Say You Love Me (4 page)

“And your relationship is…?”

“Strictly business,” Justice said
with a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes.

“Has she been involved with anyone recently?
Someone who might want to hurt her?”

“Not that I know of,” Justice said in a curt
tone.

“You haven't
noticed any strange men hanging around? Maybe outside?”

“No.” Justice cleared his throat.
“Well, except for that Reverend Cortain and his religious group. They're
harassing us.”

“By
protesting the publication of
Naked
Desires?
”

Justice heaved a sigh. “Yes. That idiot reverend
is leading the madness. If you ask me, he's a psycho himself. Maybe you
should check into him.”

Jean-Paul made a note to do so. “Has he threatened you or Miss
Berger?”

“He sent
fliers to Britta about his protest rallies, touting some religious bunk
about us leading others into sin,” Justice admitted with a scowl. “And if
this murder gets out, he'll probably accuse our magazine of triggering
sexually related crimes.”

“Where were you two nights ago, say around midnight?”

Justice snapped his head up, his eyes
seething. “You can't possibly think that I had something to do with this.
For God's sake, I encouraged Britta to report the incident. And like I just
said, this crime will only be fodder for Cortain's nonsense.”

“I have to ask so I can eliminate you
as a suspect.”

Justice shuffled his day planner. “I…was with a woman. I can give you
her name if you want. She'll vouch for me.”

Jean-Paul indicated a pad on the desk. “I'd
appreciate that.”

Justice's lips thinned into a straight line, but he tore off the
sheet of paper and shoved it toward Jean-Paul.

A knock rapped on the door and a skinny, blond kid
appeared. “Mr. Justice? You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Ralphie. Come in. Detective Dubois from the
New Orleans Police Department needs to ask you a question.”

Jean-Paul gave him a once-over.
Young. Naive. Khakis and a designer shirt with Italian loafers. Green under
the collar.

Not a
murderer.

The boy
paled. “Did I do something wrong?”

Jean-Paul explained about the photo and Ralphie
collapsed into a chair. “I…I thought Miss Berger seemed upset when she asked
me about the mail earlier, but she didn't tell me about the
picture.”

“What did she
say?” Jean-Paul asked.

“She wanted to know if I'd seen the person who'd delivered the
envelope.”

“And did
you?”

“No.” He
crossed his feet at his ankles, rocking sideways. “It was under the door
this morning when I arrived.”

Jean-Paul nodded. “So you put it on her desk? But
you didn't open it first?”

“No. It was addressed to her.” Embarrassment colored his face. “Miss
Berger doesn't like me to read the mail. Says I'm too young.”

“How did you get those scratches on
your hand?”

“My
dog.” He stared at his knuckles. “I just got a boxer puppy. I'm trying to
train him but, man, he chews on everything in sight.”

Jean-Paul frowned. The kid obviously
knew nothing. “Have you noticed anyone lurking around, maybe watching Miss
Berger?”

“No one
specifically. Although men always look at her.”

Yes, they would. Although Britta could probably
take care of herself, a sliver of worry tickled his spine, arousing
protective instincts born of years on the job.

His reaction certainly couldn't be personal.
Britta Berger was definitely not his type.

But the killer had chosen her for a
reason.

Jean-Paul
intended to find out exactly what it was.

And why his victim had resembled her, as
well.

* * *

A
GUST OF WIND
from the impending storm
rattled the trees and sent leaves swirling around Britta's feet as she
rushed through the mob on Bourbon Street to her apartment. The storm clouds
grew darker; the sounds of feet pounding the pavement became more ominous as
the night swelled with the hordes of tourists. She glanced over her
shoulder, repeatedly searching for the photographer, but a fog of drunken
tourists obliterated any individual from standing out.

Still, someone was out
there.

She sensed him
watching her, felt his beady eyes on her skin. Studying her.
Waiting.

Was it the
photographer she'd spotted during dinner? The killer who'd sent her the
photo?

Were they the
same man?

She
considered calling the cops but what could she tell them? She had an odd
feeling? They'd think she was crazy.

A beer can rolled across the pavement, clanging
into a metal garbage can and she shrieked, pausing as a beefy hand reached
down to grab it. “Sorry about that, ma'am.”

She tensed at the lascivious look in his
liquor-glazed eyes, and pushed past him, shouldering her way around more
groping hands until she reached Naked Desires. Neon lights dotted the street
with color, highlighting the painted print and logo on the door window.
Several lurid males drooled, their faces pressed against the fog-coated
glass as they tried to peek inside.

Ignoring their pleas for a sneak preview of the
upcoming magazine and offers to share their fantasies with her, she
maneuvered her way inside, slammed the door shut and locked it. But she
froze at the sight of the darkened stairwell leading to the upstairs
apartment. She tried the light, but it didn't work. Had someone messed with
it or had the bulb simply burned out?

You're being
paranoid.
How many times last month had it done the
same thing and she hadn't thought it suspicious?

Choking back fear, she clenched her keys, ready to
use them as a weapon. Outside, the wind howled like an animal. She unlocked
the door and hurried inside. With only three rooms to the tiny apartment,
she raced through them all, finally muttering a silent thank-you to find
them empty.

Still,
she paused in her bedroom, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling. The
top bureau drawer which held her underwear was open slightly. Hadn't she
shut it this morning when she'd left for work? Normally, she kept her
garments neat, her bras on the left side, her favorite frilly underwear on
the right. In the drawer below, she stored her teddies. Now, her underwear
was jumbled as if someone had pawed through it. Frantic, she jerked the
second drawer open and gasped. Her teddies had also been moved around as if
someone had touched them.

Then she saw it—a red crotchless teddy lay in the center of her
bed.

A low sob
caught in her throat. It was just like the one the dead woman had worn in
the photograph. She glanced up in horror and noticed the note stuck to the
mirror.

“I always
have one eye on you. You can't run forever.”

Shaking with fear and disgust, she rushed to the
bathroom and splashed water on her face to stem the nausea. What should she
do? Could that photographer somehow have gotten into her place? Or the
killer who'd sent her the photograph of the murdered woman?

Hands shaking, she reached for a
towel, patted her face dry, then glanced in the mirror, expecting to see a
madman staring at her. But only her terrified eyes were reflected back. That
and images of a long-ago time she'd thought she'd forgotten. Of a terrified
little girl and a man she refused to speak of….

She spun around, ran into the bedroom to grab her
purse and retrieved Detective Dubois's card. She had to report the break-in.
Show him the red teddy.

But if she did, he'd ask more questions. Want to know more about her
and why this psycho had decided to stalk her.

She'd thought today's note had to do with the
magazine. But what if it had something to do with her past?

D-day—the day she'd died and started
a new life.

No, it
was impossible.

Maybe she should just pick up and run again. She could start over.
Find another job. A new name. A new city.

But the face of the young woman who'd died rose to
haunt her. She was so young. Hadn't deserved to be left in the bayou for the
mosquitoes, snakes and gators to feast upon.

Memories of the night she'd fled into the bayou
rushed back. She'd been dirty, hungry, terrified and so thirsty she'd
hallucinated. She'd seen the devil and other wild, mysterious creatures in
the marshy swampland.

And now, thirteen years later, another one roamed the
streets….

She
couldn't run this time.

Not with the dead girl's face etched in her mind permanently. It
would stay with her no matter where she went. And so would her guilt and the
memory of her sins.

The only way to escape them was to pay her penance.

Maybe by helping to find this woman's
killer, she could finally receive forgiveness.

* *
*

L
OUP
G
AROU
—the swamp devil.

Jean-Paul grimaced. The local PD had
already dubbed their newest killer with the name. The fabled creature lived
on in the minds of the Cajuns as real as the day the legend
started.

Only a devil
could leave a woman the way this sicko had—helpless, dead, exposed in the
heart of the untamed bayou.

Even though it was late evening, Jean-Paul met his
captain and partner at the ME's office. When he showed the photograph to his
partner, Carson, and his lieutenant, Phelps, cursed.

“I'm sending it to forensics,
although I doubt we'll find prints,” Jean-Paul said. “Maybe they can trace
the photocopy paper.”

Phelps frowned. “The son of a bitch is bragging about the
murder.”

“Did he
really expect that magazine to print this?” Carson asked.

Jean-Paul shrugged. “I don't know.
But for some reason, he wanted Britta Berger to see his
handiwork.”

“Because of
her column?” Phelps asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe there's a personal connection.” Jean-Paul recalled
her reaction to the photo. She'd definitely been shaken. And he sensed she
didn't like cops.

He'd run a background check on her to find out the
reason.

“Maybe he knows
her,” Phelps suggested.

“Or wants to,” Carson added.

Phelps nodded. “That's possible. If so, Britta
Berger might be in danger.”

A frisson of unease rippled through Dubois,
heating his blood. He'd arrived at the same conclusion on the way back to
the precinct. What if this psycho didn't stop at one victim? The symbols
he'd left reeked of a ritualistic killing.

The ME, Dr. Charles, appeared in his office and
waved them back to the crypt. “Have you identified our Jane Doe
yet?”

Phelps snorted.
“No, we're searching all the national databases but so far, no
hits.”

“We're checking
the universities and clubs, too,” Carson added.

Jean-Paul sighed, already tired and the
investigation was only getting started. If the vic was an out-of-towner
who'd come for Mardi Gras or to cash in on the heightened prostitute
business during the festival, the identification process would be more
difficult.

Phelps
cut to the chase. “What did you find, Dr. Charles? Anything that might help
us?”

“Nothing
conclusive yet. Except that the girl didn't die from the chest wounds. I
suspect she might have been poisoned.”

“What kind of poison?” Jean-Paul
asked.

“I don't know.
I'm still running tests.” Charles indicated one of the containers from his
handiwork. “So far, her stomach contents don't reveal traces of a poison so
she didn't ingest one. I didn't find any injection marks on her body,
either.”

“Keep
looking,” Phelps said.

“Any evidence of rape or a date rape drug?” Carson
asked.

Charles shook his
head. “Not so far.”

“Which meant she agreed to have sex, then things got out of hand,”
Jean-Paul surmised. “Once we ID her, we'll start with her boyfriends,
lovers. All her male acquaintances.”

Jean-Paul's cell phone trilled and he unpocketed
it and hit the connect button. “Detective Dubois.”

“Detective…this is Britta Berger.”

Alarm shot through him. Her voice
sounded shaky, frightened. Had the killer contacted her again? “What is it,
Miss Berger?”

“Someone broke into my place tonight,” she blurted. “I…think it might
have been the man who killed that woman.”