Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (7 page)

Clearly it wasn’t, but he had no reason to hold me
and a lot of good reasons to let me do my thing.

“And Tom? Chen mentioned something about degree of
lividity around the puncture wounds. Ask her if there’s any instrument you
could use to siphon off that much blood.”

That thought had already occurred to him, but he
nodded agreement. If there was such a device, it would go a long way in
explaining the unexplainable. As a bonus it would also derail O’Hearn’s current
line of reasoning, the one angling into really dangerous territory. I needed to
keep my friend safe and out of harm’s way, leaving me free to explore what I
suspected… and accepted.

I shut the door and waved him off. He’d head back to
his office, work on the crime board and add details. The detective was
methodical and perceptive. The friend was lax and forgiving. Pretty soon he’d
come back around to me, and when he did I was pretty sure it’d be the detective
knocking on my door, not the friend.

When that happened, hopefully I’d be in New Orleans,
getting answers we could both live with.

The Lexington line was a long six block walk. Now
that Starbucks baristas were awake and doling out lattes to sleepy-eyed
workers, I grabbed a venti and made my way down the stairs into the bowels of
the subway. The trek to the financial district had begun early. I joined the
throngs and waited on the crowded platform, barely noticing incursions into my
personal space.

With my lack of hygiene I was honestly surprised
anyone would be willing to get within ten yards of me. Before going back to
Brighton Beach, I was stopping off at my place and getting a shower.

Heads rotated in unison as the train approached.
Women clutched purses to bosoms, men in suits with briefcases adjusted
position, the doors wheezed open disgorging a few intrepid souls faced with a
horde funneling into too narrow a space for the number of bodies.

Cut off and jostled, I barely managed to make it on
before the doors sighed shut. At Union I bailed and caught the Canarsie line.
It was still a hike home, but I welcomed the exercise. A small detour took me
past an Italian bakery.

When I exited the store, hairs prickled on the back
of my neck. I wasn’t alone.

CHAPTER SIX

Sasha

Oscillating in that no-man’s-land of wanting to nab
the tail and shake some answers loose, or just ignore whoever it was and let
the chips fall, was more distraction than I had patience for.

I keyed myself into my building and hauled ass to
the third floor. The landing was L-shaped with my flat on the far left, a
studio directly ahead and another cubby masquerading as living space to my
right. Both housed relatively spry seniors with inquisitive natures. They
‘watched my back’, as the eldest gentleman in the studio claimed with pride.
Not much got by either of them. In return I did small favors, fixing broken
faucets, hauling groceries.

Jerry poked his head out and rasped, “Up kinda early
ain’tcha, son?” He eyed the bag of pastries.

Smiling, I opened the brown bag for him to choose.
“Hear anything this morning, Jerry?”

The old gentleman reached in and selected a cannoli,
carefully withdrawing it with two gnarled fingers.

“Nah, quiet today. Why? You ’specting company?”

“Not exactly. Uh, listen, Jer, I’m going to be out
of town for a few. If you need anything done before I leave, I’ll be back later
on today.”

“I’m good, boy, but I’ll mention it to Miz Wisner.”
He eased back into the apartment but before closing the door he muttered, “You
take care now.”

Expecting the apartment to still look like a bomb
had gone off, I was pleasantly surprised that my compulsive neat-freak friend
had taken time to tidy up. The sheets lay on the chair, folded military-tight,
the pillow braced against the back. The tumblers and dishes were in the sink,
rinsed. The only thing in untidy piles was the paperwork I’d been perusing
before O’Hearn had showed up.

Idly I glanced over the top sheet, the one with the
columns laid out with my draft picks for explanations. I’d left a space for
option number three, still empty. On a hunch, I fingered the ballpoint and ran
it down the right-hand side.

Clearly I was missing something, and the nagging
feeling that it was right there, hiding in plain sight, was hard to shake.

Stuffing my face with the other cannoli, I headed to
the bathroom to get cleaned up. When the hot water ran out, I let the cool ease
me down, sweeping sweat and adrenalin down the drain. After brushing my teeth I
gave myself a hard look in the mirror, envisioning the young man with shit for
brains, caught up in something he’d had no business with. I’d sported facial
hair back then in an effort to look older, maybe even badass.

Trina had liked it… a lot.

Maybe she’d like it again…

Micah?

Yes.

I like.

Like what?

Your name, is… nice.

She reached up to stroke my chin
with long, elegant fingers. Thin eyebrows arched over almond-shaped eyes,
colorless in the ambient light.

Fate.

Twice she’d brushed past me,
hesitating for an instant, then moving on, trolling like me.

I wanted my reward. For the
freedom I’d bought with bloody knuckles.

Free. With nowhere to go, and no
one to go to.

The third try was the charm. She
backed me against the wall, easing me into a dark alcove. The pounding bass
receded and even the sound of my own breathing was a distant echo in the night.
She pressed, belly-to-groin, wanting to know my name.

Then she wanted to know more…

When I finished shaving, I palmed my chin, wondering
what Annie would think of my new look. She’d be curious at my grooming efforts.
I wanted to impress… and had no clue why.

Dressing in clean jeans and a tan tee-shirt, I
shrugged into the shoulder holster again and threw a summer-weight blazer over
top, praying it wouldn’t be as hot today. Normally I went about my business not
bothering to carry concealed, but with the tail I wasn’t going to take any
chances.

After stuffing my pockets with a wallet and the
small notebook and pen, I made my way down the stairs and out into shimmering
heat. Gotta love the city in the summertime when entertainment options included
frying eggs on the sidewalk.

Mentally shuffling columns A and B helped pass the
time as I rode on the downside of rush- hour, still crushed with bodies and
mindless agendas. If the tail had me in his sights, I’d never know.

I put all the bits and bobs on instant replay,
looking for what matched, what didn’t belong. There might be a magic number
involved: four hookers in New Orleans, four here. I doubted it had much
significance. It was more likely that the increasing surveillance, and being a
bull’s-eye for tropical storms, made the Big Easy unattractive for further
activity. With the gap of almost a year, odds were good the perp had moved from
one all-you-can-suck buffet to another, working up the red light districts
until finally landing on my doorstep.

Like I’d said before; it was a crime of opportunism,
nothing more.

In the back of my mind, I knew there
was
more. I also conjured the idea that the pattern was too obvious, too clearly a
message. But a message of what… and for whom?

The Goth, Vamp and BDSM subcultures all had outposts
in urban centers almost everywhere, but N’awlins and the Big Apple were ground
central for loonies and paranormal freaks. Most of the enactors were straights
looking to forget mind-numbing day jobs. Few embraced it to the extent that it
became
their life. Those who did succumbed to the subcultures with feverish intensity.

For a short time, that had been
me
—total
immersion.

The kid I’d been, all gaga over the woman with the
means to send me out-of-body on a whim, her lush curves, and how she used them,
all became my drug of choice.

She had been a compelling mash-up of fuck-you
sophistication and childlike innocence. She was exotic to the point of terrifying.
Corrupting and provocative. She taught me… things. About myself, but never her.
And I preferred it that way.

The night I’d celebrated my freedom was the same one
I’d willingly enslaved myself. I’d do it again in an instant.

The long walk from the subway station had me in a
sweat. Sometimes you got an onshore breeze off the bay that would do a marginal
cool down, but that wasn’t the case today. The air shimmered in waves above the
sidewalks, the blocks of concrete buckling and chipping in the unrelenting
heat. Here and there window air conditioners hummed, a baby wailed then went
silent. The rubber soles on my boots made a ‘pfut’ sound as I walked along, not
loud enough to drown out following footsteps. The tail was good, hanging far back—if
he was even there. Basically, it didn’t matter because giving my imagination
free rein was prudent. It kept me alert and alive.

I stopped a half block down from the pimp’s
dormitory and surveyed the neighborhood. Nothing seemed out of place. It was
quiet, but I expected that. The girls would be asleep this hour of the morning.
A little fact I should have considered before coming all the way down here.

I still worked hard at convincing myself that simply
knowing Sasha was alive and well, and dozing like a baby, was the sole purpose
for being here. Ivan, or another of the guard dogs, could tell me that and send
me on my way.

As I knocked on the door, a little inner voice said
a quick prayer that she’d still be up. And if she was… well, maybe she’d agree
to see me again.

I had more questions.

That wasn’t all I had. Her hand on my arm, the
pleading look in her eyes, the sway of hips as she ascended the stairs… It’d
been two, three days, and still my cock reassured me I wasn’t mistaken.

Ivan answered the door, giving me a ‘you’re late’
look and then followed up with, “Been expecting you.”

The mountain led me back to the kitchen, then out
the door into a fenced-in backyard, mostly cemented over, but still sporting a
variety of flower pots and cushioned loungers and lawn chairs. A ten foot tall,
solid white vinyl fence assured privacy from next-door neighbors and passersby
in the alley. It looked new and expensive, and out-of-keeping with the general
squalor of the surrounding homes.

The man pointed to a lounge chair facing toward the
mid-morning sun and away from the house. He said, “I’ll be right inside,” to no
one in particular, though the inference was clear.

The
been expecting you
echoed in my head as I
circled the lounger and faced the young woman stretched out, wearing nothing
but beads of sweat and a bath towel bunched haphazardly around her hips. Her
hair was pulled into a tail and squashed behind her head, the end resting
lazily across her left shoulder. Her face still bore marks of tears, mascara,
and blush muddled together until the colors beiged out, leaving her looking
forlorn and child-like.

Mouth dry as tinder, I croaked out, “Sasha,” and
tried hard to look at her face and not her perfectly shaped breasts, the areola
pinkish against the nut-brown tanned flesh.

She moved over and bid me sit.

Bad idea. I held my ground and waited for her to
speak.

News travelled fast. It’d been a mere three, four
hours since the whore’d been carted away. I couldn’t recall any casual
onlookers at the park, but that didn’t mean anything. And the Medical
Examiner’s office sometimes sprang a leak. Not from Chen, but one of her associates…
or even the janitorial staff could be fast-tracked to the tabloids for a small
remuneration.

The working girls I knew seldom gave in to sentiment.
The ones who’d been in it for a while knew the risks, after all. That Sasha was
distressed enough to cry elephant tears told me it had been another friend.

Looming over her like the angel of death wasn’t a
good conversation starter, so I crouched down and focused on her lips.

“Sasha. Did you know the woman who was found this
morning?” She nodded a yes but avoided looking at my eyes. “What was her name…
her real name? Do you know?”

She said nothing, leaving me to suspect the language
barrier reared its ugly head. Calling in Ivan-the-translator didn’t sit well
either. He’d just add a layer of protection and interference, not exactly
conducive to digging out the facts.

That’s why I was here… to assure myself she was
okay, get some answers, nothing more. My cock recognized the lie for what it
was.

Still avoiding my hungry gaze, she whispered, “Is
Nairi. Nairi Balekdanian.”

I fumbled for the notebook and pen, raising my
eyebrows to see if she’d mind. She ignored what was in my hands and stared off
into space.