Bad Moon Rising (6 page)

She forced her gaze away from his and looked at it. “What’s
this?”

“My bill.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Three hundred dollars? Oh my
God. You’re joking, right?”

“One hundred an hour. You can drop by my office Monday
morning and pay it. I don’t take checks, FYI.”

He turned and entered the morgue through wide, double
doors, leaving Holly staring at the statement in her hand. The reception desk
was empty, so he continued down the long, pale green corridor, the intense cold
biting through his coat and T-shirt and the odor of formaldehyde making him a
little queazy.

Once he had traipsed these corridors with regularity,
shadowing the medical examiner during murder victims’ autopsies looking for
evidence that could nail a suspect and make his case. He had eventually become
desensitized to the sight of corpses, though he was continually shocked over
what human beings inflicted on one another.

As he entered the exam room, the medical examiner
glanced away from the cadaver she was working on, grunted, and mumbled behind
her nose and mouth shield, “Figured as much. Enoch mentioned you’d probably be
snooping around. Cherry Brown, right?”

He nodded and held his breath, the stink of gastric
acids making his eyes water. Obviously, Janice Mallory was on the back end of
the autopsy. The room was swimming in blood. It dripped from the hanging meat
scales used to weigh the organs and was smeared on the chalkboard where she had
written organ weights. The deceased’s organs were scattered over tables and
the brain had been hung by a string in a large jar of formalin.

“Grab yourself a coffee and make yourself at home. I
won’t be a minute.”

He poured himself a black coffee and joined her at the
table. The cadaver looked to be a teenaged girl.

“Another damn drug overdose.” Janice shook her head. “I’m
telling you, if the schools would haul the kids’ delinquent asses into this
room so they could see what waits for them on the other side of slamming, we might
see less of these.”

She tossed the pick ups into a tray of disinfectant
and barked an order at the diener.

“You shouldn’t be here, Damascus,” Janice pointed out.

“You know I’m not supposed to talk to you about Cherry
Brown.”

“But you will because you adore me.” He sipped the hot
coffee.

She glanced at the diener and nodded at the body. “Close
her up and make it neat. The parents have enough grief to deal with without
their baby coming back to them looking like Frankenstein’s monster.”

Turning her back on the assistant, she looked at J.D.
and rolled her eyes, lowered her voice. “Guy’s a rookie, and a shit one.
Someone at the university was asleep at the wheel when they turned him loose.”
She pulled the double layer of rubber gloves from her hands and raised one gray
eyebrow. “How’s the ulcers?”

“Don’t change the subject, Janice.”

“Mallory says you were vomiting up blood.”

“It comes and goes.”

“Get it taken care of. I’d hate to have to cut your
cute ass open when a trip to your doctor could easily prevent it.”

He followed her to a table where she proceeded to
label the specimen cassettes. “I understand Cherry Brown wasn’t the first.”

“Yeah? Who told you that?”

“A source. And she’s reliable, so don’t give me any of
your famous Mallory double-talk.”

She scribbled on a cassette, then picked up another. “A
woman was brought in last week. Tyra Smith, or so she called herself. Body’s
still in the cooler if you want a peek.”

“Same mutilation?”

“Identical. Evisceration and decapitation. Both women
were dead before the mutilations. Thank God for small favors, huh?”

“Cause of the actual death?”

She shrugged. “Possible head injuries. Could have been
strangled or had her throat cut. But since the decapitation included the neck
to the shoulders, it’s impossible to say for certain. Considering the amount of
blood loss before death, I’d be willing to wager my reputation that her throat
was cut.”

“Evidence of sexual activity?”

“Nope. Not before or after death. I don’t think it’s
sexual appreciation that’s giving this guy his jollies.”

“Did the CSI team pick up any evidence?”

She grinned and continued labeling. “That’s not my job
description, J.D.”

“Your husband must have said something.”

“Don’t ask me to go there. My husband would chew my
butt good if he knew I’d told you as much as I have.” Janice tugged the shield
from her face and tossed it onto the table. “Let the department do its job,
okay? Stay out of it. It’s none of your business.”

“It damn well is my business, and you know it.”

She finally turned her gaze up to his. Her eyes showed
sympathy, the deep lines in her brow concern. “We’re dealing with a prostitute,
J.D. God knows how many men have been in these women’s apartments.”

“What about the bodies?”

“Clean as a whistle. No latent prints, hair, or
seminal fluids.” She rested one broad hip against the desk and pinned him with
her eyes. “Look, I can appreciate how you’re feeling—”

“I’m getting pretty tired of hearing how everyone appreciates
how I feel. My wife and kids are dead, Janice, and a man was executed for murders
he didn’t commit.”

“We don’t know that. Yet.”

“The M.O. is identical.”

“It was a well-publicized crime. Gonzalez wasn’t the
first nut to cut off women’s heads. It happens. Two months ago, some freak
decapitated a woman and hung her head from a flagpole on Jackson Square. Why?
Because she cut him off at a traffic light. The world, unfortunately, is full
of weirdos.”

He reached past her and retrieved Cherry’s exam report
from the desk, scanned it briefly before focusing again on Janice’s face. “Hacksaw.
Evisceration wounds by probable surgical type blade.”

“All public record, you know that.” She sighed. “J.D.,
those murders were well documented. Three books were written on the crimes that
I know of. Hell, have you had a look on the Internet? It’s there in all its
gory detail, including photos.”

He looked away. “I’ve seen them.”

She put a comforting hand on his arm. “Why do you
insist on doing this to yourself? It’s eating you up. You’ve let it destroy
your career and your health. It’s been four years. At some point you’ve got to
move on.”

“If I thought the right man had been executed, maybe I
could.”

A door opened and a woman peered in, her eyes brightening
as she noted J.D. “Hey, gorgeous. Long time no see. We’ve missed your
harassment around here.”

He grinned. “Hi, Connie. How’s the family?”

“Great. My daughter is still single, by the way. Hint,
hint.”

He laughed.

Janice elbowed him. “She’s pretty, too. Just what you
need right now. Or are you still dating that gal from records?”

Shrugging, he tossed the report back onto the desk. “Off
and on. Nothing serious.”

“Great,” Connie said. “Maybe there’s hope yet. Doc,
you have a phone call. Sounds important.”

Janice smiled. “Sorry. Duty calls. Maybe we’ll do
lunch soon?”

J.D. nodded.

He followed Janice out of the exam room and watched as
she strode down the corridor, her bloodied scrub suit flapping around her legs.
As she disappeared around a corner, he moved down the hallway, passing several
empty exam rooms, and paused at the closed door of the file room. He entered
and moved swiftly to the wall of files, to the “D” storage. When he located the
folder labeled
Damascus
, laura
, he withdrew the file and made his way cautiously through the
reception area and back out through the wide, double doors, coming face-to-face
with Holly Jones.

Stopping short, he glared down into her irate blue
eyes. “Why the hell are you still here?”

“I can’t pay this.” She waved the statement under his
nose. “I’m not made out of money, you know.”

“If you couldn’t afford a lawyer, you shouldn’t have
called one.”

“I suspected any lawyer who advertises on the wall of
the women’s bathroom wouldn’t charge his clients out the yin yang. You’re not
exactly Johnny Cochran, you know.”

“If I was Cochran, you’d be paying six hundred bucks
an hour.” He stepped around her. “Call my office Monday. Set up a payment plan.”

Exiting the building into the heat, J.D. paused,
checked his watch. He was to meet Beverly at twelve sharp for lunch. He would
just make it if he hurried.

“You could at least give me a lift to my car,” Holly
said as she moved up behind him. “Or will you charge me for that as well?”

Christ, the woman had attitude, and if there was anything
he wasn’t in the mood for at the moment, it was attitude. He glanced over his
shoulder, prepared to tell her to get lost. In the harsh light of the August
sun, she looked pale, her face pinched by stress and concern. Pretty. Too damn
pretty. Keep walking and don’t look back. Holly Jones had trouble stamped all
over her.

The
traffic
along
Royal
Street
was
typically
heavy as J.D. maneuvered his Mustang through the tourists and cars
parked bumper-to-bumper along the curbs. He could almost read their minds as
the sightseers looked at French Quarter maps, mopped the sweat from their
brows, and stared up at the sun as if it had no right to beat down on their
miserable shoulders. Yeah, the heat and humidity were a bitch, but what did
they expect from New Orleans during the heat of summer? If they wanted cool,
they should have gone to Alaska.

He checked his watch—quarter of twelve—and glanced at
Holly, who had remained quiet the last ten minutes, eyeing the statement in her
hand. J.D. suspected he’d never see a red cent from Holly Jones. Nothing new.
Half of his clients never paid him. Filing suits against them did little good,
even caused him to be in the hole. His grandmother often said, “You can’t get
blood out of a turnip.”

Holly Jones could hardly be labeled a turnip, but he
knew the look of financial woes.

For the third time in the last ten minutes, Holly
called Melissa’s number and didn’t get an answer. Returning her cell phone to
her purse, she slumped into the Mustang’s leather seat, then stared out the
passenger window. Her slender fingers drummed the console with impatience.

“So, if you aren’t a hooker,” he said, breaking the
stilted silence between them, “how do you know Melissa?”

“What difference does it make?” She shook her head and
searched the faces of the pedestrians lining the sidewalks. There was an
intensity in her perusal, as if she expected to recognize someone. There was
also avoidance. Each time a face swung her way, she turned. “Something’s
wrong. I know it. She didn’t show for her john this morning. She’s not
answering her phone or returning my messages.”

“Maybe business is good.”

She turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

“She’s occupied.”

“Why do I get this feeling you’ve got a hump on for
hookers? What happened to you? Get fed up terrorizing the criminal element in New Orleans? Thought you’d play the good guy for a change?”

“The district attorney is the good guy, Miss Jones.
Most of the time. My prosecution arguments weren’t personal. I did my job.”

“Something happened. You look like hell. Though not in
a bad way.” Her gaze moved from his profile down his body. Her mouth slightly curved.
“I like the look, in fact.

Smile and you might even make it to human.”

She continued to study him with eyes as sharp and
savvy as his own. Too sharp for such a pretty face. Too full of life’s hard
knocks. “Careful,” he said. “I charge extra for insults.”

“You’re very bitter, aren’t you? Let’s see.” She
tipped her head and narrowed her eyes. “Maybe you didn’t actually walk away
from the D.A.’s office. Maybe you were fired. You rolled over on a case you
shouldn’t have. Maybe took a bribe. It happens. Frequently. Instead of
disbarment, they gave you the option of resignation. You were married, right?
Of course. You and your wife were showing up in the society section of the
paper all the time.

“This fall from grace ultimately ruined your marriage.
You’re not wearing a wedding band. And your wife would never allow her husband
out the door wearing clothes that look like they’ve been left in a dryer too
long. She left you in search of greener pockets when you lost the job. And she
took the kids. You’re rarely allowed to see them. Breaks your heart, especially
when you’re forced to pay out the wazoo in child support.”

J.D. pulled his car to the curb and slammed on the
brakes, throwing Holly half out of the passenger seat. “My life is none of your
damn business,” he said. “I don’t have the time and I am not inclined to listen
to your smart-ass conjectures. Get out.”

Holly stared at him. Her lips parted and her blue eyes
wide.

“Get out,” he said. “Walk your pretty butt out of
here.” She glanced down the line of warehouses toward the river beyond them.
The street was narrow and shadowed.

Derelicts were sprawled against the buildings,
drinking from bottles in dirty paper bags. “Fine. Sure. Whatever you say, Damascus.” She swallowed. “Who needs you anyway.”

Grabbing up her purse, she exited the car, slamming
the door as hard as she could. She didn’t look back, just started walking, her
tumble of black hair swirling around her back, her long legs eating up the
pavement.

The car idling, J.D. watched her make a wide arc
around a leering bum, zigzag her way through street garbage from an
overflowing Dumpster, then round a corner, disappearing.

The woman had brass, no doubt about it. Too damn much
of it for her own good. He suspected spite and stubbornness made up a big part
of her psyche. Holly no doubt was convinced it was pride, but her pride could
too easily get her throat cut if she wasn’t careful.

Christ, he didn’t need this. He checked his watch,
again. Twelve sharp. Beverly would be waiting, having ordered herself an iced
tea and him a cola.

“Dammit,” he said through his teeth, then let his foot
off the brake.

J.D. eased his Mustang down the street, took a right
at the corner, and slowly moved the car behind Holly’s beautiful body.

Holly walked with hands fisted in either stress or
anger. Probably both. If he was smart, he’d let her go. She wasn’t his
responsibility. The last thing he needed right now was more responsibility.
Especially one with an attitude who looked like Miss October in
Penthouse
magazine.

Pulling up beside her, he let the window down and
yelled, “Get in.”

“Take a hike.” She didn’t so much as glance at him.

“I don’t have time for this, Miss Jones. Get in.”

A gang of tattooed skinheads stepped out from an alley
in front of her. Their faces broke out in lascivious smiles. Her confident step
hesitated. She clutched her purse, glanced around at the Mustang.

He lifted one eyebrow at her and smirked.

Wisely, she reentered his car and slammed and locked
the door, ignoring the crude shouts and whistles from the delinquents who
clutched their crotches and made lewd comments. “Freaks,” she said.

J.D. turned a corner onto Esplanade Avenue, then
reached for his cell phone and called Beverly.

She answered before the phone rang twice. “Where are
you?” she said. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes.”

No point in reminding her their meeting wasn’t until
noon. Beverly was obsessively early to any engagement, especially with him. He
glanced at Holly who continued to ignore him. “Sorry, sweetheart. A problem
dropped into my life and I’m running late. Order me my usual. Be there in
twenty minutes at the latest.”

“This is important, John. I’ve got to talk to you
about Patrick.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I found him with a pornographic magazine last night.”

“Twenty minutes. I swear it.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Don’t worry, honey. It’ll be okay. Twenty minutes.”

As he disconnected, Holly looked around, again with
the slow curving of her lips. “Girlfriend?”

He didn’t respond, just tossed the phone onto the backseat,
on top of the file labeled
Damascus
, laura.

The car was gone. J.D. wasn’t surprised.
Leav
ing a car parked in the river
warehouse district was asking for trouble. As he leaned back against the
Mustang, arms crossed over his chest, the heat of the sun-baked street seeping
up through his Nikes, he watched Holly pace, growing more frantic by the
second, and though she was trying hard not to cry, her voice quavered
dangerously.

“Oh my God. What am I going to do? All my clothes, my
makeup, my money—”

“What the hell were you doing leaving your money in
the car?”

“In my suitcase. You don’t think I was going to walk
around this place at two in the morning with my purse stuffed full of money, do
you?”

He looked up and down the street—mostly vacant since
it was Sunday. Even the too-often-stupid tourists knew better than to leave a
vehicle in the area. “You’re sure this is where you parked it?”

She glared at him, her face flushed by heat and
anxiety.

He shrugged. “So I drop you off at the station and you
file a report.”

“You don’t understand.” She sank against the car beside
him and stared at the curb as if she could will her car to suddenly
materialize. “I have exactly ten dollars on my person. Every last dime I owned,
which wasn’t much—five hundred dollars—was in my suitcase.”

“Family in the area?” She shook her head. “Friends?”

She hesitated, and her dark brows drew together as if
she were considering possible alternatives. “Just Melissa,” she finally said,
though not fully convincing J.D. as he watched her avoid, once again, looking
into his eyes.

“Anyone back in Branson you can call?”

Looking away, she shook her head. “Not really.”

“Not even a boyfriend.”

“No one.”

“You gay or what?” He grinned. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t look like the kind of woman who wouldn’t
have some guy on the hook.”

“God, my car has been stolen and you’re being sexist.”

She dug into her purse and extracted a crumpled box of
cigarettes. She tried to light one with a disposable lighter, but her hand was
shaking too badly. J.D. took the lighter and lit it for her, watched her soft
red lips form to the filter.

“Thanks.” She blew out a stream of smoke and sighed. “I’m
keeping you from your girlfriend, I take it.”

He glanced at his watch. Late again. By now, Beverly’s angst would have risen another notch. Sure, he could make a sweep by the
department and drop Holly off, drive away, and not look back. But he was a
sucker for women in distress, and he knew she would find little sympathy among
the overworked vice cops. Besides, what was she supposed to do now with no
money? Knowing the slop she was probably fed for breakfast, she would be
looking at the very real possibility of wandering the streets unable to eat if
Melissa didn’t show. Besides, whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not,
he wasn’t ready to walk away from Holly Jones. She intrigued him, made him
second-guess his first impression that she was a hooker. Too clean. Too
refined. Too damn vulnerable.

Besides, he couldn’t shake that niggling feeling that
he had seen her before.

“Hungry?”

“Famished.”

No doubt he was going to regret this, but what choice
did he have? “Get in.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Wouldn’t want to cramp your
style or anything.”

“Fine. Stay here and starve.”

As he walked around the Mustang, Holly’s blue gaze
followed him. As he turned the ignition, she opened the door and dropped into
the seat, crossed her legs, and refused to look at him. Pride again. If they
had all day he might expound on the detriments too much pride could have on a
person’s life.

J.D. was a prime example. If he hadn’t given two hoots
about proving his father was right about his marrying Laura, she wouldn’t be
dead now ... and neither would his children.

On the way to the restaurant, J.D. made a call to vice
and reported the theft of Holly’s car, description and plates. Detective Chris
Wallace told him they would look into it but promised nothing. New Orleans was a haven for auto thefts thanks to tourists who too often left their cars
unlocked. J.D. didn’t relay this bit of information to Holly at the moment. She
was on the verge of hysteria.

Desire Oyster Bar was packed with the lunch crowd,
many of whom were already immersed in the French Quarter mentality of boozing
themselves into oblivion by two in the afternoon. College punks and tourists
who would sleep off their drunkenness through the afternoon and start again
when the sun went down and the jazz bands moved onto the streets to contribute
to the celebratory atmosphere. As J.D. and Holly stood at the crowded
entrance, he spotted Beverly in a booth near the back. Her smile froze as she
noted Holly.