Heather Graham (32 page)

Mark nodded. He pointed across the room. “Sofa.”

“Yeah.” Jon started for Katie’s door, then turned back. “I sleep like the dead, you know. You’ve been damned decent. I—well, I can tell from Annie’s sketch. I really shouldn’t be here.”

“Good night,” Mark told him.

“Good night.”

Jon disappeared behind Katie’s door.

Mark sat on the sofa.

Jacques.

Damn him.

Jane Doe was Ellie Trainor, and she’d done business with him and had dinner with him the night she’d been killed. Further testing would probably prove they’d had sex together as well.

So what did that prove?

Who else was connected with Ellie Trainor except for Jacques Moret?

The answer was simple and frightening.

Anyone who might have been at the club the night she’d been killed.

He drew his fingers through his hair. Son of a bitch, but they had to have some answers. He’d been so damned scared when he’d heard Ann screaming in the cemetery. He’d had terrible—if absurd—images in his mind of Ann stretched out on a tomb, her throat bared to a voodoo priest’s knife as if she were a long-necked chicken.

He looked to her door.

Shook his head. He couldn’t take any more of this. He was too involved.

He was in love with her.

He shouldn’t be here tonight.

He stood up and walked uncertainly to her door. Barge it open, take the assertive approach! he told himself.

Barge it, and it would fall apart completely, and Ann and Jon would both be out here staring at him as if he were some kind of a complete idiot.

Open it, just open it. Tell her that you act like an ass when you’re scared stiff that something is going to happen to her.

He opened the door. Quietly, carefully.

She wasn’t in bed. She was dressed in a thin, white sleeveless nightgown, her wineglass in her hand. She was sitting in a wicker chair that looked out the window to the small garden area on the side of the house. Night lights on the street illuminated a gardenia bush, a hammock, and a little cupid fountain. It was a pretty, peaceful sight.

She heard him come in; he knew it. But she didn’t turn around.

Neither did she protest.

He walked to her. Hesitated. Slid his hands beneath her hair, lifted it, and pressed his lips to her shoulder, nape, and throat.

She still didn’t speak.

He took her wineglass from her and set it on the windowsill. Her eyes met his.

He pulled her against him, kissing her lips.

She kissed back.

He slipped his fingers beneath the thin shoulder straps of her nightgown and let it fall to the floor. He drew his hands down the length of her back, curving his fingers around her buttocks.

He kissed her lips, and her breasts, and felt her begin to quiver.

He went to his knees, drawing her against his face.

He knew when she was about to cry out. He came to his feet and quickly swallowed any sound with his kiss as he swept her up, and took her into her bed.

It was much better than the couch.

In the morning, Ann heard the phone ringing.

She was entangled with Mark, his limbs atop and beneath hers and vice versa, but she bolted up like a streak of lightning, grabbing her terry bathrobe from the foot of the bed and flying out to the counter to pick up the phone before the machine could announce the caller to everyone within hearing distance.

“Hello?”

There was a lot of static on the other end. Then she heard a low voice speaking. It was a frantic, female voice.

At least...

It sounded female.

“Ann?”

“Yes!”

Static again. “Mama Lili Mae wants to see you. She says not to trust anybody near you, not to trust anybody you think that you should trust, do you hear?”

“I, yes, but—who is this? April, Cindy?”

“Oh, God, I can’t talk long, I’ll be heard. Don’t trust anyone at all, get to Mama Lili Mae. As fast as possible. Hire a boatman, get to the bayou. Oh, God, you can’t imagine—”

The line went dead.

Ann hesitated, then hung up. She should tell Mark. Or Jon.

Don’t trust anyone. Don’t trust anybody you think you should trust.

Jon had been in the hospital when Ellie Trainor had been killed!

The murder hadn’t necessarily been committed by the same killer!

Mark had been seeing Gina, too.

No, not Mark. Not Mark.

What about his partner? The bloodhound?

What if someone on the force was guilty? Would Mark refuse to believe, refuse to see, cast her into danger himself by insisting she be with the wrong person?

“Who was that?” Mark called from the bedroom.

“The—dry cleaners!” Ann called back. “My suits are ready.”

“What the
hell
?” she suddenly heard Mark say.

She hurried to the bedroom door. He was still naked, on his stomach, his body angled so that he was staring off the bed, looking at something on the floor.

She came into the room. His head jerked up, and he stared at her.

“What?” she demanded.

“Get me a plastic bag.”

“Why?”

“Do it.”

“I’m not your maid or your lackey—”

“God damn it, Ann, please get me a plastic bag!”

Muttering furiously, she returned to the kitchen for a plastic bag. She brought it to him, then gasped when she realized what he had found.

A bloodied knife.

It was at least ten inches long, and the blood was now dried and crusted upon it. He wrapped the plastic around the handle, picking it up carefully, wrapping it completely. Ann stared from him to it in horror.

“I didn’t put it there.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Damn you, Mark, I didn’t put it there. And neither did Jon.”

Mark rose, reaching automatically for his clothes, not saying anything as he dressed. Ann felt cold. “Mark, he didn’t do it. Anyone could have gotten in here. The cops were in here, all over the place the night Gina died. Then—I’ve been out! I was in the swamp one night, and I was at your place one night. Anyone could have gotten in here.”

“Isn’t that convenient.”

“You son of a bitch! How dare you.”

“Get Jon.”

“Listen to me, you’re not a damned drill sergeant, and I’m not your private—”

“Ann, please get your ex-husband for me. I’m not hanging him; I need to talk to him!”

At his last furious outburst, Ann determined to do as bidden. Biting her lower lip and shaking, she hurried down the living room to reach Katie’s door. She knocked on it. “Jon?”

He didn’t reply.

“Jon!” She knocked again.

He still didn’t reply.

“Jon, damn you!”

She pushed open the door.

The bedroom window, facing the garden as her own did, was open.

And Jon was nowhere to be seen.

Ann exhaled on a long, shaky breath. Oh, God, was she so wrong? Was Jon a murderer? It couldn’t be; it couldn’t be.

What about Mark? a voice tormented her. He’d found the weapon—when he’d been in her bedroom.

“Ann!” Mark called sharply.

She strode back to the bedroom.

“Where’s Jon?”

“He’s—”

“He’s what?”

“Gone,” Ann admitted.

“Son of a bitch!” Mark swore. He leveled a finger at her. “No more bull from you. When I get my hands on him, he’s behind bars this time. And I hope they prosecute him to the absolute full extent of the law!”

He started out of her room. Ann hurried after him, catching his arm. “Wait! You don’t know anything yet—”

“I know he’s gone.”

“But—”

“I’ve got to bring this in, Ann.”

“Please, just—”

“God damn it, Ann, I’m a cop!”

“This is a setup. It has to be.”

“Right. That’s why Jon Marcel ran.”

“He probably heard you breathing fire and bolted.”

“He left you.”

“He left me with you.”

He shook his head. “I have to go.”

“Please don’t bring that knife in yet. There’s got to be an explanation—”

“Ann, I’ve got to go. And don’t you leave this place, do you understand me? I mean it.”

He didn’t ask to use her phone; he had a new cellular. He pulled it from a pocket and pressed a number. “Dispatch, this is Mark LaCrosse, get someone over to Ann Marcel’s. Have an officer come straight up to her damned hallway—since she managed to elude her guard yesterday. I need someone now, all right? See if you can get Jimmy for me.”

“No!” Ann cried. “Don’t. Don’t get Jimmy over here. He makes me uneasy.”

“Jimmy didn’t kill Gina or anybody else.”

“You can’t just say that—”

“You say that Jon didn’t kill her; well, I say that I know that Jimmy didn’t!” He started to the door to the hallway, then turned back to her. “Don’t leave, damn you, don’t you leave here, do you hear me?”

“Go to hell!”

“I’m going to tell Jimmy or whatever officer is there to arrest you if you so much as set foot outside that door!”

She stood dead still. Eyes narrowed, furious, she stared at him. He returned her stare.

“Ann, I’m sorry—”

“Go to hell.”

“Ann—” he started back toward her.

“Go to hell! And don’t you dare touch me, do you understand?”

He stopped. His gray eyes seemed filled with anguish for a number of seconds.

Then they just seemed cold. Glittering silver.

“Don’t leave here. I will have you brought down and booked. There are plenty of charges I can level against you.”

He spun on his heel, and left her.

The second the door closed, Ann spun around and raced for her bedroom, dressing as quickly as humanly possible. She had to get out before Jimmy Deveaux came to stand guard at her doorway.

She dressed for the bayou.

“Hey! Mark, where are you going?”

To Mark’s amazement, he saw Jon Marcel hurrying to him from the cafe across the street from Ann’s place. He was balancing a bag of pastries with a cardboard tray filled with coffee.

He stared at Marcel until the man reached him. “I thought the point was that someone should be staying with Ann. You’re a cop; I’d think you’d have checked to make sure that I was there before you just upped and left her.”

Jon realized that Mark was staring at him oddly.

“What is it?”

Mark produced his plastic bag.

“Oh, Jesus,” Jon breathed.

“Under Ann’s bed.”

“You can’t possibly believe Ann put it there.”

“Maybe not.”

“Oh, man, come on! You can’t believe I did that either. Gee, please feel free to go sleep with my ex-wife; I’ve hidden a bloody knife in her room?”

“Maybe that’s the point. Hide it where it’s just too damned obvious.”

“And I went for coffee for you and everything,” Jon said disgustedly. “Fine. Frigging fine, just arrest me then. I didn’t do it, and you’re going to let the real killer walk free.”

Mark stared at him. Gut reaction—Jon Marcel didn’t do it. Why go off the deep end about the knife? He was a cop—he had to turn in evidence.

Maybe it was a hoax. Maybe the blood on this particular knife would turn out to be chicken blood.

He shook his head in disgust. “When you were barely conscious, you said to her—”

“Annabella’s. If I could just see...see beyond the shadows. Damn it, I must have seen the killer.”

“Let’s go up. We’ll all discuss this. Calmly. I think,” Mark said. “Maybe it won’t make any difference if I arrange for the hypnotist, then turn in the knife.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Let’s at least drink the coffee. It’s the good kind.”

They went up the stairs to Ann’s, went in. Jon set the bag of pastries and the tray of coffee down.

“Ann!” Mark called.

Ann didn’t reply.

“She must be changing,” Jon said.

“Ann?”

She still didn’t answer.

Frowning, Mark hurried to the door. He threw it open. The broken door shuddered, the hinges gave, and the door slammed to the ground, nearly catching Mark’s feet.

He barely seemed to notice. He felt ill. Gut feeling. She was gone.

And she was in real danger.

“Where?” he grated out raggedly.

“I don’t—” Jon began. He broke off cleanly, staring at Mark. “The club?”

“Let’s try it,” Mark said.

They hurried out of Ann’s house. Mark called dispatch as they drove, telling the operator that Ann Marcel wasn’t in her house, but that he wanted a man in her hallway anyway. “Did you get my partner yet, Janey?” he asked the operator.

“Not yet—sorry.”

“If you do, tell him to meet us at Annabella’s.”

But Ann wasn’t at the club.

Harry Duval’s one-eyed bouncer met them at the door. “The boss is in the back, but I haven’t seen the pretty little artist lady either. She’s not here. I mean, I’m sure, but I’ll make positive. No one’s in today yet, not Jen, April, Marty, Cindy...they must think it’s the damned Fourth of July come early or something.”

“See if Ann Marcel is back there, please?” Jon prodded.

“I’ll have someone check back in the dressing rooms.”

They wandered in. Mark leaned against a bar stool. It happened to be the stool by the phone. There was a notepad sitting there.

He glanced at the notepad. Ann’s number was doodled on the pad.

As he stared at it, Harry Duval made an appearance. “Gentlemen! You’re here early.”

Mark stared at the notepad. Ann’s number had been written there not just once.

But over and over.

“Duval!” he said sharply.

Both Harry and Jon moved over to him.

“Whose writing is that? Do you recognize it by any chance?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t really recognize it—” Jon began.

Duval whistled. “Yeah, I know it.”

“Oh, God, I know it, too!” Mark exclaimed. “Oh, hell, I do recognize it.”

“She was lured out this morning!” Jon said. “Oh, God, where would you lure a woman to...”

“Kill her?” Mark finished, feeling ill. He stared at Jon.

“The swamp,” Jon said.

“Wait!” Harry Duval said. “Maybe there’s something else you should know.”

“What?” Mark demanded.

“Well, I never thought it mattered much, but here goes.”

Both men listened.

Then they all started out.