Bad Moon Rising (8 page)

He dug a cigarette out of her pack and stood by the
bed, smoking and watching her. Her dark hair formed a spray like shadows over
the white pillowcase. Her breasts rose and fell in deep sleep. Her midriff
shirt had ridden up, her jeans down, exposing a sapphire nestled in her navel.
It winked like blue fire at him. She had bathed recently. The air felt warm and
humid and smelled like soap. Damp tendrils clung to her high cheekbones and he
felt the irritating stir of a need to reach down and finger the curl away.

Hell, admit it. He wanted to lay his body down beside
her. The times he had taken a woman to bed over the last years had been
infrequent—never here. Not in this bed. This hole-in-the-wall had been his
escape from the real world.

Yet, he had opened his door for a stranger. Why? Because
he hoped to fuck her? Maybe. Because she was lost? And he was lost? Because in
her desperate eyes he had seen a reflection of himself? Or maybe it was nothing
more than him feeling uncomfortable over the prospect of her wandering these
streets when a serial killer was out there feeding his sick fantasies on
helpless women. Yes, on all counts.

He returned to the kitchen and quietly, so as not to
disturb her, extracted the hot boxes of lo mein and steamed rice from the sack,
his gaze drifting again and again to Holly’s purse. He couldn’t shake the
feeling there was more to Holly Jones than met the eye. Her face had continued
to nag him through the afternoon.

He’d made a call to the records department at the
force and wrangled a favor from Melanie Shultz, an old girlfriend. She had
scoured the computer files for any information on Holly Jones and turned up
nothing, no previous Louisiana driver’s license or car tags. Melanie had
snooped through the three main credit bureaus using the social security number
Holly had supplied the department when taken into custody, finding not so much
as a credit card. He might have coerced her into checking with the IRS, but he
would be pushing it.

He took a cautionary glance into the bedroom—she was
soundly sleeping—then he opened her purse, a big straw bag accommodating the
registered-with-permit .38 with which she had shot the chief of police, a
collection of lipsticks, bottle of perfume, breath spray, key ring of several
keys, and a small leather wallet. He flipped it open, searched the empty
pockets, and withdrew her driver’s license.

“Isn’t there a law against snooping through people’s
personal belongings without a search warrant?”

He looked around.

Her thick hair a tangle around her face, her full
mouth pressed in irritation, she stared at him with a look of disgust. She
grabbed the purse from his hand and turned it over, spilling the contents onto
the kitchen counter, her hard, sleepy gaze never leaving his.

“Why not do a strip search as well, J.D.? You never
know. I might be hiding crack in my panties.”

He leaned back against the counter and crossed his
arms as she scattered the purse contents for his perusal.

“Please, help yourself.” She lifted the tube of breath
spray and fired a stream into the air. It smelled like mint toothpaste. “No
anthrax here, Damascus. No small nuclear devices, fake passports or visas.
Would you care to see a copy of my birth certificate as well?”

“Maybe.”

She rolled her eyes and proceeded to snatch up her
belongings and shove them back into the purse. “Just when I thought there was
an inkling of a nice guy in you, you go and blow it.”

He reached for the carton of lo mein and extended it
to her. “Truce.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She turned away, hauling her purse with her, and
flopped onto the futon in the living room. “I work my butt off cleaning up this
pigsty and this is the thanks I get.”

“Maybe if you were a little more forthcoming, I wouldn’t
be inclined to snoop.”

“I’m none of your business. Right or wrong?”

Right. She was none of his business. After retrieving
a fork from the kitchen drawer, he began to eat as he joined her on the futon,
stretched his legs out, and propped his feet on the coffee table.

“So what now? You have no money or car, no family, or
so you say. You came to New Orleans to see your friend, whom you can’t locate
at the moment.”

Folding her arms around her purse, she hugged it to
her stomach. “I have to find Melissa.”

“Still not answering her phone?”

“No.” She looked at him, then the carton of lo mein.

“So we take a drive over to her place. Check it out.”

She frowned, hugged the purse tighter. “Melissa wouldn’t
ignore my phone calls, especially when she knew I would be arriving in town
last night. She was thrilled I was coming. We haven’t seen one another in .
..
four years.”

Sighing, she ran one hand through her dark hair. “God,
I’ve missed her. We were so close for so long. We were family—sisters. Twins.
We knew each other’s thoughts before we spoke them.”

He watched the sharp flint in her eyes soften into
fondness. Her lips curved slightly as her thoughts appeared to drift. When she
spoke again, her voice dropped to a sultry tone that made heat coil in his
stomach—no ulcer pang, this, but pure, unadulterated lust.

“You ever meet someone you just clicked with, Damascus? Like they were brought into your life for a reason, to save you in some way? To
give you a buoy to hold on to when your entire life appears to be sinking in
quicksand?”

Turning her blue eyes to his, she watched and waited.
A boat on the river let out a blast from its horn, the deep sound muffled by
the fog rolling over the city. Something stirred inside him.

She drew away, slightly turning one shoulder to him. “You
wouldn’t understand. You had family, didn’t you?

A powerful father, a socialite mother. Someone there
for you at night when you turned out the lights. You needn’t be afraid of
shadows.”

Holly left the futon. “God, I hate this town,” she
said, more to herself than to him. “I hate the smell of it. The heat and
humidity. The crawling tourists and the freaks. I tried to talk Melissa into
coming to Branson. It was safe there. Little crime. She could start over, but
she was afraid. She’d been turning tricks since she was fifteen. She didn’t
know how to deal with the real world. She simply couldn’t see herself as
anything but a hooker.”

A hardness returned to her eyes. “‘Once a whore always
a whore,’ she used to say. It’s like a stench that becomes so embedded in your
soul it can’t ever be scrubbed away. Like butchers. You ever smelled a butcher,
Damascus? No matter how often they bathe, they still smell like fresh blood.
Or mechanics with oil under their fingernails and the stink of gasoline seeping
from their pores when they sweat.

“Melissa isn’t any different than any other woman, really.
She dreams of a husband and kids. Santa Claus and birthday parties. But what
decent man wants an ex-hooker for a wife? What if the kids were to learn of her
past? Who’s to say someday she doesn’t come face-to-face with an old john and
suddenly all her nasty little secrets are spewed out for the entire world to
witness?

“Those are the things you don’t consider when making
the choice to become a prostitute. You think only of the moment, of surviving.
When you’re fifteen and homeless, have nothing to eat, and some smooth-talking
dude in a nice suit and driving a
BMW
offers to help and promises you’ll never be hungry
again, you grab it. Turn a couple of tricks. You’ve got money in your pocket to
buy a Big Mac and maybe a new pair of sneakers with enough change left to hold
you over until you figure a way out of the situation.

“Except, there is no way out. Because once you sell
your body, Damascus, you also sell your soul.
..
your self-esteem, if you had a decent esteem to begin with. Most don’t. It’s
already been ripped out of you by some drunken pervert who smells like fresh
blood.”

J.D. put aside the lo mein and left the futon, moved
toward Holly as she stared at her feet, her body visibly shaking, her hands
fisted. Her head slowly rose and the pain in her eyes slugged him.

“C’meer,” he said gently, reaching out to her.

“Don’t.” She backed away, her gaze avoiding his, her
body appearing so brittle she might fracture if he touched her. As she turned
away, he grabbed her arm, drawing her back, though she struggled, futilely, as
he wrapped both arms around her and held her against his chest.

There was no doubt in his mind now that Holly Jones
was, or had been, a hooker. She hadn’t been speaking so much about Melissa as
she had been about herself. In one swift but heart-punching glance, those eyes
had reflected her nightmares and shame. She had escaped New Orleans, put the
life behind her. Settled into Branson where life was clean and offered no
memories of her past. Now she was back and the memories were crushing her.

“It’s okay.” His lips brushed her temple, the
resistance in her body melting little by little as she sank against him, her
slender fingers twisting into his shirt as if to keep herself from collapsing. “Wanna
talk about it?” She shook her head. “No.”

“Might help, honey. Get it all out. Hey, I’m a
terrific listener.”

“Why should you care?”

Right. Why the hell should he care?

He backed toward the futon, tugging her with him. They
settled on the futon, and though she attempted to squirm away, to put distance
between them, he held on, locking his arms around her so she nestled partially
across his lap, her face buried against his throat.

“Who did you work for?” he asked.

No response.

He shifted away, placed one finger beneath her chin,
and tipped up her face. “Look at me, Holly.”

Slowly, her lashes lifted and she looked into his
eyes. “Was it Tyron?”

“Yes.”

A moment of silence passed between them as the old
spear of white-hot hate for the bastard cut through his belly. In a flash, he
imagined the woman in his arms as a young girl, alone and frightened on the New Orleans streets. Helpless and desperate enough to trust the smooth-talking pimp in his
flashy car and Armani suit—his convincing them he was some guardian angel sent
to rescue them.

“He can’t know I’m back.” Her voice quivered with
desperation. “Please understand. If he was to discover I’d returned to New Orleans—”

“I’m well aware of how he deals with women who walk
out on him, Holly.”

He touched her cheek and felt a shiver run through
her.

She pulled away. Withdrew to the far end of the futon,
her fingers lightly brushing her cheek where he had touched her. J.D. knew that
she would not trust a man’s touch. He wasn’t even certain himself why he had
reached out to her. Held her. Looked into her eyes and felt slammed by a desire
to kiss her. Not simply kiss her. But protect her.

He dug into his pocket for his cigarettes. Lit one,
never taking his gaze from Holly, her pale face, her tense body. He could
almost hear her reerecting her wall against him, brick by brick, each second
her old attitude forming a barrier between them.

“Was Melissa on drugs?”

Her head snapped around and her eyes flashed. “Of
course not.”

“How do you know?”

“She wasn’t into that sort of thing.”

“You said yourself that you hadn’t seen her in four
years. People change, Holly.”

“I know Melissa. No drugs.”

“Then maybe Tyron got wind of her contacting you.
Found out that she was about to take a hike from his stable.”

She bit her lip and sank back against the futon. “Tyron
is stupid and mean as a snake, but he’s not into murder.”

His eyes narrowed as he smoked. He wanted to argue the
fact, but no point in upsetting her more than she already was.

“Hey,” he said, waiting until she forced herself to
look at him again. “Let’s go find Melissa.”

Sunset in New Orleans brought little respite
from the miserable heat and
humidity. The frequent fog felt like steam against the skin and made breathing
difficult. As J.D. eased the Mustang to a stop, the beams of the headlights
formed a hazy pool of diffused illumination on the damp, brick street.

Bodies moved like wraiths through the condensation,
formless, genderless. A man’s drunken shout, a woman’s tense laughter, distant
music from a lone street musician filling the air with soulful saxophone
blues—all lent a haunting loneliness to the night. There was a reason Anne Rice
set her vampire novels in New Orleans. It was, indeed, a city of lost souls.

Killing the engine, J.D. looked around at Holly as she
gazed out the passenger window, her body tense. “Sure you want to do this?” He
sure as hell wasn’t, not with the image of Cherry Brown’s body still seared
into his memory. Not that he was particularly concerned for himself— he would
be out here regardless, searching, as he had in the past.

She didn’t respond.

He checked the gun in his shoulder holster. Mugging
and murders in the district were the norm. Besides the hookers who worked the
streets, the area seethed with junkies who, if they weren’t wired on drugs
already, were desperate to find a way to purchase what they needed to get them
through the night. During the many frantic nights he had roamed these sidewalks
and back alleys searching for his family’s killer, it had been a miracle that
he had not caught a bullet or a knife in his heart. Thinking back, he suspected
that he had been looking for such an end to his misery—wanting it as
desperately as he wanted to put a bullet between the freak’s eyes.

Holly took a breath, pulled on the handle, and opened
her door.

“Wait.” J.D. locked his door, then walked around, and
stood by Holly as she exited the passenger side, nearest the sidewalk. J.D.
noted the total absence of hookers normally loitering in the area, perhaps
turning a trick in the alley. The girls would be frightened, of course.
Cautious.

He took her elbow. “You okay?”

She nodded and together they moved down a narrow alley
exactly one block due east from Cherry Brown’s apartment. The alley led to a
courtyard—not the pretty, atmospheric patios where some of the nicer
restaurants and clubs had set up business, but a weed-infested, cobblestone
area with a crumbling fountain of scum-covered water. Here, the hot fog settled
into the creases of his skin and crawled along his scalp. Mosquitos hummed like
buzzing fans.

Holly paused, her eyes narrowing as her gaze swept the
crowded apartments, two stories of dilapidated structures that appeared to be
held together only by the filigreed railings along the balconies. Dim light of
low wattage bulbs shone behind the glut of dingy half-sheeted windows. Muted
television chatter rolled through the fog from somewhere to their right.

Footsteps behind them. He looked back over his shoulder,
left hand easing beneath his sport coat. No one there.

Finally, as if she had acquainted herself with her surroundings,
Holly moved to a staircase and climbed. J.D. followed. The ancient iron steps
protested against their weight, grating rustily in the quiet, causing curious
faces to peer out from behind curtains.

A light shone from Melissa’s window. Holly knocked on
the door. Nothing. She dug into her purse, extracted the ring of keys, held it
up to the light until she located the key she needed.

J.D. took it from her. No way was he going to let her
walk into that room and find her friend laid out like an autopsy cadaver. She
started to argue, then shut her mouth and stepped aside. Her face looked
brittle enough to crack.

He removed the gun from the holster, pointed it up,
turned the key in the lock, and nudged the door open. His breath caught in his
lungs as he cautiously stepped into the room, his gaze locking on the bed
against the far wall. Empty, thank God.

Holly stepped in behind him, her arm brushing his, her
body close. “Melissa?” she called softly. “Are you here? It’s Holly.” As she
moved toward the dark kitchen, he caught her arm, felt her trembling.

“Stay here.” He eased toward the unlit room, the intense
heat in the unair-conditioned apartment making sweat rise. The stench of
something rotten washed over him so he couldn’t find a breath in the thick air.
His heart began crashing in his ears and the butt of the gun became slippery in
his hands. Feet braced apart, his eyes throbbing in their attempt to see
through the shadows, he hit the light.

Scattered across the table was food swarming with
flies and roaches, a solitary TV dinner, partially eaten, a pan with dried-up
macaroni and cheese, an open container of milk that had grown thick as cottage
cheese.

Behind him, Holly caught her breath. He glanced back
at her, shook his head, nodding toward the closed bathroom door. He eased
toward the door, toed it open, hit the light.

A tabby cat, frightened by the sudden burst of light,
leapt from the tank top of the toilet and exploded toward the door, a flash of
movement that made J.D. recoil and anchor the gun in preparation for firing.
Yowling pitifully, the cat ducked between his legs and made a frantic escape
toward the living room. From the corner of his eye, J.D. saw Holly make a grab
for the terrified feline before it slid beneath a chair against the wall.

The room was empty. Only the scattering of cat feces
and puddles of rank urine gave any hint that something was amiss. Obviously the
cat had been locked up for as long as the food had been wasting in the kitchen.

Lowering the gun, relaxing his tense shoulders, J.D.
returned to the living area before allowing himself to take a much-needed
breath.

Holly, on her hands and knees, was softly coaxing the
cat from beneath the chair. “Here, Puddin’. Kitty, kitty. It’s okay, sweetie.
Pretty kitty. That’s a good girl. Poor baby.” She tugged the trembling tabby
from under the chair and cradled it in her arms like a baby. Only then did she
turn back to J.D. She looked on the verge of shattering.

“Will you believe me
now?”
she said, her tone razor sharp
with fear and anger.

He holstered the gun and studied the surroundings.
Neatly made bed where several pillows had been arranged against the wrought
iron headboard. Numerous candles cluttered the sofa table, most partially melted
from use. Not normal candles, but those used in the local voodoo community,
Santa Barbara and Black Devil candles, both of which were used to turn away
evil. There were bottles of oils and containers of incense. Rosary beads hung
from crucifixes on the wall, as did Mardi Gras beads and voodoo dolls. Melissa
was obviously afraid that some sort of evil would come knocking at her door.

Hugging the cat to her, Holly said, “We have to go to
the police. Now.”

“With what?” He picked up a gris-gris satchel and opened
it. fingered the locks of hair, bits of chicken feathers, and splinters of
bone. “There’s no evidence of foul play here, Holly.”

She glared at him in disbelief, her anger mounting.

“There isn’t a cop in homicide who would find a reason
to think that something had happened to Melissa. She might have simply taken
off.”

“And left her cat behind to starve?”

“It happens.” Stooping, he studied the floor for any
evidence of blood. None that he could see. If the cops decided Melissa’s
disappearance warranted an investigation, they would utilize luminal to locate
blood stains that couldn’t be seen otherwise. “If, like you say, she was
frightened, she might have simply decided to take a hike.”

“You’re unbelievable. After everything I’ve told you—”

“I’m just coming at you with what you’re going to face
if you report this.” He stood. “Look around for her purse—anything that might
be a clue that she left the apartment against her will.”

“But the food—”

“She wouldn’t be the first to leave her kitchen in a
mess. Hey, you saw mine, right?” He grinned. She didn’t.

“Don’t touch anything in case they check for prints.”
He moved toward the front door. “I’ll knock on a few doors, see if anyone saw
or heard anything suspicious.”

J.D. stepped from the apartment. He took a deep
breath. What had happened to his ability to remain emotionally detached in the
face of someone else’s misfortune?

Oh, yeah, there had been misfortune here, despite the
fact that the apartment, aside from the spoiled food and hungry cat, showed no
evidence of mischief. While he wouldn’t admit as much to Holly, he was
acquainted with Melissa’s adoration of her cat. Every time she had dropped into
his office on business, she’d had the purring feline with her. Her only family,
she’d admitted, scratching the tabby between its ears. Her baby.

No way in hell would she have deserted the cat.

Yet, there was no indication that Melissa had fallen
prey to the same fate as Tyra and Cherry, or any of the other hookers who had
been killed. In all cases, the M.O. had been identical. Murdered in their beds.

That very reason had been why he would never accept
that his family had been slaughtered by the same serial killer who butchered
hookers. Laura’s body had been found in Woldenberg Park. The kids in his wife’s
SUV, laid out peacefully in the backseat as if their throats had been cut while
they were sleeping.

She was losing it. The panic that
had shadowed her for
the last few years was coiling in her chest like a
snake prepared to strike. Stay calm, she told herself as she gripped the
trembling cat in her arms and moved woodenly through the small apartment.

Something had happened here, despite what Damascus had said. Something. She could almost feel Melissa’s terror. Perhaps she had been
eating her miserly dinner when someone arrived at her apartment. Perhaps she
had been thinking about her appointment with the warehouse john— worried, as
was the norm. Even in less stressful times, a hooker always wondered if this
would be the trick that would go bad. A sadist who got off on pain. A freak
fried on heroine. It all came crashing in on her, the memories, the cold,
bone-chilling fear, the sense of self-disgust. Helplessness. No way out. Her
knees felt weak, her leg muscles burned as if she had just sprinted a
hundred-yard dash.

Holding her breath, she tiptoed through the kitchen,
avoiding looking toward the fly-infested food. Everything seemed in place. What
was she looking for exactly? No open kitchen drawers where some maniac might
have rummaged for a butcher knife. No upset chairs. No broken dishes.

She moved into the bathroom, careful not to step in
the cat’s leavings. Puddin’ suddenly squirmed in her arms as if terrified of
being trapped again. Holly hugged her and whispered comfortingly until the
animal quieted.

Makeup and perfume bottles lined up neatly on the
counter near the sink. The towels were in place, no sign that they had been
used since washing.

Again into the living room, a cautious glance under
the bed where Melissa usually hid her purse. It wasn’t there.

Her stomach cramping with a magnifying sense of dread
and loss, Holly sat on the floor and looked around. There were many framed
photographs placed amid the crowd of candles, incense, and oils. Images of
friends and family, past and present. Shots of Melissa’s parents before they
had been killed in a car accident, cradling their youthful, innocent baby in
their arms. Melissa’s fifth birthday party, a juggling clown and presents
stacked high on a picnic table. Another of a Christmas tree and Melissa sitting
among stores of opened presents.

Then there were those including Holly. Gangly teenage
girls with their arms hooked around each other’s shoulders taken at Jackson Square, their first day in New Orleans. More of Holly alone, each one a caricature
of the previous one, the hardship of their existences carving her face into a
maturity that belied her young years.

Holly closed her eyes. “Oh God, Melissa. Where are
you?”

He stands in the dark and fog, the nearest vapor light
one block away, casting not a solitary shadow on the parked Mustang. He’s not
at all surprised to find the car here. He expected as much. The brilliant
ex-prosecutor would again be haunting the streets and alleys, looking for his
family’s killer. What does surprise him is J.D.’s coming here, to Melissa’s
apartment. How had he known about the missing girl?

He laughs softly. Coincidence perhaps. Perhaps one of
the whore’s friends has reported her missing. Yes, perhaps. But there have
been no cops snooping around. Nothing on the police scanner to indicate that
Melissa Carmichael has disappeared. As if the department cares. As if they want
this nasty trouble to escalate. Not again. That’s what will make this newest
foray so much fun. Before it’s all over, again, he will have them dancing on a
wire.