New Orleans
Chapter 1
I wonder how long it's been since anyone besides the killer and his victim and Reyes and me has been here. Except for the body lying on the floor, the room we stand in looks and feels as though little has disturbed it for years.
Turn on the light, Daddy, it's dark!
Stifling an impulse to look back at Monica, I trail the beam of my flashlight along the cement block walls of the basement. It's a depressing, dark space with no windows and a painted cement floor. The door to the main part of the basement stands ajar, its door jamb splintered from the force I used to break it open. On the wall opposite, there are some yellowed newspaper articles and a few curling photographs pinned to a corkboard. Below it, an open Bible lies on a dusty table beside several partially burned candles and an open box of matches.
When I direct the flashlight onto the floor, its beam finds the body easily. The dead woman lies on her stomach, eyes open, head turned to one side. Her mouth is slightly open as though death caught her about to speak. One bloodied hand stretches outward in supplication to a God I know stopped listening a long, long time ago.
My guess is the body's been here only a short time. Still, it'll take days of forensics and crime scene investigation to gather enough information to give us concrete facts. I've already formed my own opinion, though. Monica was right: add this murder to a similar one here only two weeks ago - and to two others in New York a little more than a month ago - and what you've got is a serial killer. A serial killer who's confident, experienced, and enjoys what he does. Glancing at the book lying open on the small table, I note that he reads the Bible, too - or at least likes to have it lying around open while he goes about his business.
"You see anything?"
My voice sounds muted in the stale basement air.
Monica turns, her yellow halo of light moving with her. Shining her flashlight onto the open book, she observes, "The Bible's open to a different page this time."
Silently cursing the fact that no one ever seems to leave a body where the electricity works, I carefully step towards her in the darkness. Shining my flashlight directly onto the pages, I note the book and chapter. "You're right."
Monica just gives me the eye. Of course she's right - why else would she have said anything?
She looks around, her dark eyes taking everything in. After hesitating a second to choose her words, she offers, "Perhaps what he's reading is related to what he's doing. And this," she says, indicating the murder scene with a wave of her flashlight, "is his version of throwing down the gauntlet. This is a declaration of some sort - to Satan or God, I don't know yet, but it's definitely a declaration."
I've got no idea where she gets these ideas, but I hang on for the ride. "God or Satan? That's quite a range in possibilities, isn't it?"
"Not as wide as most people think," is all the answer I get. She turns away to shine her flashlight along the floor again.
Only half listening as she begins making more observations, I wonder which side the killer thinks we're on. With a suddenness that takes my breath away, I'm struck by the image of a shadowed figure huddled over a book in flickering candlelight. His eyes half closed and one long finger following the words, the man's lips move as he reads. I can almost hear the low murmur of his voice. There's another presence in the room, too: frightened, helpless, its life force slowly ebbing. I feel something akin to an electrical current in the air. It swirls around me, growing in strength. Dread making the hair stand up on the back of my neck, I turn to-
"John?"
Abruptly, I'm pulled back to the here and now and the vision or whatever it was disappears. Monica is looking at me, a frown creasing her brow. The still, musty darkness of the room feels suddenly malevolent and I suppress an urge to head for the door. Shivering slightly, I push aside my overactive imagination and move my flashlight along the walls, purposefully turning away from her. It's easier to pretend nothing's happened if I don't look her in the eye. Even with my back turned, though, I can feel her gaze.
She knows.
I'm beginning to think she always knows. I'll be damned if I'm gonna admit it, though. "Go on, I'm listening," I say, making a show of examining the bare walls and refusing to answer her unasked question about what just happened.
"He's setting a scene," she says slowly, allowing me my act, sidestepping the questions that hang in the air between us. "He knows exactly how he wants us to find everything."
Still aware of her watchful gaze, I continue my pretence of nonchalance and trail my flashlight over to the still figure lying on the floor. I say the first thing that comes to mind: "But this isn't how the other bodies were positioned."
The yellow halo from Monica's flashlight joins with mine in unholy union over the body. "I don't think he had time to lay her out the way he wanted to, so had to improvise. Perhaps the neighbour who reported her missing was walking around the house or something. He isn't someone who likes disruptions, but I believe he left pleased with the overall effect." She pauses, looks about, then says, "He may be worried that we aren't getting whatever message it is that he wants us to get."
That last I recognise as another one of her damned 'leaps'. Monica has a talent for taking what she sees and making an extrapolation that has nothing concrete to it but which usually works out to be right. She says she senses things. I think it's a load of crap, and maybe a little creepy. I look around and again feel an urgent need to leave and go outside to breathe fresh air, see starlight. I look at the body. Whoever did this isn't sending any message other than he's crazy and likes to kill.
I decide I don't like it here and that it's time to leave.
I want to go now, Daddy!
"The police will be here shortly, and they'll have portable lighting. Why don't we go outside to wait? We've seen all we can for the moment."
That's Monica, reading my thoughts again. Usually I hate it when she seems to do that, but this time I don't care what gave me away. I nod and go into the main part of the basement, pointing my light in the direction of the stairs that lead to the main floor of the house. Since my arrival in New Orleans a couple days ago, we've been conducting our investigation on nothing more than tenuous leads and hunches. Tonight we'd been led to this house by a little of both: neighbours reported the owner missing and Monica, hearing about it from a friend on the New Orleans police force, suggested that we investigate.
I tried to squash the idea the minute she came up with it. "It's a matter for the local police, Monica, not two visiting FBI agents," I told her.
She looked at me calmly. "I've already got permission for us to go, and I think we should. You know how long it'll take the police to get there. To them, it's just a missing persons report - and one made by neighbours, not next of kin. It's way, way out of town, and they're busy. It'll be at the bottom of their list." She gestured with her hands, "We've got the body of one woman in the morgue, two in New York just buried, and I have a feeling- "
She had 'a feeling', and that's how I ended up here, leaving a house with a body in its basement. A basement, for godsakes. How many basements are there in this neck of Louisiana? Two? The water table's so high here you can't dig a hole to plant a potato without hittin' water. No one builds basements here - not 'nless they're lookin' to have a fishpond at the bottom of the cellar stairs. Monica, of course, has not only managed to find a house with a basement, but a house with a basement with a body in it. Go figure.
Glancing over at her, I can see that she's not in the least struck by the incongruity of the body's location. She's still mentally refining her theory, mulling over whatever it is she mulls over when she takes her leaps of logic.
Her cell phone rings, startling us both.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she stops and after a moment of fumbling takes out her phone, presses a button, and says, "Reyes here."
She steps out into the kitchen area of the small bungalow, phone to her ear, listening carefully to whoever is on the line. There's a long silence. She stops, nods a few times, frowns once or twice, but otherwise gives no indication as to what is being said or by whom.
Finally, she says, "Thanks, Peter, I owe you. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." She listens again. "That would be nice, it's been a while..." Her smile widens at something Peter says. "You're the best," she says before hitting the 'end' button.
Still smiling, she looks at me and catches me staring. With a slightly flustered air, she drops the smile and explains: "An old friend - he let me know about the missing persons report. I called before we left and asked him to look up some information for me. I worked with him a few times when I was here in our New Orleans office. He's a good guy."
"I'm sure he is," I say, already certain I don't like him much.
Changing the subject, she starts moving toward the kitchen door. "Let's get outside. I could use some fresh air."
I follow her out, wondering about Peter and the information he's been gathering for my partner. For one fleeting moment I think about mentioning what I saw in the basement, then decide I'll take up knitting, first. The last thing I need is her getting all het up over something I imagined.
Under the light of a hazy full moon, we take deep breaths of night air to clear our lungs. I'm expecting silence, but discover a night filled with sound. Beneath our feet, the buzz of unseen insects creates a crazy counterpoint to a cicada's hum. A gentle, warm whisper of air carries the rustling sound of small mammals scurrying in the bushes that skirt the front yard; peepers sing insistently in a nearby bijou. In the far distance, I can hear the faint crunching sound of a car driving over gravel.
This is all just background noise, though: my attention is really focussed on my partner, and wondering what she's thinking. I'm pretty sure it involves things I don't want to hear - things I'll have to persuade her against every step we take.
A harsh scratching noise, and a match flames into life. Monica's face appears briefly in its yellow glow, then disappears as she inhales on a fresh cigarette. Soon, the smell of tobacco will reach me, stirring up the old, familiar hunger for nicotine I don't think I'll ever get over. I quit years ago, but not because I was disgusted with the habit. Hell, I loved it: the taste, the feel of smoke lingering in my lungs, the texture of the white, golden tipped cylinder between my fingers. Occasionally I indulge in one, but not, I decide, tonight.
Pulling away from thoughts of life's little pleasures, my mind trails back to the body lying in the basement. The bloody marks on the palms of the hands and feet tell me what I am sure forensics will later - the woman has, at some point, had nails driven through her hands and feet, then had a knife stuck into her stomach. Like the other women, she probably bled to death. She hadn't died here, though: there isn't enough blood on the basement floor and there is no evidence to indicate that they'd been anywhere else in the house. Where she'd been tortured and why she'd been brought back to lie in the basement of her own home is yet another mystery.
There's also the Bible to consider. We'll have to see if something's significant about what's on those open pages. Monica will think there is. Given the Bibles found at the other sites, she's likely correct. I sigh. Four women: Patricia Hendricks, Alicia Livingston, Ursula DeBois, and now Lelia Gorse. All dead. All tortured in the same way, their only apparent connection the fact that they were murdered by the same guy. There's no proof yet that the murders were done by the same person, mind you, but you'd have to be crazy not to think so at this point.
The sound of tires grating on stone becomes louder and headlights span the yard. The local police have arrived.
What does God look like, Daddy?
It's going to be a long night.
Four hours later, we're back at our hotel and ready to compare notes.
"The bodies in New York and the other one here were laid out ceremoniously," I say, lifting the folder in her direction. "This one wasn't. Different killer?"
I don't think it is for a minute, but I have to consider all possibilities.
"No. He was disturbed before he was finished, that's all."
"You sound pretty certain."
Of course she is. Visibly stifling her impatience at what she thinks is my stubbornness, she defends her statement: "The other crime scenes are too similar for it not to have been the same killer. The details haven't been released to the media, so there would be no way of knowing that the Bible should be there, or the candles-"
"-Or that the body would have its hands and feet pierced? I suppose you're right, but what about the newspaper articles on the wall? And the photographs? That's new."
Monica frowns and leafs though papers until she finds the crime scene photos. "For now, I'm assuming the killer put them there: they're not dusty or mouldy the way you'd expect if they'd been hanging there in the damp for years. To be honest, I'm not sure about them. They don't seem to be related to any one particular thing, though they're all from the religion section of the weekend edition of the New Orleans Tribune. Some of them date back more than ten years." Shrugging, she looks up and makes another of her leaps: "Maybe he's getting impatient at our lack of progress. He's taunting us with information he thinks we should have already discovered for ourselves."
"You're saying he wants to get caught?" This is me, playing devil's advocate. Monica looks thoughtful a moment, then shakes her head slowly. "No, but we're supposed to figure something out. There's something he wants us to know or understand. Perhaps in order to explain or justify his actions."
This is way too big a leap for a simple man like me to follow, so I let it lie. Holding up copies of the articles, I ask, "So we pay close attention to what's in these?"
Monica nods. "We need a Bible, too."
Standing, I walk to my bedside table and retrieve a black-covered Bible from a drawer.
"Thank you, Gideon," Monica says with a smile. Giving me a piece of paper, she says, "Here's the list of book and chapters open at the other crime scenes. See if you can find anything significant in what he was reading. I'll go through these articles."
I nod. With the heel of my hand, I swipe at the beads of sweat on my forehead. It's hot. Very hot. And humid, too. I look at Monica, who appears cool and comfortable in the capri pants and tank top she changed into before joining me in my room. I regret not putting on more casual clothing, too. It's one problem, at least, that I can fix. I undo my tie and move to unbutton my shirt. I stop when I notice Monica watching me, an amused look on her face.
"What?" I ask, irritated because I suspect the source of her amusement.
"I wondered how long it would take you to give in to the climate."
"There's no 'giving in' to it, I just want to be comfortable. If you want to work all night, I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit here and fry while we do it," I grumble. Pulling my shirt tails out of my pants, I remove my dress shirt. If she weren't here, I'd take off my t-shirt, too.
Something flashes in her eyes as she watches me, but it's gone before I can decipher what it is. "Well, get to it," she says. "I'll fetch us something cold to drink in a few minutes."
"Sounds good."
Sitting down, I bend my head over the book I'm holding and try to shut out the feeling of intimacy that has suddenly filled the room.
Forty-five minutes later, Monica looks up from her reading and stretches. "I'll go get something now. What'll you have?"
"Whatever's cold and wet," I reply, still silently cursing the lack of decent air conditioning. I'm told that the heat wave has put a serious strain on the power system and the public has been asked to restrict their use of electricity. Based on the room temperature, I'd say some civic minded person has decided we should all swelter for the common good.
Monica rises and grabs some change out of her wallet and the ice bucket off the table.
I watch as she leaves, noting with satisfaction the dampness on the back of her tank top and its proof that the heat's affecting her as much as it is me. I sit back, stretch out my legs, and look at the wall. I'm immediately confronted by a painting of the most unlikely looking blue-tinged trees I've ever seen. They're standing beside a brown river slugging its way through a lime-green countryside. Purple mountains hang in the background. The whole mess is hung over my bed and is one damn ugly piece of work - worse, even, than you usually get in places where no one much cares about what's hangin' on the wall. I get to my feet and walk to the balcony door in search of a better view and maybe cooler air.
It isn't much of a balcony and is barely deep enough for me to go out on and, should I want to, slide the door behind me. The street's empty: not even the alley cats are prepared to brave this heat. The air is still and oppressive and feels full of things unseen - and somewhere out there, someone who has murdered too many times is planning to do it again.
The sound of a door clicking closed makes me turn. Monica is back with two cans of Coke and a filled bucket of ice. She goes into the small bathroom and returns with two glasses wrapped in paper. Discarding the wrappings, she places a generous amount of ice in each and slowly pours the dark, fizzy liquid over it.
This is good, Daddy.
Finished, she picks them both up and walks to where I stand. After I take the glass offered, she holds hers up in a silent toast.
I lift mine in response and we both take a cooling sip. Monica then leans over the railing, her elbows resting on its flat metal top. I look at her, appreciating the lines of her back and ass and the swell of her breasts as she leans forward. Abruptly, I look away. There's been something different between us the last while that I haven't been able to put my finger on. Noticing things like her figure makes me uncomfortable. We work together, for gawdsakes. We're FBI.
But her hair looks soft and her skin smooth, and my thoughts still wander where they shouldn't.
She turns dark eyes toward me and smiles. She says something, but I don't catch it because I'm thinking she's beautiful and wondering what it would feel like to-
She stops talking and I'm left with no idea what I'm supposed to say. Fortunately, she turns away, so perhaps a response isn't needed. Maybe I'm just overtired, but I can't seem to keep my thoughts from wandering where they please. I wonder about her relationship with Brad Follmer and why it ended - and how it is for her working with him now. I've seen the way he looks at her and can guess that for him, at least, there's still something there. Is it reciprocated? I sigh inwardly. Does it matter? We're partners, and in a strange sort of way, friends; no way would I screw it up by screwing around with her.
But my hands wonder what it would be like to feel her skin beneath them.
She straightens up and asks abruptly, "Find anything?"
At first, I'm startled. Was my examination of her so obvious? Then sanity resumes and I shake my head. "Nope. Maybe I don't know enough about what I'm reading to know I've seen something. Far as I can tell, it's just the usual stuff about what you should do and what you shouldn't do."
But Daddy! I want to! I want to!
And what I want to do right now is the last thing I should do.
Our eyes meet and hold. There is a question in hers. And surprise, perhaps. We stand for a moment, frozen. There's a sense of vertigo, of wanting to fall toward her. I know I shouldn't, but oh, I want to...
She breaks the spell by glancing toward the skyline. A faint glow of daylight has begun to show, and she says quickly, "It's going to be light soon. I'm going to lie down in my room for a while. A couple hours sleep might help me think more clearly."
I nod, reluctant to see her go. When the door closes behind her, the room feels empty, and I feel very, very alone.
Daddy, I need a hug.
Me, too, son. Me, too.
* * *
Chapter 2
The heat is oppressive, making my tie and collar feel like a sweaty noose. We've been back out to the house, have spoken to neighbours and friends, tried to contact family, and are now waiting for the autopsy report. Most of what we've discovered is much the same as we learned from the other murders. There's certainly no mistaking that this is part of a series of killings. Somewhere is the piece of evidence that will lead us to the man doing this. It'll take time, but we'll get him. My worry is that it'll take us longer to find him than it will take him to find his next victim - or move on to another city.
My stomach makes its presence known with a long, low growl. The sandwiches we grabbed at a gas station on the way to the house were awful, and it's all we've had all day. Now we're back in the office the New Orleans Police Department has supplied us. Looking at Monica, I ask, "Why don't we go get somethin' to eat? We'll think better on full stomachs."
Monica raises her head from the report she's reading and nods. Though I don't think she minds the heat as much as me, she seems to be fighting an unusual sense of lethargy. She's been withdrawn and quiet, and that's not like her. I don't feel comfortable asking her if there's something wrong, though. Hell, I'm half scared to. I never know what's going to come out of that mouth of hers.
"I invited Kelly to join us for dinner. I'll call and let her know we'll be ready fairly soon," she says, reaching for the phone.
I try not to show my dismay. I met Kelly briefly my second night here, and the woman's okay, but a little unusual for my tastes. She's not the kind of person I'd expect Monica to be friends with. Then again, from what I can tell, my partner's got a side to her I haven't had an opportunity to see. This Kelly person must be part of that side.
"Know any place that's good and nearby?"
She pauses to think. "She can meet us at Jakes's," she decides.
I remember seeing the restaurant she named and feel a little better. It's close enough I can escape if I want to without feeling as though I should stick around and see Monica safely back to the hotel. I'm not saying she'd need the escort - God forbid. I'm just sayin' I'd feel as though I ought to provide it.
Replacing the phone on the receiver, Monica pulls a strand of limp hair behind her ear. "Kelly will meet us in about an hour and a half. I want to go back to the hotel and shower and change first. We've more than paid our dues to the suit gods today."
My stomach protests at the delay, but the thought of getting out of my shirt and noose makes me agree readily. As we leave the police station and walk toward our rental car, I realise what she's just said is the most she's said at one time all day. I glance at her. Like I said before, not talking isn't like her. There's definitely something about this case that's bothering her in a way I don't get.
After cleaning up, we arrive at the restaurant to find Kelly already waiting in line. She was smart enough to put our names down as soon as she arrived, so all we have to do is stand around until they call our names. That's something I've noticed about this city: no one seems to take phone reservations here - they'd rather you show up and stand around at their door like a herd of cattle, lowing in hungry frustration until they decide to let you in.
Maybe the psychology of that isn't bad. The food, once we're finally ushered in and seated, is damn good. My blackened steak is great, and if I knew how, I'd wax poetical over the rice. I can't identify everything that's in it, but given some of the stuff I saw on the menu, that may be for the best.
As I eat, Kelly and Monica talk in a shorthand I stop trying to keep up with. Snatches of things now and again make sense, but for the most part they talk of people and places and things I'm not familiar with. It's easy to tune them out, but once coffee is served, I do the polite thing and settle down to listen better.
Monica looks over at me and smiles. "You've been awfully quiet."
Shrugging, I tell her, "You guys needed time to catch up."
"I'm sorry if you felt cut out," Kelly says. Tilting her blonde-haired head to one side, she smiles. In a soft, clear voice that makes her southern accent a sort of whispered song, she adds, "I was worried about taggin' along, thinkin' you might want to talk about the case. Monica said y'all wouldn't mind extra company, though."
I refrain from shooting a glance at Monica, and ask, "You've known Monica a long time?"
My partner hasn't spoken much about her off-duty life in New York or her life here in New Orleans. This is an opportunity to learn, and I take it. There's a lot about her I don't know - and a lot of it I'm beginning to think she's deliberately kept quiet about. Kelly and I launch into a conversation about how she and Monica met (in a clothing store), where they lived (in the same apartment building), places they went (night clubs, a place called The Talisman, parks) the people they knew (too many names to remember). Even with all this information, I get the feeling that there are things she's not telling me, but it's still obvious that the Monica living in New Orleans was a little less circumspect than the Monica presently residing in Georgetown.
"What's 'The Talisman'?" I ask Kelly after the second time she's mentioned it.
"A club over on Contreau Drive. It's an unusual place; we loved it." She looks at Monica and grins, "Wouldn't it be fun t' just drop by? Why don't we? John might like it."
Monica looks at me. "I don't think it'd be something he'd be interested in."
"It's up to you," I say, knowing she doesn't want to go, but doesn't want me to know that she doesn't.
"We're not really dressed for it, John," Monica says, "And we ought to turn in early - we didn't get much sleep last night, remember."
Kelly glances between Monica and me, a spark of interest lighting up her eyes. Finally she settles on Monica, a smile on her face. "Oh?" she asks in a long, drawn-out tone. She doesn't ask what we were doin' to keep us up, but I know which way her mind's leaning. Monica just frowns at her. Unabashed by Monica's reaction to her wayward thoughts, Kelly shrugs, mutters something that sounds like "y'can'tblameagirlforhopin'" and then says lightly, "Well then, get your beauty sleep tonight and we'll try for another time. Thursdays are usually good - there won't be much of a lineup but there'll still be a good crowd. You don't have to worry about something to wear - I still have that green dress of yours. It'll be perfect."
It's okay by me. Who knows, we may not even be here by Thursday. If we are, and if we're free to go, we don't have to stay long.
And there's always a chance the place will have decent air conditioning.
Conversation turns to a variety of things. I continue to find Kelly a little weird. I keep expecting her to whip out a crystal ball and tell my fortune. I'm willing to bet she has one in her apartment, and I'm just as willing to bet she uses it.
Monica feels like taking a walk before going back to the hotel. I say okay, and to my surprise Kelly comes along, too. Once we've left the restaurant behind, she asks, "Can y'all talk about the case, or is it all hush hush?"
Monica rescues me from doing the 'we just met and already I'm telling you to mind your own business' thing.
"You know what it's like, Kelly."
She nods. "Okay. But I hope you find him fast. Somethin' tells me there's a twist to this 'un no one's seein'."
Monica's brows draw together, but she doesn't say anything.
"There's somethin' different about this one, Mon," Kelly shakes her head and then continues in a subdued tone. "People are talkin'...I gotta a real bad feelin' about this. Things aren't right." She looks like she wants to say more, but after a glance at me, stays silent.
I look at them, unable to figure out what she's talking about. People talking? There's nothing to talk about - the papers haven't been given anything to report. A bad feeling? I turn my head to look at Monica's friend a little better. Then it dawns on me. I've learned all sorts of things about 'feelings' from my partner. Shit. I was right to think Kelly was a little freaky. She's into 'feeling things' too.
After Kelly leaves, I ask Monica a few questions. It's a mistake. By the time we're back at the hotel we're having an all out argument.
Don't yell, Daddy!
Standing in the hallway outside our doors, I tell her, "Look, you can't take her seriously! This is none of her business, and if anyone found out that you were consulting a psychic for information on this case-"
"I'm not consulting her; she's not a psychic - at least not exactly - and what's wrong with using information she gives us if it helps? I know her, John. She's worth listening to."
"She's a nut."
Conversation stops. Monica just looks at me and shakes her head. She seems to deflate somehow.
"What?" I ask.
Her voice now low and calm, she says, "You don't want to fight over this any more than I do. Go to bed. Perhaps we can talk about this in the morning. We're too tired to make sense now."
"You're too tired, maybe. I'm makin' perfectly good sense. Leave this psychic mumbo jumbo stuff alone, Monica. It's not going to help us. What we need are facts and a few good, solid leads."
She opens her mouth to respond, then shakes her head again and uses her door card. When the release catches, she opens the door and turns. "Good night, John."
"Good night, Monica."
Good night, Daddy. I love you.
* * *
Chapter 3
It's an accident of timing and location. The night is still and the street empty. I'm walking a dark, poorly lit street with nothing but the sound of my heels hitting the sidewalk for company. Most of the houses I pass are in darkness. Maybe that's why I pay attention to the windows that are lit. Anyway, passing a bungalow set close to the street, I see the shape of a woman silhouetted against a blind pulled hard down. She's holding a baby and pacing back and forth. Once in a while, she jiggles the baby in her arms up and down, as though to comfort it. Memories of Luke as a baby washing over me, I stop to watch.
The silhouette places the baby carefully on a table in front of the window and gently removes its diaper. The baby's legs kick in the air and I imagine it gurgling happily, pleased to be free of covering. The woman turns slightly to reach for something, then raises her arm over her head. A knife is clenched in her fist. It plunges downward as I surge forward, a cry of protest on my lips.
Heart pounding, bathed in sweat, I sit up abruptly, shreds of dream still clinging to me.
Bad dream, Daddy...
Sagging back onto the pillows and taking some long, slow breaths, my thoughts begin to clear. This is the third night in a row I've been woken by a nightmare that's left me shivering and my heart pounding. They've all been different, but they've all involved murder. I look at the clock. The night's only half over, but I don't think I'm going to get more sleep. I lie there quietly for a while, then rise and walk across the floor to the balcony. Sliding the door open, I step out.
Exhaling loudly, I put my hands on the railing and look down, letting my mind drift, trying to shake off the remaining shreds of dream.
The feeling of being watched makes me turn my head slowly.
Monica's standing quietly on the balcony next to mine, the glowing ember of a cigarette held up in one hand.
"What are you doing awake?"
"Couldn't sleep."
Her short, softly spoken answer suits my mood perfectly. "Me, neither," I say before turning away and leaning on the balcony rail.
I'm not sure how much time passes. The night feels better now, the air not so filled with things unseen. The dream, so real when I awoke, is blurred and the fright of it all but gone. Slowly, an awareness of Monica replaces it. Turning to look at her more fully, I notice what I hadn't before: she is dressed in a dark-coloured satiny affair that slides over her body like liquid. Though it covers all the essentials, any man could see it's something not meant to be worn for long when there's company. My fingers imagine the slide of the material over her skin. I picture her body arching towards mine.
Then I remember Brad Follmer and what I don't know about her relationship with him.
"You should get some sleep," I suggest, setting aside my errant thoughts and stepping toward my door. My boxers are decent, but I'm suddenly feeling way underdressed.
"Not yet. I'll see you in the morning."
I wonder what drove her out here in the dead of night. The fleeting impulse to tell her about my dreams is quickly set aside. It's not important. Not knowing what else to say, I nod. She doesn't look at me directly, staring instead into the distance. Remembering our less than amicable parting earlier tonight, I ask: "Is everything okay?" when I really mean 'Are we okay?'.
She nods and looks at me now with dark, tired eyes. "Everything's fine. I just need to think."
I leave her and enter my room, wishing she'd tell me what put her out on the balcony in the middle of the night. One thing about Monica: she's never shy about saying what's on her mind. At the moment, though, she's keeping something pretty close to her chest, something that's really getting to her. I'm worried maybe she's come up with a theory about this case that's so weird it frightens even her.
The further thought that she's not sharing it with me fills me with an inexplicable sense of loss.
Daddy, I'll stay with you.
We muddle through breakfast, Monica distant, me pretending I don't notice. Carefully, I suggest we part ways for the morning and follow different leads.
Monica shrugs. "Sounds good to me. I'll take the evidence room."
I'm surprised at her quick offer - it's probably 90 degrees down there. It's dirty, dusty, and poorly lit. No place to want to be.
"You sure?"
She nods, and I know better than to argue. Obviously, there's something down there she needs to do or see. Just as obviously, she doesn't want to talk about what or why. I wonder if I've lost some of her trust, but reassure myself it's just the heat creating this feeling of distance. I tell myself that rest and cooler temperatures would make everything look different. Perhaps a morning apart will help.
Four hours later, I find Monica still in the evidence room, sitting amid boxes filled with items gathered from the latest murder scene. She's holding something in her hand, but isn't looking at it. Instead, she's staring straight ahead, a faraway look in her eyes. She's totally unaware of my approach.
"Monica."
She starts at the sound of my voice.
"John."
"What've you got there?" I ask, trying to bring her back from wherever she was.
She glances down at the object in her hand as though not knowing how it got there. With a shrug, she looks back up at me and says, "Just a scarf."
"You looked as though it was important."
She shakes her head and carefully sets aside the evidence bag with its bright, yellow silken contents. "No, not important. At least I don't think so."
Daddy, say you're sorry.
"Have you had lunch?"
I know she hasn't, but ask anyway.
"No. I haven't been keeping track of time."
"Did you get much done?" I ask, not knowing what it was she had to do.
She pauses, surveying the stacks of boxes surrounding her. "I've gone through all the evidence from both murders. There has to be a link between these women. They don't look the same, work the same job, live in the same area, know the same people, or go to the same places. There's nothing - nothing - to tie them together. Yet the killer chose them. What's the criteria?"
Spreading her arms to indicate the boxes of evidence, she says, "It's right here, but I'm not seeing it. I need to run up to New York to take a look at the evidence there."
I don't like the idea of her leaving, or of me being left alone in New Orleans. That'll just let whatever is going on with her go on for longer. I'm thinking it's time we sat down and talked. Maybe I can get her to let me in on what's bothering her. "Let's go grab some lunch. We can hash things over then," I suggest.
She looks at me and visibly attempts to shake off whatever solemn mood has beset her. She smiles. "Food: your answer to all life's troubles."
My face relaxes. "Not all of them - just the ones I can't do anything but think about. Besides," I add smiling, "If that were true, I'd be big as a barn by now."
She smiles back at me. I feel her eyes quickly graze over my body like a physical touch.
"Well, you're not that, at least." she says. "Let's go find something to eat. Things won't look so dismal on a full stomach."
Moving closer to her, I pick up one of the boxes, look at the number on it, and walk down a corridor to put it back in place. Returning, I find her still sitting. She's holding two evidence bags in her hands and frowning. With a sigh, she places each into two different boxes and rises. In five minutes, we have everything back in order and head out to find a place to eat.
Walking into the restaurant behind Monica, the first person I see is Kelly. My heart sinks. She waves us over to her table as though she's been expecting us. With Monica smiling and halfway across the crowded room already, I can't do much but follow. Obviously, we're expected to sit with her. I should feel grateful - the place is packed, so we'd have had a long wait, otherwise - but I don't. She looks at me and our eyes lock. For the first time I realise she knows exactly how I feel about her. I realise something else, too: she doesn't give a shit.
You're funny, Daddy.
We reach the table, and after a polite, quick hello to me, Kelly turns her attention to Monica. The two friends chat. Their talk flows over me, individual words as indistinguishable as single raindrops in a downpour. I feel cut off, detached. I can't shrug off the idea that Monica is keeping me out, removing herself somehow. There's definitely something on her mind she's not sharing. Watching the two women, the thought crosses my mind that Kelly might know what I don't. I feel an odd sort of jealousy, then quickly dismiss it as foolish. Women talk, and they talk to each other. Still, it bothers me that whatever it is, Monica hasn't trusted me enough to talk to me. I'd hoped we were closer than that; that she trusted me.
As though sensing my thoughts, Kelly spears me with a clear, blue-eyed gaze. I shove aside an inexplicable feeling of guilt.
Her eyes probe mine. "Do you have any idea what you want?" she asks.
Her emphasis on the 'any' makes the words carry meaning I can't respond to.
Seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents between her friend and me, Monica speaks up. "Try the special," she suggests. "It's always good."
A waiter magically appears by our table. "I'll take the special," I say obediently, passing my menu to him. He then takes Monica and Kelly's order, smiles at them both, and leaves.
It's only once he's gone that I think to wonder what today's special is. Kelly looks at me, amused.
The business of ordering over, the two women appear to decide to concentrate on me. At first, I feel like a deer caught in headlights, but after a while I find myself relaxing. I'm not so far gone it's not nice to sit at a table with two attractive women taking an interest in what I have to say - even if both of them make me uneasy.
Gradually, talk drifts toward the case. Monica breaks the ice by asking: "You didn't find anything of interest this morning?"
I shake my head. The papers have finally been given some information to report, so I know I'm not making public anything new when I say, "Leila Gorse is just like the others: a regular person going about her regular life. There's nothing special about her, nothing that explains her being singled out for murder - and certainly not this type of murder."
"You believe the murders were random, then?"
This from Kelly. I can tell she knows damn well we don't think any such thing. Glancing at Monica, I say, "No. We've just got to look for a common element in their lives. It's probably right in front of us - we're just not seeing it yet."
"And finding the common element is what you need in order to catch the man doing this."
"It'd sure help."
A small frown creases her brow. Looking pensive, she says slowly, "The similarity may not be something external - perhaps it's something more difficult to find. Perhaps what they have in common is something they tried very hard to keep secret on purpose." She looks at Monica, her eyes cloudy with thought. Again, after a glance at me she stops speaking.
Daddy! Listen!
* * *
Chapter 4
The office we've been given to work out of is small and furnished with only the essentials - two desks, two chairs, and a couple of phones. The walls are a dingy gray - either from age or design, I'm not sure. The furniture has all seen better days: a loose spring in the seat of the ancient chair I've taken is an irritation that makes pacing the floor a pleasure.
My thoughts are disturbed by the sound of my cell phone ringing. I take it out of my pocket, push "talk", and say my name. As I listen, adrenaline rushes up my spine, accompanied by a sense of inevitability.
Another body's been found.
Putting my cell away, I turn to Reyes. "They've found another one. Looks like the same MO."
She looks at me, surprised.
Regardless of her expectations, we have another scene to investigate. Without speaking, she begins to gather her things. I just stand and watch. She's given up on the suit thing and is wearing a white sleeveless shirt tucked into light khaki-coloured pants. I wonder what it would be like to be more than her FBI partner, what it would be like to watch her gather her things before we left together for work in the morning. I wonder about the times I've thought that might be possible. And I wonder if she's ever thought the same thing, if she'd ever be ready... if she could maybe see me as more than a guy with a sad history who's a pretty good agent.
She halts suddenly and looks over at me. "What?"
Caught, I shrug and look away. "I'm ready when you are."
Taking my car keys out of my pocket, I avoid thinking about the double entendre of my words.
Are you ready, Daddy? Where're we going?
I have no idea....
End
New Orleans Part 1