Say You Love Me (18 page)

Maybe somehow she'd figure out if this killer was a man from her past. If he was, she might be the only person who could stop him.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL CURSED HIMSELF
for his actions with Britta. He'd let his feelings get too personal. Assumed that just because he wanted her, she wanted him in return.

But she was still holding back. Still not telling him everything.

He wheeled into the precinct and hurried inside. Even though it was Sunday, the task force gathered in the meeting room. His brother Damon, his lieutenant and his partner had arrived, along with a crime-scene guy and two locals. Antwaun hadn't made it yet. Maybe he was chasing a lead.

Jean-Paul began the meeting by reviewing the information they had so far. Then he turned to Carson.

“What did you find at Swain's?” Jean-Paul asked.

Carson removed his notes and skimmed them. “Nothing concrete. No murder weapon. His place is a mess, lots of takeout food, booze, cigarettes. I obtained samples of the paper he uses for his songs to compare to the paper our guy used for the notes, but I don't think they're the same. Oh, and I found some kinky photos of him and some chicks.” Carson grinned. “Swain likes to dress up in women's clothing. Especially lingerie. But no masks of Sobek.”

“Did the lingerie match the teddy at the crime scene?”

“Not the same brand color or style. Swain likes black. Wasn't from the same store, either.”

Jean-Paul frowned. “How about his background? Any trips to Savannah or Nashville the past couple of years?”

“You have specific dates in mind?”

Damon recited the dates he'd uncovered regarding cases with similar MOs.

“I'll get right on it,” Carson said. “In fact, I did some checking. Swain is not the guy's real name. He was born Jimmy Joe Letts. Father was a drunk, mother religious. From the aunt's description, she was obsessive compulsive, forced Jimmy Joe to attend church night and day. She got so fanatical that in his teens, Jimmy Joe split, changed his name and started writing country-blues songs. She died a couple of years ago. Don't know what happened to the father yet.”

“Swain or Jimmy Joe, have a record?” Jean-Paul asked.

“Some prior petty crimes. Drunk and disorderly. Two years ago, some chick accused him of roughing her up, but she dropped the charges.”

“Talk to her,” Jean-Paul said. “Find out what really happened. Maybe Swain's violent tendencies grew after his mother's death.”

“How about the other suspects?” Damon asked.

“I just talked with Justice,” Jean-Paul said. “Says he has an alibi for when the second victim died.” Still, he didn't like or trust the man. “I'm putting a tail on him. And I want a search warrant for his apartment.”

Phelps leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee. “Do you have probable cause?”

Did he? “Just a gut feeling. He's into S and M, violent sex. He could be killing these women to spark sales for his magazine.” And to make Britta run into his arms.

“We need more than that.” Phelps frowned. “Have you found anything suspicious on him?”

“His alibi checked out. We ran a preliminary check on him but nothing turned up. I'm going to do a full background check on him now. I'll find something.”

“Two of my men are investigating the cases in Savannah and Nashville,” Damon said.

“Let's move, people,” Jean-Paul said. “The clock is ticking.”

The group dispersed. Jean-Paul rushed to his office, grabbed a cup of strong coffee at his desk and entered everything he knew so far about Justice into his computer. A few minutes later, information spilled across the screen. Justice was from the Black Bayou area. His parents were both deceased. He had two accounts at a local bank in New Orleans. A savings account that had over a hundred thousand dollars? Hmm—from Naked Desires? Or another investment?

Something illegal perhaps? He could be laundering money or any number of things. A few minutes later, he discovered another company that Justice owned. A filmmaking enterprise named Kinky Creations.

Did he feature some of his girlfriends in the movies? Was he trying to recruit Britta?

The mere idea sent bile to Jean-Paul's throat. Surely she wouldn't be swayed by his charm to play in one of those cheap flicks. Then again, she'd been dressed pretty racy the night before. He'd smelled the perfume, the cigar smoke, knew where she'd been.

So why did he still want her?

He knotted his hand into a fist, willing the sordid images to fade. Finally his vision cleared and he focused on Justice's personal data. A couple of arrests when he was a juvy—hmm, maybe the beginnings of his violent nature emerging. And another incident the year before; a woman had accused him of rape, but Justice had pleaded down to assault. Could be a pattern.

Had Justice been guilty? Or had his S and M habits landed him in trouble?

Curious about the man's family, he read further. Both parents had died when he was a teenager. The same date for both deaths. Not a car accident. Suicide.

Both of his parents? Suspicious.

Hmm. He sat up straighter and accessed an article about their deaths.

Jean-Paul's instincts roared to life. Arsenic poisoning? Worshiping Sobek? Animal and human sacrifices? He scrolled the names of the victims and found a family by the last name of Cortain. But there was no mention of Ezra Cortain. He would have been much younger then, maybe early twenties.

Hmm, a coincidence? He didn't think so.

He rubbed the kinks from his neck. Dammit. Cortain might be related to the leader of that cult and Justice's parents had died there.

And he'd left Justice alone with Britta.

* * *

“R
EVEREND
C
ORTAIN IS SPEAKING
today. Are you ready for church, Debra?”

Debra Schmale paused at the kitchen door, batting at a fly. She'd hoped she could sneak out while her dumb-ass parents were getting ready for church, but her mama had ears as sharp as a dog's and at least ten eyes in the back of her head.

“What are you wearing, girl?”

She was busted. “A new skirt.”

Sponge rollers in her hair, her mother grabbed her arm and jerked her around. “Good Lord, Debra, that's not a skirt, it's a Band-Aid. Your grandma would roll over in her grave if she saw you looking like some two-bit slut.”

Debra yanked her arm free. “Mama, all the young women dress like this these days. Besides, I'm almost twenty now, all grown up. You can't tell me what to do anymore.”

Her mother's nostrils flared. Debra backed away. Her mother always slapped hard and always got her right in the face. The hit resounded off the wood walls.

“Now, go change. You need Reverend Cortain's sermon today. He's gonna preach about the sins of the flesh.”

“I don't want to hear him talk. He's archaic.”

“You sound like that whore woman who works for that sex magazine.”

Like Britta Berger? Debra knew her mama hated the woman and that magazine. She'd joined the protesters the other day and had gotten her picture in the damn paper. “That preacher is brainwashing you, Mama.”

Her father walked in, all barrel-chested and pot bellied, trying to button the white shirt that was two sizes too small. “Get some clothes on for church, girl, before I tan your hide.”

Debra shook her head. “I'm not going.” She gripped the door knob and opened the door. Her legs were shaking, her stomach quivering.

“You leave looking like that,” he snarled, “don't bother to come back.”

Debra glared at them both, then ran outside. She didn't want to live with them anymore. She needed her own place so she could entertain whoever she wanted.

Maybe Teddy wouldn't mind some company today. After all, she'd read that magazine, knew the tricks men wanted. And she was tired of being a good girl.

She wanted a boyfriend.

And Teddy looked like a guy who needed some loving.

* * *

“W
ELCOME TO THE KINGDOM
of the Lord.” The sleeves of Reverend Cortain's robe swayed like the wings of an angel as he flapped his arms up and down. “We love all who enter. Members, visitors, deacons, sinners.”

He silently scanned the crowd, searching for those who looked lost and vulnerable. They were the ones he needed to target his sermon to most. “Yes, sinners, I once walked amongst you. But now I offer you redemption.”

The choir broke into an old-fashioned version of “Shall We Gather at the River,” and the church members joined in on the chorus. Years of sin, acts of defiance and watching others suffer had brought him here. The river had always been regarded as the place to start over. As it had been with the clan in his youth, and then again when he'd grown into a lost teenager himself. He had to guide this new generation there today. They would be baptized in the Mississippi. Join their brothers and sisters to offer their sin-afflicted souls in exchange for salvation.

Sweat poured down his neck and back, his voice rising toward the heavens as he blessed the congregation. A row of teenage girls dressed in paper-thin cotton dresses exchanged secret looks, deaf to his words, so he turned and spoke directly to them.

“Lest you not be lead astray, my children. The sins of the flesh are enticing. Temptation runs amok here in N'Awlins. The swamp devil spreads his will through the devil-besought whores. They have turned a blind eye to the sanctity of marriage and have given themselves so freely to men, spreading disease, tasting of flesh and seed that has already been shared with another. Guard your hearts, your souls. Save your bodies and worship them as a temple.”

“Amen!” a man in the back row shouted.

A chorus of other comments followed, each one growing more intense and emotional. Yet the girls he'd targeted his lesson to giggled.

His temper flared. “The devil already lives within you.” He strode forward, waved his hand above them, bowed his head. “Let us pray you see the light and find redemption.”

The choir broke into a gospel tune born of the bayou and the crowd rose, chanting, clapping and singing as if their souls had been moved today. Two hymns later, people were crying in the aisle. Two women lurched forward, arms raised, begging to be saved. A man followed, then a family.

Yes. Soon he would have another following—enough to meet at the river for the baptismal. The parents would drag their young girls to the fire, screaming and kicking if they had to, anxious for him to save their wicked souls. They trusted him. They would let him lead the way. And he would offer the girls salvation.

As the mass left, some crying and hugging, others shaking his hand and welcoming him to town, he noticed R.J. Justice standing across from him.

And at the doorway, Detective Dubois, that hero cop working the swamp devil case, watched him intently.

Both men posed a problem and could cause trouble.

Justice stepped forward, his earlier warning reverberating in Ezra's head. Since that day, Ezra had done a little research. He knew the boy from his brother-in-law's clan. The sacrifices.

The pact.

A knot gathered in his dry throat. Had the boy been part of Theodore's congregation when he was younger? If so, and he came forward, he might destroy the reputation Ezra had been building.

He couldn't allow that to happen. He had worked too hard to redeem himself. He would do whatever he needed to protect his reputation and his followers.

* * *

H
E WATCHED THE
congregation disperse with mixed feelings. A sinner stood among them. A vixen disguised in her Sunday finest.

Each detail of her face, her narrowed eyes, her upturned nose, was perfectly outlined like an artist painting a canvas. Hide the flaws with her mask of makeup. Cover the shadows. Make it look beautiful.

Showcase the eyes.

Paint them with precision. Outline the lid. Shade the colors so they looked natural in the light. Hide the tiny veins and lines of the eyeball with long black lashes and vivid colors that matched the iris. Make the pupils perfect, dark and wide. Innocent.

But she was not innocent. Her surface beauty served as a front for the ugliness that lay beneath. Her clothes—the long flowing skirt, the dark blue blouse buttoned to her neck, the plain flat pumps—created the disguise to convince the others that she belonged.

But like so many, every detail provided a cover for the real woman inside.

The one he'd seen the night before.