Say You Love Me (10 page)

Dammit. He had no right thinking anything sexual about her. Especially when she was involved in an investigation.

But logic had nothing to do with the insane desire that strummed through him when he was near her. Her eyes mesmerized him and made him senseless.

If it was any other time and he'd met her, he'd go ahead and let the heat between them sizzle. After all, he'd sworn off marriage, but he'd never promised to be celibate. And having sex with the woman would probably be explosive. He could do it without becoming involved.

Bright lights nearly blinded them from an oncoming car as they passed a graveyard, and Carson cursed. Shadows of the dead rose like mystic creatures in the murky night, bolted him back to reality. Elvira Erickson was among them, waiting for justice.

“Are you all right, Dubois?” Carson asked. “You seemed a little unglued around that Berger chick earlier.”

Jean-Paul massaged his temple. “I'm fine. Just thinking about the case.”

Carson dragged a Marlboro pack from his pocket, thumped a cigarette onto his thigh and lit it. “I thought for a minute you were digging her or something. She sure as hell looked as if she could eat you up.”

Jean-Paul shot him a cold look. “She's part of the investigation,” he snapped. “And I'm not interested in her or any woman.”

“Hey man, I wasn't criticizing,” Carson said with a wry smile. “It's been almost two years since your wife died. You probably need a good lay.”

Was that all he wanted from Britta?

No, he wanted to know more about her, too. Dammit. “Drop it, Carson. The subject is closed.”

Carson rolled down the window, the hot, thick air invading the car along with the heady smoke of the cigarette. “Hell. I'm just saying, the chick wants you. Use it to your advantage.”

He gritted his teeth. Carson might be right. But he didn't make it a practice to seduce women for information.

And even if Britta was attracted to him, she wasn't jumping into his bed—she was running from something.

What was she so afraid of?

“Maybe we can pick up Swain tomorrow,” Carson said. “Tonight, I'll check for any cases with similar MOs across the states.”

Jean-Paul nodded. “I'll see what I can dig up on Britta's past.”

Carson raised an eyebrow, but refrained from comment as he wheeled into the precinct. Jean-Paul jumped out, climbed in his SUV and drove toward his own house, scrubbing a hand over his bleary eyes. He probably wouldn't get a wink's sleep, but he didn't know what else to do right now. He felt so damn helpless.

The lieutenant had taken it upon himself to phone the Ericksons and they were flying in from Houston in the morning to identify their daughter's remains. He'd phoned Damon for a seven o'clock briefing to discuss the case. A task force was being put in place already. And later, Britta and he were supposed to review those confession letters.

The house he'd renovated—rather
was
renovating—stood like a monument to the old N'Awlins as he approached it. The basic structure had withstood the elements, but the paint had faded, shingles had been blown off and glass windows shattered during the hurricane. Over the past year, he'd restored it to at least livable conditions.

Hundred-year-old oaks with massive tree trunks dripped Spanish moss to the ground, while the wraparound porch with its porch swing and the intricate lattice work remained, reminding him of what life might have been like years ago.

Dry ground crunched beneath his boots as he strode up the clam-shell drive; the crushed shells resembled white powdery sugar spread across the parched grass. Lucinda had loved the veranda, had talked of redoing the garden with rosebushes and azaleas that would add color to the lush green landscape. But she'd never had the chance.

The shrill whistle of crickets and cicadas sang their nightly rituals. Mosquitoes buzzed and somewhere beyond, near the river, leaves were rustled from an unknown source. A snake perhaps, or maybe a gator who sought the shade of the night beneath the weeping willows and tupelos on his property.

He surveyed the land beyond, then turned back to study his porch.
Beau Monde,
his place was called, for the woman who supposedly worked to save her home while her lover went to war. She'd been raped and brutalized by foreign soldiers, yet she'd survived and had refused to leave her house for fear her beloved wouldn't know where to find her when he returned.

Lucinda had thought the legend so romantic. Yet she'd believed the man should have stayed home to protect his wife instead of leaving her to fend for herself.

Just as she'd wanted
him
to leave police work for her. She'd hated the violence, the fact that he might not come home at night. And she'd shudder if he mentioned what he'd seen, the cases….

But he'd been stubborn, just like the owner of
Beau Monde,
and insisted he was doing his duty, that he'd been called to save others.

How could a person outrun who they were inside? Who they were meant to be? He was a Cajun, born to serve the law, bred to fight the dregs of society. He could be nothing more just as Matthew Monde had been a hundred years ago.

But he'd failed Lucinda. When the hurricane had hit, he'd been spearheading rescue attempts while looters had killed his own wife.

Guilt nearly had him doubling over and sweat poured down his face. He deserved the guilt and more.

But the innocent woman struggling for her life tonight needed him to be strong and pull himself together.

Muscles tight, he straightened and went inside. He couldn't change the past, but he could find this maniac who was taking lives. Keep trying to save the innocents to make amends for the one he'd loved and lost. The one he should have protected and saved.

His head pounded as he entered through the mud-room, and he brewed a pot of coffee, knowing he couldn't sleep. Mug in hand, he booted up his laptop at the antique oak table, then began to search for information on Britta Berger. There was some reason the killer had phoned her specifically.

Maybe because she worked at the magazine.

But he claimed to know her secrets, which implied he'd known her in the past. A past she refused to share with him.

He opened the French doors, and sipped the hot coffee while he searched for information. Nothing appeared on any of the police databases, indicating that she didn't have a criminal record. In fact, a half hour later, he scrubbed his hand down his face, exhausted, confused and angry.

He stood, walked to the bar, poured himself a shot of bourbon and tossed it down, grateful for the slow burn rippling down his throat to his belly. The gnarled branches of the trees enveloped the bayou as if protecting its secrets.

Just as Britta's outward mask of control protected hers.

He had found absolutely zilch on her in the databases. Nothing except for the fact that she worked for
Naked Desires,
and that she'd moved to New Orleans a year and a half ago.

Dammit, he'd been an absolute fool. She had sucked him in with those guileless bewitching eyes. But those pretty lips had told him nothing but lies.

Bon Dieu.
Britta Berger wasn't even the woman's real name.

No, two years ago, Britta Berger had died. In fact, she was buried right here in one of the cemeteries in the Big Easy.

Five days before Mardi Gras

E
IGHT HOURS SINCE THE
killer's phone call and Jean-Paul still had no idea who the missing woman was or where the killer had taken her.

Or if she was still alive.

Elvira Erickson's parents wanted answers, too, and he had no idea what to tell them.

The muggy heat bore down on Jean-Paul as he stared at the grave. This one, the woman named Britta Berger. She was buried next to her folks, a man named Wally, a woman named Cassie. Apparently they had died in a car crash, all together. He'd looked them up last night and discovered they were a close-knit family.

So who was the woman at
Naked Desires
who called herself Britta Berger? Had she stolen the name from the obituary column? Had she known the real Britta Berger?

And why had he spent half the night thinking about her, searching for reasons to justify her actions?

He'd be better off if he'd never met her. Had never wondered what it would be like to kiss her. To touch her bare skin. To have her naked and writhing beneath him.

Damn. He shouldn't have read that magazine last night, but he hadn't been able to sleep and had hoped he might find a clue to their killer between the pages. Instead, he'd found erotic pictures and a few letters that he begrudgingly admitted aroused him. He'd always thought men just got turned on by pictures but surprisingly, the written word had made him hard as hell.

Then he'd dreamed about Britta.

But when he'd awakened, he'd been haunted by the fact that she had lied to him. Then again, maybe she had a good reason for changing her name. She might have an abusive boyfriend after her….

If that was the case, why not tell him?

He'd witnessed the twinge of sadness in her eyes when she'd claimed she had no family, and that one real moment taunted him to want to trust her.

Or maybe she'd used that vulnerable, lost look to seduce him.

Whatever, he had to keep their relationship professional.

Yeah, like discussing sexual fantasies from her confession letters today wouldn't get personal.

A subject he and Lucinda had never broached. Lucinda had been old-fashioned, shy about her body, had insisted on lights off during sex. Simple white cotton gowns, not lacy lingerie as he imagined Britta choosing.

He damn sure bet she didn't have to undress in the dark. And he sure as hell wouldn't want her to.

No. He wasn't going there with Britta.

Hell, if she'd changed her name, she'd probably changed her appearance, as well. Maybe she
did
have a closet of wigs and disguises just like the masks on her wall.

Disgusted with himself, he shoved his hands into his pockets, stalked back to his vehicle and rushed toward the precinct. Today he would get answers.

And hopefully he'd find this killer.

Just as he'd expected, more reporters stood on the front steps, pouncing on him as he neared. Damn leeches.

“Detective Dubois, any progress on that murder case?”

“You have to tell us something.”

“Is it true the girl was a prostitute?”

“The cops don't care about the hookers, do they?”

Jean-Paul glared at the man, but refused to take the bait.

Mazie Burgess thrust a microphone in his face. “Come on, Detective Dubois, the public has a right to know if they're in danger.”

She was right, but it was too early to talk. “I will make a statement when I have something to tell you. For now, go home and let me get on with the investigation.”

Mazie stroked his hand. “Come on, Jean-Paul…”

He narrowed his eyes, warning her to back off. Unfortunately, they both knew he couldn't avoid the press forever.

Still, if word leaked about the second victim, hysteria would erupt. And if the public knew the killer was contacting Britta, her privacy would be shot and she might be in more danger. He rushed inside to the elevator. He had to find out why Britta had lied to him about her identity. And if she'd lied about one thing, she could have lied about others.

What if she knew the killer or had known him in the past? Her silence could cost more women their lives.

* * *

T
HE FACE OF THE DEAD
woman rose like a ghost in Britta's dreams. Whispering to her for help. To find her killer.

She jerked awake, a myriad other faces swirling in front of her. Faces she had seen on the streets the night before. Innocent young girls turned to hooking. Girls who'd forgotten themselves and lost their souls to the debauchery of the city.

Predators waiting to pounce on every corner. Ones who might end up just like Elvira Erickson.

Yet she had still been called to the streets.

Jean-Paul Dubois would dub her an idiot. Tell her she was asking for trouble.

She massaged her shoulder where Shack's buddy had twisted her arm behind her back. But he had refused to let her see him. The bruise on her chin from his blow could be camouflaged by makeup.

Jean-Paul would say she deserved those, as well. But he didn't know the real Britta. After all, she was used to disguises.

And last night, she answered her calling.

Today she had to face reality. A killer was using her to alert the police about his murders.

Anxiety squeezed her already sore muscles, and she quickly showered and dressed in a black cotton skirt and crimson tank, donned her spangled bracelets and earrings, then fluffed the short racy ends of her hair. Her glasses came next, the perfect addition to her latest persona.

Then she grabbed her leather shoulder bag filled with the confession letters to take to Detective Dubois. Last night, after her return from the streets, she'd stayed up until four scouring the bundle for suspicious submissions. A handful stood out; she'd pass them to Jean-Paul Dubois.

She stopped in the office, but R.J. hadn't arrived so she decided to drop by the detective's office after she visited the café for her morning coffee and beignet. A noise outside startled her. Through the front window, she noticed a group in front of their building. A square-necked beefy man—a few years older than her, wearing a black suit and hat—lifted his hands to the gathering crowd. He shouted something she couldn't hear, then a chorus followed. Homemade picket signs sprang up as the protesters formed a circle on the street in front of the outer entrance to Naked Desires. “Get rid of the sinners! Cast them aside and build the kingdom of God in their place!”

Britta clenched her hands together as the jeers grew louder. A camera crew arrived and a reporter and cameraman jumped out to capture the scene.

Ever since the caravan of religious fanatics had rolled into town five days ago, R.J. had warned her that they might show up. They'd already staged protest marches in front of two strip joints, another bar and the voodoo shop on the corner.

Dreading the mob and worried about a photo of her on the front page of the paper, she ducked into the hallway to phone him. He answered on the fourth ring.

“R.J., it's Britta.”

“Morning. Is everything all right?”

She'd forgotten that she hadn't told him about the phone call the night before and caught him up to date.

“God, Britta, maybe you should stay with me for a few days until this settles down.”

“Thanks, R.J., but I'm okay. Except that Reverend Cortain and his mongers are protesting outside the office and a reporter just showed up.”

“Shit. I'll be there as soon as possible.”

“Wait. R.J., I promised Detective Dubois I'd drop by and review these letters with him today. I'll see you when I get back. But I want you to do one thing.”

“Anything for you, Britta.”

Her shoulders tensed at his tone. “Do you think it's possible the killer chose his victims from one of the women who wrote into the magazine?”

“You mean he thought he was fulfilling their fantasy?”

“Maybe.”

“That's a long shot,” R.J. replied. “We have a secure database. Besides, it would be too much trouble. He can easily find a prostitute on Bourbon Street. And if he's into S and M, there are clubs that cater to that, too.”

“Ones you frequent?” Britta instantly regretted her question. She'd tried not to show any personal interest in R.J.'s life.

“Ahh, Britta,” he said in a low, husky voice. “All you have to do is trust me and I can show you how exciting sex can be.”

She didn't trust any man. And she didn't need a bed of horrors. But neither could she be judgmental like Jean-Paul Dubois. “No thanks, R.J. I'd better go now. That detective is probably waiting.”

A tense second passed between them. She could almost hear the disappointment in R.J.'s labored breathing. “What about the reverend and the reporters?”

“I'll dodge them.”

“All right, but be careful. And if you do get cornered, don't comment.”

“Don't worry. The last thing I want is to get caught up in the publicity.”

She said goodbye, then raced upstairs to her apartment, grabbed a hat and sunglasses and hurried down toward the back entrance. As soon as she opened the door, a camera flashed and a reporter jammed a microphone in her face.

“Aren't you Britta Berger, the Secret Confessions columnist?”

Britta gripped the door edge, ready to run back inside, but a middle-aged woman clutched her arm. “Please, Miss Berger, stop your porn column. We have to save our children!”

“Shut down the magazine!” a man yelled.

“What do you know about the swamp-devil killings?”

They must have seen her with the detective. Britta ducked her head and covered her face with her hands, then shouldered her way through the crowd. The cameraman and reporter followed, along with others. Someone tried to rip the bag of letters from her arm, but she held on to it for dear life. Terrified of the escalating mood, she sprinted to the edge of the street corner and merged into the crowd preparing to cross.

“Stop that heathen!” someone yelled.

“Shut down the slutty column!” another person shouted.

Suddenly someone shoved her from behind. She pitched forward and tried to grab something to steady her, but her heel caught in a crack in the pavement and she fell forward. She yelled and threw out her hands to brace her fall, but her knees slammed into the concrete and pain shot through her. Tires squealed and brakes screeched around her.

She looked up in horror as a black sedan raced toward her.

* * *

T
HE ELEVATOR DOOR
opened and Jean-Paul headed to his office.

Carson was waiting on him. “Hey, man, we've got Randy Swain in custody. Ready to question him?”

Jean-Paul nodded. “I'll be right there.” He threw down his briefcase and followed Carson to the interrogation room. “Has he said anything yet?”

“No. But he's pretty wired. I'm running his prints now.”

“Good. Does he have an alibi?”

“Claims he was working on a new song the night the Erickson woman died. Guy's already got a big head. He's on his way to the top of the charts with that heartbreaker song.”

“Heartache Blues.” Jean-Paul chewed the title over in his head. Could the man have decided to murder to gain attention and spike ratings?

Seemed a little drastic, but desperation and ambition were powerful motivators. Plus Jean-Paul had discovered confession letters from women who'd fantasized about having sex with the singer. He'd also found a full page ad for Swain's CD in
Naked Desires.

He stepped into the room, frowning. Swain looked skuzzy—as if he hadn't seen a shower or razor in a couple of days—and his eyes were bloodshot, probably from drugs or lack of sleep—or both. He was sprawled out in the seat, his arm draped over the chair back, as if he was pissed at being dragged away from his apartment.

If his fans could see him now, they might rethink their loverboy image.

“Mornin', Swain.” A table sat in the center below a lamp hanging from the ceiling. Carson sat across from the man, while Jean-Paul situated himself at an angle, half sitting, half standing for intimidation purposes.

“What am I doing here?” Swain asked. “I haven't broken any laws.”

Jean-Paul cleared his throat. “Your new hit ‘Heartache Blues'?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

Carson leaned forward, eyes trained on Swain. “We found a copy of it at the scene of a murder.”

The man's bushy brown eyebrows shot up. “So? There's been thousands of them sold in the last week.”

“You don't know how it got there?” Jean-Paul asked.

Swain ran a hand over a hole in his jeans. “Listen, if you're talking about that girl they mentioned in the paper this morning, I don't know jack shit about her. Never even heard her name before I read it in the paper.”