Bad Moon Rising (24 page)

Indeed, life raged on. It raged inside him, beating at
his temples, his heart, his burning gut.

Deep into his third Smirnoff, the numbness of
disbelief had begun to wear off. The events of the day had blasted him with a
reality that he had been too stunned to fully appreciate when they had taken
place.

First the confirmation that his girlfriend, a former
hooker, had serviced Senator Jack Strong. Not that Jack’s taste for the illicit
distressed or surprised him for that matter. But the fact that it had been
with the woman he had grown to love did. That bare-fanged, gnashing anger and
jealousy—not to mention embarrassment, not just for himself but for Holly—had
been brief and inconsequential compared to the news that she was the infamous
Shana Corvasce who had murdered one of the most notorious drug lords in
history.

He’d been willing to forgive and forget her hooker history.
Having defended countless numbers of such women in court, he knew that most
shared a common bond. Abuse and neglect as children. Fighting for survival any
way they could as teenagers. Bastards like Tyron Johnson sweeping them into a
life that, in their innocence, seemed the only recourse. They sold their bodies
and innocence for security.

But forgiving murder was something else.

At a quarter to twelve, he paid the bar bill and
exited onto the street. Bumped and shoved by howling, drunken crowds of
prowling young men, J.D. moved along the sidewalk, passed the blazing windows
of tourist trap T-shirt and voodoo shops, his gaze wandering over the animated
faces of the women he passed.

He didn’t expect to find her there. Shana or Holly or
whatever she might call herself next. She would be holed away someplace. Maybe
his apartment, hoping against hope he would walk through the door and express
his apologies for his behavior and assure her that the feelings he had for her
couldn’t be tarnished by this newest disclosure.

No, she wouldn’t be there. Not the Holly he knew. She
would be too damn proud to face him again.

When he at last reached his car, parked down a dimly
lit side street, he sank into it and locked the door. Sliding the Pandolfi CD
into the stereo, he laid his head back against the seat as the heartrending
notes of “Unchained Melody” surrounded him. He didn’t want to go home, back to
the emptiness, the loneliness, the memories and wounds that, once again, had
been laid open to bleed anew.

Of course Holly wouldn’t be there.

He dug the cell phone from the glove compartment,
hesitated briefly before punching in his number. No answer. He called his
voice mail, listened to message after message—all reporters wanting a comment.
One from his concerned mother. Obviously Eric had wasted little time informing
her about Holly. Then there was Beverly, who was more than eager to put their
differences behind them if he would only allow her to be there for him. An
irate chief of police. May with her usual agitated demand to let her know that
he was okay and that he had not succumbed to a perforated ulcer.

No message from Holly. He wasn’t surprised.

He drove with no particular destination, ending up at Lake Pontchartrain where he sat on the hood of his car and smoked until the pack was empty,
enjoying the breeze, cooled by its rush across the water as it kissed away the
sweat on his face. On his way back to the city, he stopped at a convenience
store to buy more cigarettes, only to discover his wallet empty and the ATM
burping back a tape that indicated he had no money in his account. He’d wiped
out what little he had on the dress for Holly.

With the car parked under a vapor light swarming with
frantic moths, J.D. turned up Pandolfi, laid his forehead against the steering
wheel, and closed his eyes. The realization had finally hit him. He was a
hypocrite. He, who had been on the verge of hunting down Tyron Johnson and
killing him in cold blood, had allowed his old A.D.A.’s instincts to kick in.
For that brief moment he had turned from Holly when she needed his understanding
the most.

*     *    
*

Jerry and Anna shared a house that was located
exactly one residential block
down the street from the house J.D. had lived in with Laura and the kids. As he
leaned on the doorbell a third time, he glanced at his watch in the glow of the
security lights. Four fifteen.

“Who the hell is it?” Jerry shouted behind the door.

“Who the hell else would be ringing your bell at this
ungodly hour?”

“J.D?” The door opened slightly and a bleary-eyed
Jerry peered out at him. “Christ. Hang on.” The door closed as he fumbled with
the chain lock, then opened again to reveal Jerry in nothing more than
low-slung, baggy pajama bottoms, his hair straggling nearly to his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I look like hell.” J.D. stepped
into the house to find Anna in the foyer tying a housecoat sash around her
waist.

“That’s putting it mildly. Damascus. Where have you
been? Jerry’s been trying to reach you for hours.”

Jerry relocked the door and took a quick glance out
the window. “I’d offer you a drink, but by the looks of you,
I
suspect you’ve reached your
legal limit. How about coffee? Honey, would you mind?”

“Sure.” She turned and barefooted her way down the
hall as Jerry led J.D. into the living room.

J.D. glanced around. “Anna’s done a nice job with the
place. You never did have much talent for interior decorating.”

“Nothing like a woman’s touch to wring the bachelor
out of a man. Christ, she even made me trash my voodoo priestess dolls and
framed prints of bare-breasted Mardi Gras babes.”

“Life’s a bitch, right?”

“Right.”

They exchanged sleepy grins, the memories tumbling in
on them—wild college parties, the many nights J.D. had turned up on Jerry’s
doorstep to hash over problem cases during their stint as prosecutors.

“Make yourself at home. Are you hungry? Anna, bring
those oatmeal cookies you made!”

“You got it!”

“Oatmeal cookies?” J.D. dropped onto the sofa. “I have
a hard time imagining that tough-ass FBI agent toiling over a hot stove making
cookies.”

“She has her moments.” Jerry eased down into a chair
and propped his elbows on his knees, his gaze intense and assessing. “I caught
the news. Sorry about all that.”

J.D. shrugged. “I’m not. A small price to pay to force
Killroy into doing his job. You must have had your share of harassment when the
news broke.”

“We’ve had to unplug the phones.”

Anna joined them, placing a tray of cups and cookies
on the coffee table. “The media was roosting like vultures outside throughout
the afternoon. There wasn’t much Jerry could say. He’s in a bad place. If he
was still the D.A., he would be forced to defend his position regarding
Gonzalez. But since he’s not...” She gave Jerry a sympathetic smile. “If he
comes right out and admits that he was railroaded into the prosecution, heads
are going to roll.”

As Anna left the room to retrieve the coffee, Jerry relaxed
into the chair, his gaze still locked on J.D. “So how’s the practice going?”

“I suppose if I could get my act together I’d do okay.
Too much pro bono work. You know me. I was always a sucker for the underdog.
Justice for all and all that bullshit. Truth and fairness don’t relate well
when putting a price on it.”

“I’m ready to expand my practice. I need a partner.
Think about it.” He grinned. “You have to admit, we were one hell of a team.”

Anna returned and filled their cups, then settled on
the chair arm next to Jerry, one slender arm draped around his shoulder. “I
spent the day with Killroy. You can imagine how thrilled he was. Prick looks
at me as if I’m a freak, among other things.”

Her voice lowered to mock Killroy, she added, “If the
FBI is gonna get involved in my business, they could at least send me a real
agent and not a frickin’ psychic.”

“How’s the investigation developing?”

“Same old story. The killer is meticulous. The CSI has
turned up nothing. No witnesses, either. As before, the women were younger,
fairly fresh in the business. I’ve requested a printout of all the men who fit
my profile who were arrested and spent time in prison during the last four
years, and whose release coincided with the current killings. Might explain
why he simply disappeared for the last four years. We’re also running a check
through Quantico—cross-referencing similar killings across the country. If he’s
mobile, say his job relocated him for a time, it’s likely that he continued his
pastime in his new location. Although I suspect, if he’s as bright as I think
he is, he changed his signature. He wouldn’t have wanted to call attention to
the fact that the wrong man was convicted for his crimes.”

“But now that Gonzalez is gone he can come out of the
closet, so to speak,” J.D. said.

“Goes deeper than that, J.D. He’s into power, and how
better to get off on his domination than to flaunt the state’s screwup in
executing the wrong man? He must be feeling very full of himself right now. And
that could be good. Generally, when such a perp gets that carried away with his
ego, he begins to take more chances. Not only does it takes bigger risks to
feed his addiction, but he’s so confident in his power and control that he
begins to see himself as truly omnipotent.

“If this is the case, we
can rattle him. Force his
hand, hopefully. Challenge him. I’ve called a news conference for tomorrow at
ten. I’m going to suggest that he’s screwed up. Left evidence at the scene and
we’re focusing on a suspect. I’m going to publicly profile him just to make
sure he takes me seriously.”

“That’s sticking your neck out, Anna. What if you’re
wrong?”

“She hasn’t been wrong yet.” Jerry laid a hand on her
thigh. “She’s the best profiler to come out of Quantico’s Behavioral Science
Unit since John Douglas.”

J.D. put down his empty cup, rubbed his grainy eyes. “I’ve
been giving a lot of thought to your speculation that Laura might have been
involved with the killer.”

“It’s a place to start. There has to be someone—somewhere—who
could give us some insight about that possibility. You know women. They have a
compulsive need to confide in friends.”

“She really didn’t have any close friends. She and Beverly
were friendly the first few years we were married, but that began to erode
eventually. There wasn’t much communication between them the last couple of
years, except during family get-togethers.”

“We’ll subpoena your phone records. If she carried on
conversations with some man, it’ll be there.”

“Changing the subject,” Jerry said. “Who’s the new
lady in your life?”

J.D. blinked, confused for a moment.

“The one you were so valiantly attempting to protect
during the media’s barrage. A real looker, Damascus, although I suspect that
if she’s going to continue being involved with you, she’d better take a few
lessons on gracefully dealing with voracious reporters.”

Silent, the weight of the day’s events crushing down
on him again, J.D. stared into Jerry’s eyes. Finally, he cleared his throat,
though the words came out dry as sawdust. “Shana Corvasce.”

The name obviously didn’t register immediately with
Jerry. Anna, however, was a different matter. Freezing in her steps, her head
whipping around, she stared at him.

“Not
the
Shana Corvasce.”

“One and the same.”

“Oh my God. What the hell...” Anna turned on Jerry. “She’s
the gal who killed Carlos Cortez. What the hell is she doing? We buried her so
deep in the Witness Protection Program that God couldn’t have found her.”

Doing his best to keep his emotions in check, J.D.
spent the next ten minutes explaining his relationship with Shana and what she
was doing in New Orleans, how he had learned only yesterday her true identity.

Anna dropped onto the sofa and shook her head, grinning.
“I’ll be damned. I always knew the woman must have some big, brass balls hidden
under her skirts, but I never expected she would have the guts to surface
again. When she blew that bastard away, every FBI agent in this country stood
up and cheered her. We’d been trying to nail that creep for years, but he kept
evading us. The few times we thought we’d hammered him, he got off on technicalities
or our witnesses conveniently disappeared. If we could have given her a medal
and gotten away with it, we would have.