Blood Red (6 page)

And he didn't like this.

“An organized killer, trying to hide an ID, would almost certainly have cut off the hands, as well,” he said. “We've still got fingerprints, and I have a hunch we'll have an ID on our vic soon enough.”

“Drug deal gone bad?” Bobby suggested hopefully.

Sean shrugged. “Keep an eye out,” he said.

“Right. And you remember, Lieutenant. The Mississippi? A big, big river.”

“Yeah,” Sean said, smiling grimly. “But the corpse is in
our
morgue.”

Lauren finished her shopping and arranged for the small piece of art she'd chosen to be delivered to the B and B, then stepped out onto Royal Street. The sun was bright. She shaded her eyes with one hand while she fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses with the other.

One of the mule-drawn carriages drove by. She blinked, then squinted against the glare. She could have sworn Deanna was in it—on the front seat, right next to the driver, who was tall and dark, and wearing a top hat.

The carriage kept going at a brisk pace.

“Deanna?” she called, following after it. But there were cars on the street, as well, and she had to move quickly back to the sidewalk and maneuver around all the people there. The carriage was far beyond her before she finally gave up trying to follow it.

Besides, itt couldn't have been Deanna, she told herself. Deanna wouldn't have taken a carriage ride by herself, not when she was supposed to be shopping with Heidi.

But when Lauren made it across the street to one of her favorite clothing shops, she found Heidi in the back alone, trying on hats.

“Hey,” Heidi said. “How's this?”

The straw hat she was trying on was wide-brimmed and sported a bright flower, and Heidi wore it well.

“Perfect,” Lauren said. “Where's Deanna?”

“She said something about the shop next door,” Heidi said. “She said she'd be right back.”

“I could have sworn I just saw her in a carriage.”

“Why would she take a carriage ride without us?” Heidi asked.

“She wouldn't.”

“Then you probably just saw someone who looked like her,” Heidi said. “You know, this place is a little pricey, but this really is a nice hat. Should I buy it?”

“Yes,” Lauren said, still distracted. “I'm going to check next door.”

Heidi turned and stared at her. “You sound worried.”

“No, not really.”

“Lauren, it's broad daylight. There are a zillion people on the streets.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “Let's look for Deanna.”

“Buy your hat. I'll check next door.”

“Okay, I'll meet you there.”

When she stepped back onto the street, Lauren was practically assaulted by music. She came to a dead halt.

There was something happening in the street. A jazz funeral. The mule-drawn hearse, escorted by mounted police, passed just as she emerged. Behind the hearse came the mourners and, with them, the musicians. It was a spectacle not everyone got to see, something unique, sad yet wonderful, to be found in the city. Someone was about to be laid to rest in grand fashion.

The procession had to be on its way from the church to the cemetery—something of a long route from here, Lauren thought. The musicians were playing a dirge now, but she'd been to several jazz funerals in her life, and she knew that once they left the cemetery there would be a celebration of the deceased's life. Often the band would play “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the old standby. It was an old custom, African beliefs blended with western religion.

On the street, everyone had stopped, watching the procession go slowly by.

She did the same.

The mourners were black, white and all shades in between.

One of the trumpet players was a huge, handsome African-American man. As he played, his eyes lit on Lauren, and she offered him a nod of respect. Strangely, he kept watching her solemnly until he had passed her.

As soon as the funeral had moved on, people began to mill around on the sidewalks again, and cars followed slowly, until they could turn onto a different street.

Lauren found herself listening to the sad dirge until the funeral march was but a hint in the air, and the laughter on the street and sounds of a corner rock band overshadowed what had been. Then she gave herself a shake and hurried into the next store.

She saw T-shirts, voodoo potion boxes, alligator heads, votive candles and holders, but no sign of Deanna.

Nor did Heidi appear.

She walked back into the store where Heidi had been looking at the hat. Neither of her friends was there.

Irritated, she took out her cell phone. She tried Deanna's number first and got her voice mail. The same thing happened when she tried Heidi's number. Cursing silently, she left her a message, too.

She didn't want to go far; they had to be nearby somewhere. But after going in and out of a dozen shops, cafes and restaurants, her level of aggravation peaked, and she gave in to the heat and her own weariness and opted for a table near the street at the last café she checked and ordered a giant iced tea.

While she sat, she drew out her sketch pad, but before she could start working on a street scene, she found herself staring at the sketch she had made of the fortune teller the night before.

“You ruined the whole party, you know,” she said softly to the sketch. The woman was still striking, everything about her unusual, from the remembered color of her skin to the bone structure of her face.

“Talking to yourself?” someone said.

She looked up, startled, wariness slipping through her.

Their handsome neighbor from cottage six was standing by her, a pleasant smile on his face.

She didn't answer; she was torn between suspicion and an inexplicable desire to engage in conversation. Okay, maybe not so inexplicable. He
was
exceedingly attractive. Tall, everything in proportion, muscular without being musclebound, with rugged features that were classically appealing and entirely masculine. She even liked his scent, and felt oddly drawn to move nearer to him.

I would actually like to get to know him,
she admitted to herself.

And then another voice chimed in. The truth was that he scared her. And maybe he scared her just because she felt such a strong sense of attraction to him.

Would she have been so afraid if it hadn't been for what had happened in the Square, the crystal ball and the illusion of genuine danger?

“Wow,” he murmured, and she realized that he was looking at her sketch. “That's magnificent.”

“I don't know about magnificent,” she murmured, embarrassed.

He never actually asked if he could join her, and she never suggested that he do so, but he drew out the chair across from her anyway and sat down.

She was glad, she realized. She liked having him there, liked talking with him. Liked feeling his eyes on her appreciatively.

And yet she was still…wary.

Scared.

Something wasn't right.

“You're quite an artist,” he said.

“It's a living,” she replied.

He flashed her a smile. A very attractive smile. “Not everyone is good enough to make a living at it.”

“I've been lucky.”

“Are your friends artists, too?”

“Yes. Artists, graphic designers.”

“You do logos, fliers, that type of thing?” he inquired politely.

“Yes, and ad layouts and so on,” she agreed.

She didn't want him to leave, she realized.

What the hell was it about him that appealed to her so strongly? She wanted to touch him, make sure he was real, stroke the contours of his face, feel his heart beat under her palm.

He tapped the table near the sketch. “I've seen her. It's an incredible likeness. There's a touch of magic to her, and you've captured it.”

“Thanks.” She hesitated. “So you…know her?”

He shook his head. “I saw her when I was walking around. She's so unusual, so arresting, that you feel compelled to look at her. You've caught all that in this sketch.”

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“So you all had your fortunes told?”

“Yes.”

“And?” His tone was teasing, his smile captivating.

And yet, despite his teasing tone, did she sense a note of seriousness behind it? Did he suspect that she had seen a strange vision?

Of course not.

“We're all going to live long, happy lives,” she lied.

“Wonderful So where are your friends now? Did they get lost in New Orleans?” he asked, a slight frow creasing his brow, though he still spoke lightly.

“They're not lost,” she said, then added, “I've simply misplaced them.”

“Worrying nonetheless,” he said

“It's broad daylight, and there are tons of people around,” she countered.

A waitress came by. “I'd love a tea, too,” he said, then looked at Lauren. “May I buy you lunch?”

“I should really wait.”

“Until your misplaced friends are located?”

She turned her attention to the street momentarily, then looked back at him. She was startled when he set a hand over hers. Pinpricks of sensation seemed to leap like fire across her flesh, pass into her bloodstream and balloon at the center of her being like a flow of lava. She was tempted to pull her hand away, then realized that would be far too indicative of her feelings.

She stared at him instead, slowly arching a brow.

Suddenly his expression grew serious, and his tone matched it when he spoke. “Please, you may think I'm insane for saying this, but I promise you, I'm not. I'm afraid that you and your friends are in danger here.”

Yes, there
had
been more to his earlier question.

“Oh, please,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment against her disappointment that he'd turned out to be a loon. “Not this again.”

All she wanted now was for him to go away. She'd been far too tempted to give in to the appealing fact that he seemed to find her interesting, attractive. To be pursuing her. Because she wanted to be pursued.

What she didn't want was this feeling that something was lying beneath every word he said, that he didn't actually want to be with her and was just plain crazy.

“Again?” he asked sharply.

Irritation filled her, along with an uncanny sense of fear. “The fortune teller gave me the same line of bull. We're here for a bachelorette party, Mr. Davidson. Pure and simple. Heidi is about to get married, and the three of us have been planning this trip for ages. I can't imagine why you—a stranger—would want to ruin it for us.”

He was quiet, leaning back. She could read little from his expression, because his sunglasses suddenly seemed as dark as night. She knew she should just ask him to leave her alone.

Somehow, she couldn't.

He was still touching her hand, but that wasn't what was stopping her. It was simply his presence that she couldn't resist.

“I swear to you,” he said very softly, “I want nothing more than your complete safety.”

“I'm not in any danger.”

“Yes, you are. You saw this morning's headline.”

She shook her head, a chill snaking through her. “Does that mean every single woman anywhere near the Mississippi River is in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, please!”

“There's a killer working the area,” he said with such assurance that she felt an ever greater sense of being encompassed of ice, despite the heat of the day.

“Are you a cop?” she asked sharply.

“No.”

“FBI?”

“No.”

“So exactly what
are
you?”

“I told you. A writer and a musician.”

“Oh, well, that answers that, then. I'm sure you know all about serial killers, not to mention exactly how and why my friends and I are in danger.”

She was stunned when he replied calmly and in a tone of such level and deep authority that it was the scariest part of it all. “I do.”

She just stared at him.

The waitress brought his tea, and he thanked her, bringing Lauren back to the moment.

“I'm going to leave now,” she said. “And you are going to leave my friends and me alone,” she told him firmly.

He ignored her words when he spoke. “I know who the killer is. I've known about him for a very long time now. He was responsible for the death of my fiancée.”