Say You Love Me (12 page)

Or maybe the ones she had trusted, the ones who should have taken care of her, had hurt her the most.

* * *

B
RITTA FELT EXPOSED
, vulnerable, raw. And she didn't like it.

Jean-Paul Dubois had seen too much already.

She had to get the situation back under control. “We should get to those letters.”

“Are you sure you're up for it?” Jean-Paul's eyes probed hers. “I can get a team to sort through them.”

“No, I…want to help.” She fidgeted with her hair, then slid her glasses back on. She needed them, used them to hide behind. “I need to know if I missed something so it doesn't happen again.”

He nodded. “Take a few minutes. I'll be in my office.”

She turned away from him and reached inside her bag for her compact. But he lingered for a moment, watching, studying her. Waiting to see if she'd explain herself.

But she couldn't.

Finally disappointment flared in his expression. He strode out the door. She leaned against the sink and closed her eyes, willing away the nausea that had gripped her earlier.

God knows what Jean-Paul Dubois thought of her now. She'd acted like a lunatic. Not that she cared about his opinion. He was just a man.

Another one she could live without.

Then why did she feel so bereft and alone? Why had she ached to let him hold her and make the pain go away?

Mortified at the thought, she stared at her reflection. The bruises, the dark circles, the tormented eyes. The disguise was gone and in its place the raw girl who lay beneath had been exposed. The little girl who'd tried to make herself disappear, to be invisible. The little girl without a home. A family. The woman so desperate she'd taken someone else's name.

Jean-Paul had seen her, as well.

Furious at her weakness, she washed her face, then carefully reapplied her makeup. Cover-up for the bruises. Powder for her pale cheeks. Although nothing could help the puffy eyes except rest. And she didn't foresee sleep in the near future.

Not until the swamp devil was caught.

She clutched her purse, contemplating what to do next. She should go back to her apartment and pack. She'd leave R.J. a note; tell him to hire someone else for her column. If the killer was after her, maybe he'd leave town, too. She could find a new place to hide. A new name.

Start over.

Suddenly loud shouts erupted outside the bathroom. Feet pounded in the hallway. She rushed to the door, opened it and stepped into the doorway. A middle-aged couple stood beside Jean-Paul outside his office, the man shouting questions. The woman buried her face into her hands, sobbing.

Jean-Paul called them by name—the Ericksons.

Britta's chest squeezed with compassion for the dead girl's parents. She couldn't run. She had to help them find their daughter's killer.

Even if it meant putting herself in danger.

Not wanting to intrude on their grief, she inched into the corner, giving Jean-Paul privacy to console the couple. But she watched through the glass window of his office, mesmerized by his gentle voice and the way he calmed them. Her feelings for Jean-Paul Dubois were growing. It was bad enough that she was attracted to the man, but now she actually admired him and
liked
him.

A loud voice bellowed behind her. An officer yanked a woman dressed in spiked heels, a flaming sequined skirt and enormous fake breasts toward a chair.

Jean-Paul's brother, Antwaun.

“I don't have to talk to you pigs,” the woman snarled.

“Shut up and sit down, Candy. We just want to ask you some questions.”

“I want a lawyer,” Candy hissed.

“You don't need one, you're not under arrest. We just want to talk to you about Elvira Erickson.”

Memories of seeing her own mother hauled in for prostitution resurfaced. The pity and disdain in the officers' faces. The same way Antwaun was looking at Candy.

The same way Jean-Paul would if he knew about her mother.

How could she even contemplate that he could accept her?

* * *

R
ANDY
S
WAIN
cursed as he paced in the interrogation room. “Listen, Marty, things can't go wrong now. You have to get me out of this mess.”

“Just stay calm, Randy,” his manager said quietly. “The police have nothing on you.”

Sweat soaked Randy's back. “They have the ad we ran in
Naked Desires
. And they have letters women have written to that broad fantasizing about me.” Randy lowered his voice. “God knows what they'll find to incriminate me at my apartment.”

Marty shot him a worried look. “All circumstantial.”

Except for those pictures and the lingerie…Fuck, how could he have been so stupid?

“Just play nice,” Marty advised him. “I've called Leonard Turner. He'll be here soon.”

Randy was still sweating bullets. “If they look hard enough, they'll find out about my past.”

“No one knows your real name or that you grew up in Black Bayou,” Marty assured him. “We've covered our asses.”

Randy cracked his knuckles. Maybe. Maybe not. There were other bad things they could find, though. Things he hadn't even told Marty. Notes about old songs that could condemn him. Things about his mother.

That trouble in that small town in Mississippi. And the games he liked to play with women.

Then the truth about his identity.

Even worse, there was the fact that he had met Elvira Erickson. And that he and Marty
had
discussed using that magazine for publicity….

* * *

B
RITTA BRACED HERSELF
as Jean-Paul approached. She'd seen the Ericksons leave and prayed she could help him find their daughter's killer. At least then they could have some closure.

Something she had never had with her own mother.

“Come with me, Britta,” Jean-Paul said. “We have that singer, Randy Swain, in custody. I want you to listen to his voice, see if you recognize him.”

“Why do you think that he has something to do with the murder?”

Jean-Paul explained about the CD and Swain's ad in
Naked Desires.
“Did you meet Swain when he placed the ad?”

Britta chewed her lip. She'd forgotten about it. “Yes, but just briefly. The magazine was hungry for supporters.”

“And he was hungry for publicity.”

She nodded, his meaning dawning. “You think he might have killed Elvira and contacted me to boost his sales?”

“It's one possibility. Carson is searching his apartment now.” He led her to an interrogation room. “Listen. Tell me if he sounds like the man who phoned you.”

“But I've heard his song, Jean-Paul,” Britta said. “I don't think it was him.”

“You said the voice sounded muffled. He might have disguised his tone.”

Britta nodded and sat down behind the two-way mirror. Jean-Paul left the room, then appeared in the window on the other side to question Swain.

“Listen, Swain,” Jean-Paul said. “There're a couple of things I want you to say for me.”

“What? That I killed that hooker?” He pulled at his chin. “I don't think so. I told you I want my lawyer.”

“Your manager said he's on his way. But if you want to get yourself off the hook, this just might do it.”

Swain's features tightened, but he conceded. “Bring it on then. I want to go home and get some shut-eye.”

Jean-Paul shoved a pad in front of Swain. He squinted, then repeated, “I know your secrets and you know mine.”

Britta flinched, trying to dissect his tone, enunciation pattern, anything concrete to identify him.
Could
he have been the man who called her?

She wanted to say yes, but she couldn't be sure. The voice from the phone…it had been gruffer. Maybe raspier, lower pitched.

Her head spun in confusion. She'd been terrified when he'd called and his words had resurrected bad memories.

But what if she said no, and Swain turned out to be the killer? If they let him go, he might kill again. Then it would be her fault.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL STALKED INTO
the room, anxious for Britta's reaction. Her expression looked strained.

“I'm sorry, Jean-Paul, I can't be sure.”

He nodded, but his cell phone rang, cutting into the tension. “Dubois.”

“It's Dr. Charles. I'll be in your office in five minutes. We need to talk.”

Jean-Paul agreed, then pivoted. “That was the ME. He wants to discuss his report. I'll fill you in later.”

“Please let me stay,” Britta pleaded. “Maybe I can help.”

“Let me check with the lieutenant.”

He left the room, then returned a few minutes later and guided her into a small room with a long table and several chairs situated around it. A chalkboard and a cork board with several notes thumbtacked onto it hung on one wall. The opposite wall held a huge eraser board. And a map with pushpins occupied the third.

She claimed a straight wooden chair in the corner. Seconds later, Detective Graves entered, along with a man Jean-Paul addressed as Lieutenant Phelps. Dr. Charles stalked in a minute later, tapping a file folder. Jean-Paul introduced Britta to each of them, and they shook hands.

“What's she doing here?” Dr. Charles asked.

“She's the only one who's made contact with this swamp devil,” Jean-Paul explained. “I think she might be able to help.”

“All right. Let's talk about the tox screen,” Charles said as he spread the report on the table. “The woman did have evidence of alcohol and a mild sedative in her system.”

“So he drugged her, then carried her out to the bayou?” Jean-Paul surmised.

Dr. Charles nodded. “Probably wanted her quiet in the car so she wouldn't draw attention to them.” He attached several X-rays to the marker board, then pointed out various bruises and injuries. Next came graphic photos of the stab wounds to her heart where the spear had torn into tissue and cartilage. Britta had to look away from the gruesome details.

“Did the stab wound kill her?” Detective Graves asked.

“No.”

“Then what was the cause of death?” Lieutenant Phelps asked.

“Poison.” The ME cleared his throat. “More specifically, he used arsenic poisoning.”

Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes, trying to piece together the various elements of the perp's MO. “In the drugs?”

“No.” Dr. Charles adjusted his wire rims on his blunt nose. “That's where it gets interesting. He sprinkled the poison on the outside of the condom and fucked the poor woman to death.”

“Christ. It's a wonder he hasn't killed himself,” Phelps muttered.

“He wanted the death to be painful,” Jean-Paul said. “But it also had to result from the sexual experience. That's important to him for some reason.”

Charles nodded. “Within a short time of taking a lethal dose, arsenic poisoning causes gastric distress. A burning esophageal pain. Sometimes vomiting and diarrhea with blood. Then convulsions and coma. The patient dies of circulatory failure.”

“Damn bastard. He wants the victims to suffer.” Jean-Paul paced the room. “But he's conflicted. He uses massage oil before he has sex with them—as if he wants to pleasure them first.”

He turned to them all, continuing with the profile. “He also likes history, dabbles in religion, has twisted sexual fantasies,” Jean-Paul said with a snap of his fingers. “He left the victim with a serpent necklace where the serpent is chasing his tail.”

“He wants to turn them into what they should be,” Britta mumbled.

The men turned to stare at her.

“I saw a display about the necklace at that history museum.”

Jean-Paul nodded. “Right. And the lancet is a reproduction of one used in wars from medieval times, too. He tears out the women's hearts after he kills them because they broke his heart.”

“I don't understand why he needs the poison if he's going to stab them,” Lieutenant Phelps said.

“He's a sociopath. Maybe schizophrenic. Everything has symbolic meaning.” Jean-Paul folded his hands and took the floor. “In the middle ages, there's a story about a Frenchman who loved all his beautiful rich wives, so he decided to pleasure them before killing them. He used a thin goatskin to protect his penis, but put a lethal dose of poison on the sheath. The poison seeped into the women's vaginas and killed them shortly thereafter.”

Britta blanched. “So he loves these women, but he's conflicted by his own beliefs, therefore he kills them.”

“He's saving them from themselves, making them repent for their sins,” Jean-Paul said. “Isn't that what he told you, Britta?”