Doe yet?”

Phelps snorted. “No, we’re searching all the national databases but so far, no hits.”

“We’re checking the universities and clubs, too,” Carson added.

Jean-Paul sighed, already tired and the investigation was only getting started. If the vic was an out-of-towner who’d come for Mardi Gras or to cash in on the heightened prostitute business during the festival, the identification process would be more difficult.

Phelps cut to the chase. “What did you find, Dr. Charles? Anything that might help us?”

“Nothing conclusive yet. Except that the girl didn’t die from the chest wounds. I suspect she might have been poisoned.”

“What kind of poison?” Jean-Paul asked.

“I don’t know. I’m still running tests.” Charles indicated one of the containers from his handiwork. “So far, her stomach contents don’t reveal traces of a poison so she didn’t ingest one. I didn’t find any injection marks on her body, either.”

“Keep looking,” Phelps said.

“Any evidence of rape or a date rape drug?” Carson asked.

Charles shook his head. “Not so far.”

“Which meant she agreed to have sex, then things got out of hand,” Jean-Paul surmised. “Once we ID her, we’ll start with her boyfriends, lovers. All her male acquaintances.”

Jean-Paul’s cell phone trilled and he unpocketed it and hit the connect button. “Detective Dubois.”

“Detective…this is Britta Berger.”

Alarm shot through him. Her voice sounded shaky, frightened. Had the killer contacted her again? “What is it, Miss Berger?”

“Someone broke into my place tonight,” she blurted. “I…think it might have been the man who killed that woman.”

Jean-Paul’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Keep the door locked and don’t open it for anyone.” His pulse kicked up a notch. “I’ll be right there.”