Forbidden Fruit (27 page)

“Yes,” Hope said again, softly. “You killed your father.”

D
espite the continuing rain and flooding streets, a crowd had turned out for her father's wake. Friends and family, hotel employees and longtime patrons, all had come to pay their respects. Philip St. Germaine had been loved and respected.

Glory greeted each guest numbly, going through the motions but disconnected from everything but her own pain, her grief. And from the guilt that had a stranglehold on her.

She had loved him so much. He was the only person in her life who had loved her unconditionally. And he had died thinking she hated him. He had died with her hateful and ugly words ringing in his head.

Glory drew in a small, shuddering breath. She wanted her daddy back. She wished with all her heart that she could recall her words and actions; she wished she could turn the clock back to her eighth birthday, the year when everything had begun to change.

But she couldn't. Her father was dead. She had killed him. It was her fault…her fault. The accusation played and replayed in her head, along with regrets, so strong and bitter they burned like acid inside her.

She should have been the one struck by that car, the one who had been killed.

She wished she were dead.

In a way she was.

She drew in another choked breath, her gaze drifting to her father's closed casket. Her mother had been right. She had warned Glory that someday her recklessness would be her undoing. She had told her that someday she would hurt herself or others. Now she had. Her father. Liz.

Santos.
Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She thought she had cried them all in the last two days, she had thought herself spent. But no, she had more tears. Both tears and pain, it seemed, she had in an unending supply.

Glory squeezed her eyes shut, guilt and longing battling inside her, tearing her apart. If only she had listened to her mother. If only she hadn't been so reckless, so stubborn and selfish. She never should have approached Santos, never should have pursued him.

She couldn't love him. She had been wrong to love him.

From the foyer, she heard the sound of a commotion—raised voices, an oath, the crash of something hitting the floor and shattering.

She turned and her heart leaped to her throat. Just inside the doorway, Santos struggled to free himself from the grasp of two men she didn't recognize.

“Glory!” he shouted.

The blood rushed to her head; she began to shake. She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out.

In horror, she watched as Santos swung at one of the men, striking him, then breaking free. A woman screamed, the funeral-home director shouted that he was calling the police; Santos ignored them all and pushed through the crowd, heading toward her.

Soaking-wet, unshaven and wild-eyed, he looked like a crazy man, a savage among the silk dresses and dark suits of the civilized.

Everyone was staring at her. Whispering. Speculating.
Glory folded her arms over her chest, shrinking in on herself, wanting to disappear.
They all knew. They all blamed her.

A cry raced to her lips. She held it back. Barely. She couldn't deal with this. She glanced wildly around her, looking for a place to hide. She saw none and her heart began to pound, so heavily she could hardly breathe.

Her mother appeared at her side. She curved an arm around Glory's shoulders and Glory leaned against her, thankful, so thankful for her support.

Santos stopped before her. Her eyes filled, and she brought a trembling hand to her mouth, torn. A part of her wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms, to have him comfort her, love her. But another part of her recoiled from him. When she looked at Santos, she remembered her father's death. She remembered why he'd died.

Because of her. Because of her reckless, inappropriate love for Santos.

“Did you think I wouldn't come?” he asked softly. “Didn't you know I would fight an army to be by your side, move heaven and earth if I had to?” He reached out and touched her cheek, and her tears spilled over. “I'm so, so sorry, babe. I know how much you loved him.”

“You're not wanted here,” Hope said shrilly, pulling Glory closer to her side, away from his touch. “Do you understand?” She tightened her arm. “
Glory
does not want you here.”

Santos didn't take his gaze from Glory's face. “Baby,” he coaxed, “tell her. Tell her how you feel. Tell her how we feel about each other.”

“You bastard!” Her mother's voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “This is all your fault! It's your fault Glory behaved as she did. It's your fault her father is…dead!”

Glory began to sob. Santos took a step closer to her. “Don't, Glory. You know what your mother's doing. We didn't kill him. It was an accident.”

He held out his hand. She stared at it, horrified, feeling as if someone were sucking all the oxygen out of the room.

“Take my hand,” he said softly. “Right here, right now. Show them all how we feel. Then I'll go. But we'll know, we'll both know.”

Santos stretched his hand farther out to her, she gazed at it, seeing instead the image of her father's face when she had told him she hated him, then minutes later, frozen in death, his blood on her hands.

“If you love me,” Santos murmured, “take my hand. Believe in me, Glory. Claim me. All you have to do is take my hand.”

Glory whimpered, confused, hurting more than she had ever thought possible. Suddenly, her head filled with the sound of her father's voice, speaking softly and patiently to her, his voice filled with love.

“Family and heritage are everything, Glory. Who you are and who you will be. Promise me, poppet. Promise me you'll never forget that.”

She had forgotten. She never would again. Her place was here, with her mother, her family. She owed her allegiance to them, and to the St. Germaine name.

Glory shook her head, her body quaking with the force of her tears. She turned away from Santos and toward her mother, pressing her face into Hope's shoulder.

A moment later, he was gone.

New Orleans, Louisiana.

1995

T
he Snow White Killer had struck again. Santos received notification at 2:57 a.m. Twenty-six minutes later, he wheeled his car to a stop in front of St. Louis Cathedral. The first officers at the scene had already cordoned off the area. The coroner had arrived, as had the crime-scene unit. As he threw his car into Park, the Channel Four news van arrived, and Hoda Kotb and her crew hopped out.

Santos waited until the reporter had moved away before opening his car door and climbing out. He surveyed the scene. The cathedral was lit up like a Christmas tree. A rowdy crowd had gathered, a mix of people—some who worked in the Quarter, some who were residents, but most were late-night partyers, many of them more than five-sheets-to-the-wind drunk. At least a dozen uniforms lined the perimeter of the scene, keeping the area secure and the crowd under control.

Santos drew in a deep breath. In his ten years on the force, he had arrived at hundreds of such scenes. They didn't much affect him anymore. But arriving at this one did. He swore under his breath. This one was his case, his baby; this one was personal.

He wanted to catch this sick bastard, wanted to so badly it burned in the pit of his gut. So far, he had gotten nowhere. This guy was slick. He was smart, he was organized and he was a predator.

Santos flashed his badge and crossed the yellow line. As he did, two tourists nearby snapped his picture, their flashes nearly blinding him. He swung toward the closest uniform. “Take care of that, will you? Jesus, you'd think they'd be happy with a postcard of a riverboat or something.”

The uniform shrugged. “What visit to sin city is complete without a photo from a murder scene?”

“Yeah, right.” Santos shook his head. “And we think the criminals are twisted.”

“Detective Santos?”

Santos turned. A uniformed officer approached him, one he recognized from downtown. “Grady. What've we got?”

“Another dead hooker. No confirmation on that yet, but it seems clear we're dealing with the same guy.” He cleared his throat. “That's four in four months.”

“I can count,” Santos said tightly. “Go on.”

“A couple drunk tourists found her. Damn near tripped over the body. The guy lost his cookies. Pathetic.”

“Tourists. Fuck.” Santos let out a frustrated breath. “The mayor's going to be breathing down all our asses.”

“I hear he's on his way.”

Santos swore again. “Where are they?” The officer motioned toward a couple huddled under a blanket on a bench in front of the cathedral. “I want to talk to them.”

“Got it.”

“The body?”

“Our boy laid her out right at the church door. Can you believe that shit? Nobody's got any respect anymore.”

Santos nodded, though he only half listened to his fellow officer's editorializing as they made their way across the sidewalk and up the couple steps that led to the cathedral's main entrance.

Just as the uniform had said, there she was, laid out the same as the other three had been, pretty as a picture, this time right at the cathedral's front door. Most killers of this ilk left their victims mutilated or in exaggerated, degrading positions. Not this guy. He arranged his girls with their hands folded on their chests, legs together, eyes closed, freshly washed hair spread out around their heads. Just like Snow White in her glass casket. She could be sleeping. Or praying.

Only she wasn't. She was dead as dead got, brutally murdered.

Santos squatted beside the body. The coroner, a middle-aged woman with sandy hair, freckles and a cherubic face, looked at him. “Hello, Detective. Our friend's keeping busy.”

“I see that.” Santos slipped on rubber gloves. “What've we got?”

“White female. Dark-haired. Young, I'd guess eighteen to twenty.”

“Hooker?”

“That's my guess, if we're dealing with the same perp. You recognize her?”

Santos shook his head. He'd worked French Quarter vice for three years before moving over to homicide, but working girls turned over pretty quickly, especially the young ones. Besides, the Snow White Killer—so dubbed by the press—bathed his victims after killing them, washing and drying their hair, removing their makeup and jewelry, then dressing them in virginal white cotton gowns. The girls were harder to recognize cleaned up.

Santos lifted his gaze to Grady. “There're some working girls out there. See if any of them can make her.”

Grady nodded and hurried off.

Santos moved his gaze carefully over the victim, noting every detail. “Cause of death?”

“Suffocation is my guess. I'll know for sure after the autopsy. But the body looks perfect. No bruises, no sign of a struggle.”

“She looks pretty fresh.”

“She hasn't been dead long.” The medical examiner pursed her lips. “Our boy's getting pretty cocky, dumping her here.”

“He's taunting us.” Santos lifted his gaze, scanned the scene, then met her eyes again. “The apple?”

“Already collected. As before, a bite's missing from both sides. Unlike the others, however, I don't see any residue in her teeth. Look at this.”

The medical examiner carefully wedged back the victims folded hands. Rigor mortis had begun to set in, but Santos could clearly see part of the imprint of a cross burned into her palms. Same as the other three. That particular part of the killer's ritual the department had kept from the press.

Santos nodded, and the M.E. eased the hands back into place. “Any chance we're dealing with a different perp?” he asked.

“Not in my book, but the tests will tell the tale.”

Santos stood. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Make that late tomorrow,” she murmured, returning to her work. “I've got others ahead of her in line.”

Santos didn't reply. He was already thinking ahead to the tourists and the questions he would ask them.

 

Hours later, Santos stopped in front of a trendy-looking restaurant, shrugged out of his jacket and loosened his tie. The midafternoon sun, warm even for March, beat down on the French Quarter sidewalk. He was hot, tired and frustrated. He'd spent the last four hours working the streets, talking to club owners and bartenders, flashing this latest victim's picture and hoping to find someone who had seen something.

So far, nothing.

And now this. The Garden of Earthly Delights. Damn. His partner had done it again—set out to poison him with health food.

Santos entered the restaurant, a yuppie affair with quirky painted wall murals and an abundance of plants. He glanced around, and spotted his friend and partner—it wasn't difficult, aside from the bartender, he was the only man in the establishment and was nearly six foot four, completely bald and as black as black got—and picked his way through the tiny eatery. Santos took a seat across from the other man, then glanced around the restaurant with exaggerated suspicion. “I hate this place.”

Jackson laughed. “It's new. I hear it's good.”

“From Helga the horrible, no doubt.”

“Those are fighting words, my friend.” His partner narrowed his eyes, and Santos fought back a grin. “You're talking about my wife.”

“Nice lady. Bad taste in restaurants.”

“Fuck you.”

Santos laughed and picked up the menu. “I hope they have something besides rabbit food.”

He and his partner—his parents had actually named him Andrew Jackson—were the antithesis of each other. Jackson, married with kids, was a family man in every sense of the word. He was practical, his approach to his work cool, detached. An excellent cop, he believed in leaving his cases at the precinct when he went home at night.

Santos, on the other hand, was a workaholic and a loner. Other than Lily, he had no family and no one he cared about. He approached his work passionately, at times becoming almost obsessed with a case. If his body didn't demand food and rest, he would work around the clock. On more than one occasion, his passion for his work had gotten his ass in a sling with superiors; those same superiors had been known to call him dangerous, irresponsible and a hothead. It really pissed them off that he was also one of the most decorated officers on the force.

Yet, despite their differences, he and Jackson made a good team. They had worked together for six years, each having saved the other's butt more times than either wanted to count. Next to Lily, Santos counted Jackson as the only person he trusted enough to call friend.

All that aside, he couldn't abide the healthy crap the man liked to eat.

Santos scanned the menu, settled on the least unappetizing item, then set the cardboard placard aside. “You're sure it was your turn to choose?”

“Yup.” A smile tugged at the corners of his friend's mouth. “Last time, we went to Port of Call. I was sick for a week from all the grease.”

“For a tough guy, you sure sound like a mama's boy.”

Jackson laughed and rocked back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose that's so, but this mama's boy's gonna live a long time.”

The waitress approached, took their orders, then left. Santos watched her walk away, enjoying the inviting sway of her hips, then turned back to his partner. “Any luck this morning?”

“A couple of hookers IDed the girl. Her name was Kathi. Hasn't been on the street too long. No pimp, no boyfriend, no drugs.”

“This guy's really starting to tick me off.” Santos frowned, running the details of the case over in his mind, picking them apart, one by one. “We're missing something.”

“But what?” Jackson leaned forward and the front legs of his chair hit the wood floor. “We've had four victims now. All working girls. All young, brunette, Caucasians. All from the French Quarter. All killed the same way, no variations. By each is left a red apple, a bite taken from both sides. And in every case, one bite matches the victim's, the other, presumably, the murderer's.”

“And the palms of each victim have been branded with the image of the cross,” Santos finished, rubbing his index finger along the side of his nose. “I know. But there's got to be…something. Some avenue we've overlooked.”

The waitress brought their ice teas, smiling at Santos as she put them down. He smiled back, though his thoughts were, now, miles—and years—away from the pretty blonde. He was remembering another murder, another slaughtered working girl.

And remembering the fifteen-year-old boy who had lost everything with her death, the boy who had wanted to die, too.

“We'll get him, partner,” Jackson murmured, as if reading Santos's mind. “One of these days, he'll slip up, he'll get sloppy and leave us a witness or something else to go on, and we'll nail him.”

Santos met his friend's eyes. “But how many girls have to die first?”

On the TV above the bar, the talk show in progress was interrupted for a newsbreak. The news anchor announced that the Snow White Killer had struck again, then switched to a clip from the mayor's morning press conference. The mayor, playing the outraged politician, criticized the N.O.P.D.'s handling of the case and vowed to clean up the city.

Santos watched the mayor preach and promise, then made a sound of disgust. “What an asshole.”

Jackson shook his head. “More than a murder a day in this town, we're understaffed and underfunded, and he's demanding to know why we haven't caught this guy? Sometimes this job really sucks.”

Santos took a long swallow of his tea. “What really sucks is, until now, this case has been a low priority downtown.
Just hookers being killed,
” he mocked. “Now, because a couple tourists stumbled over a victim, everybody's up in arms.”

Santos heard the bitterness in his own voice. That's why this case was his baby—he really cared that those girls had been butchered. He felt for them, their families. He knew what it was like to lose someone that way and to have no one give a damn.

Jackson was quiet a moment, then he met Santos's gaze evenly. “These girls aren't your mother, Santos. This guy is not the same guy.”

“How do you know he's not the same guy?”

“The M.O. is all wrong.” Jackson began ticking off the differences. “He uses suffocation, not a knife. He has sex with them after they're dead, not before. And how long's it been? Twenty years?”

“Sixteen.” Santos narrowed his eyes. “It's the apple, man. What about the apple? One was found beside my mother, too.”

“A coincidence. The guy was hungry.”

“You're probably right, but—” Santos bit back the words as the waitress arrived with their meals. He didn't even glance at it, resuming his thoughts as soon as she'd gotten out of earshot. “I've got this feeling, Jackson. Remember the way I felt during the Ledet case? Remember, right before we busted that scumbag son of a bitch?”