A Rush of Wings (10 page)

“Pardon me?” Heather regarded the M.E. warily, caught off guard by the hostility in his gaze.

“Why didn’t you let us know? We could’ve issued alerts, warnings. A serial killer is in New Orleans, Agent Wallace,” Adams said. “You knew it. And said nothing.”

Weariness swept through Heather. “I apologize. But I
have
to be certain.”

“Tell
her
that,” Adams said, nodding at the body bank. He crossed the tile floor, then stepped out into the hall, the door swinging shut behind him.

Heather stood alone in the morgue, surrounded by the voice-less dead. She touched a hand to the cold metal door. Pictured Gina beneath the sheet. Remembered Dante saying:
He took everything from her
.

Heather’s throat tightened. True. Everything. But once she nailed this bastard, Gina would have one last opportunity to speak.

Small comfort.

After three long years, she finally had a link to the Cross-Country Killer: Dante.

But at what cost?

Dropping her hand from the cold storage door, Heather walked across the room, cold pinching the nape of her neck. She refused to look back. She slipped out the morgue’s door, pausing as the door clicked shut behind her.

Forgive me, Gina
.

***

LUCIEN STOOD IN THE center of the living room, gaze directed at the ceiling. The old floorboards creaked as a foot touched them. His fists opened. His talons pulled free of his palms, the wounds already healing as he did so. He hurried to the front door and wrenched it open. Fading gray light spilled into the room. The day was dying.

Lucien arrowed a message to the waking minds above, sending, in a single thought/image, news of Gina’s murder and Dante’s arrest. The replies slammed against Lucien’s shield, stunned, perplexed. He shut them all out and strode into the rose-and-rain scented evening.

***

RONIN’S EYES OPENED. COLOR—ORANGE and violet—bled into the room from beneath the curtained window. Sunset.

A sharp beep ruined the silence and drew Ronin’s gaze to the nightstand beside the bed. A yellow message light glowed on his cell phone. Rolling onto his side, he grabbed the cell, flipped it open, and thumbed up the text message. It was from his contact in the department.

PREJEAN HELD AT 8th PRECINCT.

Ronin smiled.

***

A SOUND PULLED DANTE from Sleep. He opened his eyes and pushed his hair back from his face. A cop whapped the holding cell’s bars with his nightstick. The steel sang.

“Yo, sleeping beauty,” the cop drawled. “Your bail’s been posted.”

“Groovy.” Dante stretched, muscles unkinking, then eased to his feet. Hunger awakened and uncurled within him. He needed to feed.

Bayou Boy and Unfriendly Dude were gone, long sprung, but Geeky Dude squatted on the bench, his feet tucked under him. He eyed the floor nervously. “Down there somewhere…watch out—”

“Shut up, Wilson,” the cop said, shaking his head. “Ain’t you slept it off yet, fer chrissakes?” He keyed open the cell.

Geeky Dude
—Wilson—
glanced up at Dante. His eyes widened. He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging tight like he could make himself smaller; a little garden gnome perched on a steel bench. “The reshaper is here. The unmaker.”

Dante halted, his gaze locking on Wilson. “What are you talking about?”

The cell door slid open with a loud clang.

Wilson peered at Dante from between his arm and his knees. “Beautiful.”

“Looks like you got a fan there, rock boy,” the cop said with a malicious grin.

“Unmaker,” Wilson repeated.

Shaking his head, Dante stepped out of the cell. The door clanged shut. He followed the cop down the hall, Wilson’s words chilling his blood.

***

“WHERE IS HE?” HEATHER halted in front of LaRousse’s cluttered desk.

“His bail was posted,” LaRousse said. He kept typing on the keyboard, his attention on the monitor. “We had to release him.”

Heather leaned across the desk and pressed her hand onto the keyboard. The computer made several odd sounds. LaRousse looked up, eyes flashing. She held his gaze, hoped hers made him pause. This went beyond the usual passive-aggressive bullshit she put up with when stepping into an ongoing homicide investigation; it even went beyond the bristling-alpha-male-refusing-to-submit-to-female-authority thing. This was between her and LaRousse—as individuals.

“I wanted a statement from him,” Heather said. “You
knew
that.”

“So call him at home and make a date.”

“Asshole.” Heather lifted her hand from the keyboard. “Did you even bother to interview him? He
knew
the victim.”

The chatter stopped in the other cubicles. The clicking of fingers across keyboards slowed.

“We
tried
to get a statement from him,” LaRousse said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the desk. “All we got was an hour’s worth of ‘Fuck off.’ ”

“As charming as you are?” Heather snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

“LaRousse? Charming?”

Heather glanced toward the speaker. Collins stood in the squad room doorway, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in each hand. Just coming on duty, then. She nodded. “Trent.”

“Agent Wallace was just leaving,” LaRousse said, dropping his feet to the floor and sitting up. He switched off his computer, looked at Collins. “Unless you want your pet fed to keep you company.”

“Like I said, charming.” Collins sauntered over to stand beside Heather. A deep vertical line creased the skin on his forehead—what Heather’s mother used to call the
thinking deep
line. “What’s up?”

“I have reason to believe Dante Prejean is the CCK’s next target,” Heather said.

“Yeah?” LaRousse said. “Well, he can have Prejean, far as I’m concerned.”

“Why Prejean?” Collins questioned. He handed Heather one of the cups.

Heather accepted the coffee, smiling. The sharp, fresh-brewed aroma cleared her head. “Well, the last two victims have had contact with Prejean, one intimately. The first was from Lafayette—same as Prejean.”

Collins nodded. “Just heard about this morning’s call.”

Heather paused to take a sip of the coffee. “The CCK—if it’s the CCK—has added Prejean’s anarchy logo to his signature. One vic was killed
next
to Club Hell, the other
in
Club Hell. I think the killer’s circling in, closer and closer. Sooner or later, he’ll decide to take Prejean.”

LaRousse said, “You sure it ain’t Prejean himself?”

“I was watching his house during the time frame of the last victim’s death,” Heather said.
Gina. Her name was Gina. She was breathing just a few hours ago
.

“Positive he was there?” LaRousse said, a slight smirk on his lips.

“Yeah,” Heather said, voice even. “I saw him arrive and go inside. And he came out when I served the warrant.”

“You must enjoy watching him, Wallace,” LaRousse said, leaning back in his chair again. “A good-looking rock star like that.”

“Kinda sounds like
you’re
the one hung up on him, and he’s not a rock star,” Heather replied. “He’s an underground cult figure. And yeah, he’s good-looking, so what?”

“Good-looking
street
trash, y’mean,” LaRousse muttered. “Wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it kicked him in the ass.”

Collins groaned. “Spare us, Reverend.”

Heather couldn’t believe her ears. The bastard was
envious
of Dante. Whether LaRousse wanted the so-called fame, the so-called money, or the groupies; whether he wanted Dante’s looks, his life, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was that he had refused to offer protection to a killer’s potential victim, had allowed Dante to walk.

Pulse pounding in her temples, Heather grabbed the arms of LaRousse’s chair and swung it around so he faced her. “Hear this,” she said. “I’ll hold
you
accountable if anything happens to him.”

LaRousse met her gaze, dark seething emotions shadowing his face. After a moment, he looked away, lips thinned into a white line.

Heather released the chair, then turned her back on the detective. Collins met her gaze, eyebrow arched, vertical crease smoothed away. A warning glimmered in his eyes.
Careful. Very thin ice
.

“I know,” Heather murmured. “I need you to contact the Prejeans and the Spurrells in Lafayette, see if the families had any connections.”

“Will do. Where you headed?”

“To find Prejean.”

9
Unwalked Paths

«
^
»

T
HE BLONDE WITH THE long spiraled hair answered the door. “
Oüi
?” she said, scanning the dark yard behind Heather before focusing on her face. A slight smile brushed across her lips.

“I need to speak to Dante,” Heather said.

The blonde shook her head and Heather caught a whiff of flowers—roses, maybe magnolias. “Dante’s not at home,” she said, starting to close the door.

Heather stopped the door with her hand. “I intend to wait,” she said, holding her badge up at eye level.

The blonde regarded the badge with thoughtful brown eyes, then she stepped back, opening the door wide. “
S’il te plaît
,” she said, gesturing Heather inside with a graceful wave of her hand.

“Thank you.”

The blonde led Heather to the front room. “Make yourself at home,” she said, stopping beside a sofa.

Heather sat, perching on the edge, muscles knotted. She needed sleep, a meal. She glanced at her hands. They trembled ever so slightly. She curled her hands into fists. The last twenty-four hours—not to mention all the damned coffee—were catching up with her.

“Are you all right,
M’selle
Wallace?”

Heather looked up. The blonde studied her, expression neutral, but her brown eyes sharp. “I’m sorry,” Heather said, managing a smile. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Simone,” she answered, returning Heather’s smile. “You look tired. Would you like some coffee?”

“Oh, yeah, that’d be great.” Heather unknotted her hands and pressed her fingers flat against her slacks.

Nodding, Simone walked across the room. She paused at the archway and looked back at Heather, her long blonde hair swinging against her denim-skirted hips. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

Heather smiled in acknowledgment of her statement and what was implied:
Don’t go anywhere
.

Once Simone had left the room, Heather slumped back into the sofa and closed her eyes. The last thing she needed was more caffeine, but she was afraid she’d fall asleep without it. Kind of difficult to protect someone while snoozing on their sofa.

She shook her head. She was losing focus. And she hadn’t checked in with Stearns…oh…since seven o’clock last night and it was now—Opening her eyes, she peered at her watch. Eight fourteen p.m. Sunday. She sighed.

Well, she
was
the one who decided to forego sleep so she could serve her warrant to Dante at the most inconvenient moment possible.

But she gut-knew that the man who’d murdered Gina was the same one she’d been pursuing for the last three years.

His first known kill had been in Seattle. Serial killers
always
started where they were the most comfortable, and then expanded outward from that point as they grew more confident.

So, did Dante have any ties to Seattle?

“Not really,” a low voice said. “Just some music contacts.”

“What?” Heather looked up sharply. She straightened, her gaze lighting on the speaker—the wine-drinking minor from the club. Had she been thinking out loud?

He leaned against the wall just inside the archway, purple hair gelled into a disheveled rock star/bedhead look. His startling silver eyes seemed lit from within, his face pensive as he chewed on his lower lip. He looked no older than sixteen.

“I’m sorry,” Heather said. “What did you say?”

He wore black jeans studded with metal, zippered and looped with chains. A wide, low-slung belt circled his narrow hips and his slashed and faded black SINENGINE T was so tight it looked like it’d been airbrushed on over his lean torso.

Simone stepped into the room. She glanced at the boy for a moment, then shifted her gaze to Heather. “This is Silver,” she said, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “Silver, this is
Agent
Wallace.”

Heather noted Simone’s emphasis on the word
agent
. Silver had just been warned or perhaps reminded. Why?

“The coffee will be ready in a few minutes,” Simone said, releasing Silver’s shoulder. “Would you like to freshen up?” Without a backward glance, the boy slipped from the room.

Heather met Simone’s gaze and smiled. “I’d like that, thank you.”

Simone led her into a narrow hall lined with framed artwork and old-fashioned candleholders. A dark brown carpet etched with leaves in gold and scarlet stretched the length of the hall. Heather caught a glimpse of stairs spiraling up at the hall’s opposite end. Faint blue light edged beneath a partially opened door beside the stairs.

Simone gestured toward the bathroom and began to walk away. Heather said, “Did you know Gina?”

Simone halted. “
Oüi
, she was Dante’s friend.”

“Do you know of anyone who’d want to harm her?” Heather said. “Maybe something you heard?”

Simone shook her head. “No.”

“What about Étienne?” Heather asked. “He was pretty pissed off at Dante last night at the club. Do you think he might be capable of—”

“Having Gina murdered?” Simone finished. “Capable,
oüi
.” Her gaze drifted past Heather and up. “What do you think,
llygad
?”

Heather stiffened as she realized someone stood behind her. Worse, she had a feeling he’d been standing there for a while. Turning, she put her back to the wall and glanced to the right.

The nomad bouncer stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed in faded jeans and a button-down black shirt, his deep brown hair brushing his shoulders. His green eyes, no longer hidden behind shades, seemed to look beyond Heather. He stroked the sides of his mustache thoughtfully.