Say You Love Me (27 page)

Jean-Paul continued to search through the tapes, watching as the figure ran from the room a few minutes later. Again, he maintained a low profile, kept his head low, avoided the cameras. He'd merged into the elevator with a group of doctors as if he belonged. When the doors opened on the main floor, the man slid out unnoticed, still wearing the surgical garb.

Damn. He hoped he'd discarded it in the hospital so they could find it and look for forensics. No such luck.

He took a copy of the tapes so Damon could have the FBI's forensics team analyze it. Maybe if they enlarged the photo and zoomed in on the face, they'd find something.

He'd get his team on it.
He
had to get back to Britta.

She was in danger and he didn't trust anyone else to protect her but himself.

* * *

B
RITTA WANTED TO GO
home. But where was home?

Her apartment was in shambles. Her belongings probably had smoke damage. And there was really nothing personal there to save.

Except for the photo of her mother. Even if the rest of the album was empty, that one picture was the only connection she had. Was it safe and intact?

Jean-Paul strode in, looking haggard. She saw the guilt, the self-recriminations on his face. He didn't deserve to blame himself for what happened to her.

“We reviewed the tapes,” he said quietly. “There was a man in surgical scrubs. I saw him come in, then leave your room. But we couldn't get a look at his face. I'm sending the tapes to the feds for them to review.”

Britta nodded. “It happened so fast. I wish I could identify him.”

Jean-Paul clenched his jaw, then closed the distance between them. “The girl we found earlier, Debra Schmale.” He removed a picture from his jacket and thrust it toward her. “Do you recognize her?”

Britta's fingers trembled as she studied the picture. “Oh my God, Jean-Paul. She's just a kid.”

“Twenty,” Jean-Paul said. “Her mother swears she wasn't a hooker. She just ran away on Sunday.”

Britta narrowed her eyes at him. “So she's not the swamp devil's usual target?”

“No.”

She studied the picture again. “You know, I think I saw this girl. In the market, just the other day.”

“What was she doing?”

Britta tried to sort through the haze of scattered memories. “Looking at the art. At the dolls one of the street guys sells.”

“Voodoo dolls?”

“No, porcelain ones.” Britta thought back. “A guy named Teddy sells them.”

“Like the ones in that drawer you have?”

Britta twisted her fingers together. “Yes.”

“My niece has some like that.”

“I know, I saw Catherine and Chrissy buy one the other day.”

Jean-Paul sucked in a sharp breath. “I have to talk to this guy.”

A cold chill engulfed Britta. “You think Teddy might be the swamp devil?”

“You don't?”

“He seems really harmless,” Britta said. “He's shy. And he stutters. He certainly doesn't talk to women or seem violent.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. Do you know his last name?”

“No. He doesn't have a business card or a Web site, either.”

Odd. Jean-Paul knotted his hands in frustration. “Then I'll have to wait until morning to find him.”

“I'll go with you and show you where he sets up his stand.”

“No, you have to rest. I'm standing a guard outside your door. And I'll pick you up when the doctor releases you.”

Britta fidgeted with the sheets. “You try to protect everyone, Jean-Paul.”

He ran a hand down his neck, his voice gruff when he spoke. “I've already failed miserably. He almost got you.” His voice cracked. “Twice.”

“I'm still alive,” she said softly. “I told you I could take care of myself.”

He shifted awkwardly, started to reach for her hand, then seemed to withdraw and backed away. “I'll be back later.”

She nodded and he left, leaving her alone. He'd said he'd pick her up when the doctor released her, but where would he take her? She wanted to go home with him.

But what would Jean-Paul want?

* * *

One day before Mardi Gras

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL HIT THE STREETS
at daybreak. The newspapers and TV had splattered news of the fourth victim all over the place. His name was virtually mud along with the killer's.

He staked out the street, waiting on Teddy to set up his booth. Time crawled by. Hours passed but the guy didn't show. Meanwhile, Jean-Paul questioned dozens of artists and locals. They remembered the dolls, although no one knew Teddy's name, where he lived or anything else about him. He was quiet. Shy. Nondescript. He wouldn't hurt a fly.

Not exactly the profile of a serial killer.

Then again, in other ways, he fit the profile exactly. He was a white male, early twenties. Stuttering was a sign of inferiority. Although Britta hadn't mentioned him stuttering on the phone, perhaps the anonymity eased his nervousness, made him feel more in control. The fact that he was withdrawn, didn't call attention to himself, that he lacked self-confidence and was a loner were indicators.

He blended into the crowd perfectly.

And any woman he approached would probably trust him because of his demeanor and the nature of his craft.

If only he had a last name. But Britta had been right. He hadn't passed out business cards as most of the artists did. And Jean-Paul found no evidence of a Web site or that his work had been displayed in any of the local shops or museums. It was almost as if he existed only on the streets.

An ideal cover for a serial killer. He'd left no paper trail. No way to trace him.

Once again, the police were stalled for leads.

By late afternoon, Jean-Paul wanted to hit something. He'd had a police artist visit Britta and they were now passing around a sketch of this guy Teddy. He'd even called Mazie Burgess and asked her to run it. And he'd spent the rest of the day trying to track down all their suspects and account for them.

Adding more fuel to the flame of questions tormenting him, Antwaun phoned to say that the fingernail they'd found in Britta's stairwell had belonged to their fourth victim, Debra Schmale. He hadn't quite put the pieces of the puzzle together. Were Debra and this guy Teddy involved? Had she known about the murders and helped him or hidden his identity? But why would she attack Britta?

His gut still told him Cortain was involved somehow, maybe even Justice. But how?

Reverend Cortain had a horde of worshipers who would vouch for his whereabouts the night before. Randy Swain had been seen at a local bar, then he'd had his own private party with two fans he'd met over drinks. Justice had still been in jail, but they'd had to release him midmorning. Jean-Paul had stopped by the booth where Howard Keith's “eyes” display had been, but Keith claimed to have an alibi, too. Jean-Paul had called in for a search warrant to the man's place, although Keith had insisted that he had been painting the night before. He even had a live subject. One of his customers from the street had commissioned him to do a portrait of her eyes.

Sounded like the two of them belonged together.

Before heading to the hospital, he stopped by Britta's apartment to pick up some clothes for her, but the entire contents of the place smelled like smoke. He didn't have a clue as to what size she wore or how to buy her clothes, so he stopped at his parents' restaurant and explained the situation. Stephanie and Catherine jumped into motion, running to shop for Britta.

His mother forced him to sit down and eat some gumbo. “You look exhausted, son. You need to rest.”

“I'll rest when this guy is locked up, Maman.”

She patted his back as if he was a child. “You aren't the world's keeper, son. You do your best—that's all anyone can do.”

“I let Lucinda down,” he said in a low voice.

Unshed tears glittered in his mother's eyes. “She let you down, too, son. She admitted to me that she begged you to quit the force. I told her she was wrong to ask such a thing. You love a man for who he is. You do not try to change him.”

Jean-Paul sipped his tea with a frown. He had no idea his parents were aware of the problems in his marriage. “Maybe she was right. If I had quit, she'd still be alive.”

“You are a man of honor.” She shook her head. “And we are proud of you, Jean-Paul. Lucinda's death was unfortunate, but you saved countless others. And you've punished yourself enough.” She refilled his tea. “Now, don't let guilt keep you from finding happiness with another.”

His gaze swung to hers.
“Maman—”

“Shh. Don't argue with your mother. Eat up and remember what I said.”

His sisters rushed inside in a flurry of chatter.

“We put together an overnight bag with some clothes,” Stephanie said. “Britta's about my size so I hope things fit.”

“We also stopped at the drug store and bought some toiletries,” Catherine said.

Jean-Paul hugged his sisters. “I'm sure she'll appreciate it.”

“Let us know if you need anything else, Jean-Paul,” Stephanie told him.

Catherine gave him a peck on the cheek. “For what it's worth, I agree with Britta. I can't imagine that dollmaker as the swamp devil. He's too nice, too…nerdy.”

“Just stay off the streets until this guy is caught,” he warned them. “Most serial killers look sane and blend in with the rest of us. And some of them were nerds, targets for bullies as kids.”

The Lundi Gras celebration by the river was in full swing as he left. He ducked through the alley to avoid the congestion, then climbed into his car and headed toward the hospital.

It was crazy to take Britta to his place. She was a potential witness in a crime. A possible victim.

And he was not supposed to be involved with her.

But he refused to let her return to that smoky apartment alone. If he had to play bodyguard to keep her safe, then he'd damn well do it.

* * *

B
RITTA PACED THE
hospital room, her nerves on edge. The sky was dark, daylight disappearing once again, and the swamp devil was still roaming the streets.

She had watched the news. Seen the paper. Knew the press was crucifying Jean-Paul. And that he must be going crazy.

She had to see him. Get out of this room. She felt like a virtual prisoner. The guard outside had not left his post, but stationing him by her side had invaded her privacy. When she'd tried to walk down the hall to the nurses' station to beg them to dismiss her, he'd refused to let her leave the room. Then she'd summoned the doctor to check herself out, but he'd insisted she stay a few more hours until all her tests came back clear.

This was what it would be like if she told Jean-Paul the truth about her past, that she had taken a man's life. She'd go to prison. Only jail would be worse because she'd be locked up with other dangerous criminals.

Did she deserve to be punished?

Jean-Paul Dubois, local hero, would say yes. He was the letter of the law. Even now, he was tracking down the swamp devil.

The door screeched open and she spun around. Jean-Paul stood in the door with a small overnight bag. He looked haggard. He needed a shave and dark circles rimmed his eyes.

Their gazes locked and she wanted to launch herself into his arms. But would he want her?

“My sisters gathered some things for you. I hope it'll do.”

Emotions surged through her. She'd never had sisters, never had anyone do something so thoughtful. “Thank you.”

He set them on the bed. “If you want to get dressed, the doctor's preparing your papers to release you.”

Thank God. But the memory of her burning building rose, gray and depressing. “Did the firemen save my apartment?”

“The structure's intact,” he said. “But there's smoke and water damage inside. It'll take time to repair.”

She hugged her arms around her waist, feeling lost.

“I stopped by and got this. I thought you might want it.”

She narrowed her eyes as he reached inside his pocket. Then he handed her the photograph of her and her mother, and tears filled her eyes. “Jean-Paul…” She hugged it to her chest, overcome. “Thank you.”

He gave a clipped nod and she wanted to hug him but forced herself to remain still. Her lies still stood between them.

“You're going home with me,” he said in a quiet voice.

Britta stared into his eyes, searching for any hint that his intention was personal. But the steadfast hero cop was looking back at her. God help her, she wanted him so badly she hurt. But he deserved so much better.