Say You Love Me (3 page)

“No.”

“Have you
ever received anything like this before?”

“No. Most of the photographs are sent directly to
our photography department. Our legal department handles any contacts with
submissions.”

He
made a disgusted sound but she continued.

“Our magazine doesn't support murder or violence,
Detective Dubois, just healthy sexual fantasies.”

His gaze met hers, emotions flaring in her exotic
brown eyes, but also defiance.

“Still, some of those fantasies border on the
sadistic side,” he argued. “They come from perverts, sickos, deranged
individuals.”

“Everyone has their own tastes,” she admitted quietly.

And his lay toward sweet, simple,
quiet, more domestic family-type women like Lucinda. Not with spooky
redheads with fire in their eyes. Ones who looked as untamed as a hot July
New Orleans night. This one, he imagined, had seen the seedy side of life
and not cowered from it. A vixen in disguise.

One who had secrets.

“Did you know this woman?”

“No, I've never seen her before.” She
bit down on her lip. “Why, Detective? Is it real?”

He met her gaze head-on. “Yes. I just came from
the crime scene. I'm afraid this woman was murdered.”

A faint gasp escaped her. “Oh God,
no.” A heartbeat of silence stretched between them, taut, filled with
unanswered questions. “Who was she?” she finally asked.

“We're still working on identifying
her.” He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “I'd like for you to keep
this confidential. No press. No publication of this picture. Don't tell
anyone else that you received it. Understood?”

Britta nodded. “Of course. We'll help any way we
can.”

Her mouth
twitched slightly as if she wanted to say more, but she clamped her teeth
over her lower lip instead.

He shifted and tapped the envelope with one
finger. “Has this man written you before?”

“You mean for the column?”

“Yes.”

She massaged two fingers to her temple. “I…don't
know. But I'll review our prior issues and see if I find anything that
appears connected.”

“I'd also like to take copies of the magazine with me. And don't
forget the letters you didn't print.”

Alarm shot through her eyes. “There must be
hundreds.”

“Bring
them to the station. My partner and I will help sort through
them.”

Wariness pulled
at her features but she agreed.

“You also mentioned a note?” He held out his hand.
“Let me see it.”

She
handed him the sheet of charcoal-gray paper, and he read the message
silently.

I know
your secrets.

And
you know mine.

His
gaze rose again to meet hers. “What does he mean by that? He knows your
secrets?”

She
remained so still that he didn't think she was going to answer. But fear
momentarily settled in her eyes. “I assume he's referring to the magazine,”
she said in a low voice. “My column is called Secret
Confessions.”

Liar. “It
sounds more personal.” He closed the distance between them. “I think you
know more than you're telling. You may even know the killer. At least,
he
knows
you.
”

She lifted her chin a notch. “A lot of people who
write into the magazine think they know me.”

“You're hiding something, Miss Berger.” He leaned
across the desk, so close his face was only a breath away. So close he
inhaled the hypnotic scent of her perfume.

So close he felt the tension vibrate in her lean
muscles.

“But
secrets have a way of coming out. And before this investigation is over, I
will find out exactly what you're keeping from me.”

“I
WILL FIND OUT
exactly
what you're keeping from me.”

Detective Dubois's warning echoed in
Britta's head as she searched her memory for any confession letters that
might have hinted at violence or murder.

What if the killer had written to her in advance
and she had ignored the warning or completely missed it? Maybe she could
have saved this woman if she'd paid more attention….

Disturbed by the thought, she bagged
the last two months' submissions to carry to the police station the next
day. For now, she had to take a walk. Clear her head.

The stench of beer, alcohol, smoke,
sweat, urine and garbage permeated Bourbon Street. The raucous laughter and
horny, groping drunken strangers were a dreaded experience.

But living on the streets had taught
her how to deal with them. The thought of holing up in her apartment above
the office with back copies of the magazine—alone with her own demons—was
something she couldn't face yet.

She'd walk to the Market, lose herself in the
local musicians and artists, grab a bite of supper. Her stomach growled,
reminding her she'd missed lunch. The possibility of a nice crisp crab salad
or bowl of seafood gumbo made her mouth water.

She checked over her shoulder for the hundredth
time to make certain no one was following her as she wound through the
chaotic crowd. A man wearing a patch over his right eye whispered an
invitation for her to join him in the pub next door, but she rushed past,
aware the man tracked her as she disappeared into the throng. Next door,
another club offered half-priced drinks along with pole-dancing, featuring
the mammoth-breasted Moaning Mona. Two dregs wearing ratty T-shirts that
read “I fuck like a Mack Truck,” grunted an invitation for drinks and a
threesome. And a group of bikers boasting tattoos of snakes and tribal
symbols huddled around an outdoor table, guzzling beer and making catcalls
to the girls flashing their boobs for free drinks and beads.

She plunged through the tawdry mob,
south toward Jackson Square and the French Market where the less seedy side
congregated in the outdoor cafés, finer restaurants, the open market and
shops that comprised the
Vieux
Carre.
Although street musicians and artisans normally
flocked to the area, now an open-air festival had been set up with artisans
showcasing their creations, demonstrating techniques, offering sketches for
the tourists and squabbling over prices for their treasures.

A clown created balloon animals for
the children in one corner, a mime entertained in another and a long-haired
hippie rasped out music on a washboard for pocket change. Down the street,
the famous jazz music of Louis Armstrong flowed from a restaurant while
blues tunes paying homage to Fats Domino wailed into the steamy sultry air.
Patio gardens and flowerboxes from the delicately carved balconies added
color and a sweet fragrance. This was the N'Awlins she loved.

She seated herself at her favorite
outdoor café, ordered a glass of pinot grigio and a crab salad, then studied
the crowd as she sipped the wine.

But the hair on the back of her neck bristled.
Someone was watching her.

She scanned the streets again. Oblivious to her unease, the air
buzzed with activity and excitement, celebrating life and the renewal of the
city. A mime plucked a coin from behind a little girl's ear, while
puppeteers drew the small kids in droves. Families littered the streets,
carrying tired children with painted faces, cotton candy and tacky
souvenirs, tugging at heart-strings she tried to ignore.

She banished them quickly. She was
not a family kind of girl.

Instead her past mocked her. And the whisper of danger echoed in her
ear….

I know your secrets. And you know
mine.

No. It was impossible. She'd never told anyone about her childhood.
Especially about that night.

And her mother…. Surely she wouldn't have
confessed to anyone. That is, if she'd survived herself.

Then again, her mother had done other
unspeakable things.

The washboard player took a break and an earthy-looking saxophone
player claimed his spot, adding his own jazz flavor to old favorites. She
glanced behind him, toward the edge of the street, and noticed a tall, bald
man holding a camera. Her fork clattered to the table. Was he photographing
her?

She craned her
neck to see more clearly and he lowered the camera. Shadows from the silvery
Spanish moss shrouded his face as if he'd been cocooned in a giant
spiderweb. Then he lifted his right hand and waved. Her breath caught in her
chest.

A series of
flashes flickered like fireflies against the growing darkness. Once. Twice.
A dozen times. She blinked and threw her hand over her forehead, spots
dancing before her eyes.

He
was
watching her. Taking
pictures….

For what
reason?

Panic and
anger mushroomed inside her and she stepped forward to go confront him, but
the waiter appeared with her check and blocked her path.

“
Chere?
You pay before you leave us?
Qui?
”

She sighed, removed her wallet and paid. But when
she glanced across the street, the man had completely disappeared, lost in
the darkness and the sins waging the city.

* *
*

H
OWARD
K
EITH STOOD
nursing
a Jax, a locally brewed beer, across the street, shielded by the exuberance
of the Mardi Gras festivities. Britta Berger had actually noticed
him.

Of course he
was at a distance and she couldn't see his face.

Howard's right hand went to his prosthetic eyeball
and he blinked, feeling it slip out of place. He popped it out, dusted it
off, then slipped it back inside his eye pocket, blinking to create enough
moisture to force the fake eye to settle.

Of course, he tried not to handle the ocular
prosthetic in public, at least not in front of women. They tended to balk at
the empty eye socket.

Although even with his eye in place, they were put off by his
appearance. They never knew quite where to look, where to focus, so they
averted their gazes and studied his feet, his stomach, his hands, anything
but his face. And within seconds they rushed away, dismissing him as if he
was a freak.

He
would show them. Prove them wrong.

His fingers tightened on the camera. Even his
interest in photography had garnered laughter and disbelief. How could he
truly be an artist when he had no peripheral vision? No depth
perception?

The
camera compensated. Its powerful lens enabled him to capture the planes and
angles, the light and shadows, the depth he wanted, and record it in vivid
detail. And New Orleans certainly provided enough colorful characters,
scenery and entertainment to feed his camera-frenzied mind.

Then he could do with it as he
wished. Create masterpieces with his sketches, mold the faces into
sculptures if he chose. Give the subjects life forever. Paint the
eyes.

The eyes were
the windows to the soul.

Did Britta Berger have any idea that he had seen into hers? That he
had been watching her for months? That he knew her schedule. The food she
chose for breakfast. The way she liked her coffee. The fact that she enjoyed
a glass of wine on her patio at night before she retired. That she brushed
her short red hair at least a hundred times before she crawled beneath the
sheets.

That she
slept without underwear.

That he'd seen her naked in the shower, her own hands stroking over
sensitive private places that he ached to touch.

Yet, the seductress that he saw thrived on
privacy. She was an enigma. He'd discovered that in his research. In her own
way, she was hiding from life itself.

The vulnerability in her eyes had drawn him. She
wanted someone to reach out and make the pain of her past dissipate. But she
was afraid. After all, underneath her physical beauty lay lies, weaknesses,
false promises. Evil.

Yes, a bad girl lurked inside Britta Berger and he would show the
world her true self, just as he would with his other subjects. If it hurt
them, then so be it.

His own pain had brought him to this point. He used it. Thrived upon
it. It had inspired the theme for his work, which would hopefully gain him
acclaim.

Then the
beautifuls would be erased, their ugliness exposed forever.

* * *

I
RRITATION KNOTTED
Jean-Paul Dubois's
shoulders as he drummed his knuckles on R.J. Justice's desk. Dammit. Time
was critical. He had a murder to investigate and the magazine owner had kept
him waiting for half an hour.

Long enough for him to decide he didn't like the
man. That he was weird. His office collections indicated an interest in S
and M, witchcraft, bestiality and photographs that bordered on
porn.

Justice finally
loped in, tugging at his tie. “Sorry about that. My meeting ran
over.”

Jean-Paul
ignored the feigned apology and studied the man's features, sizing him up.
The women might call him handsome but a cold hardness that Jean-Paul had
detected in other suspects hinted that he was ruthless and calculating. He
would do whatever he had to do to protect
Naked
Desires
. And to get what he wanted in his personal
life.

“You met with
Britta already?” Justice asked as he settled into his desk
chair.

Jean-Paul nodded.
“She was very helpful.” Britta had claimed she and Justice were simply
business partners. Just how did Justice feel about her?

“She was upset,” Justice said. “Were
her fears justified?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Justice ran a hand over his sleek desk. “Damn. So the crime scene was
real?”

Jean-Paul
nodded. “We found the woman in the photo murdered earlier.” He leaned
forward, his gaze penetrating. “You don't seem surprised.”

Justice shrugged. “I realize our
magazine caters to the…adventuresome side, so we get some odd mail. But we
certainly don't condone murder.”

Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes. “I asked Miss Berger
to bring all the mail she's received in the past month to the station. It's
possible this guy wrote in before.”

Justice hesitated. “I suppose that sounds fair,
although I would like to keep our magazine out of the investigation when you
talk to the press.”

“You don't want the publicity?”

Justice shrugged. “I can stand it, but I was
thinking about Britta's safety.”

“Of course.” Jean-Paul cleared his throat, not
certain he believed the man. What if Justice had killed the woman, then sent
the photo to Britta anonymously to stir publicity?

“Do you keep a record of the submissions with the
sender's name and address?”

“Yes. In a secure file.”

“Who sent this photo?”

“I'm afraid I don't know,” Justice said
matter-of-factly. “I checked and the envelope wasn't logged in. Ralphie must
have found it in the overnight-mail slot and put it on Britta's
desk.”

“Then I need
to speak to him.”

Justice punched a button on the intercom and ordered the boy to come
to his office.

Jean-Paul stood. “Mr. Justice, can you tell me anything that might
help us find the killer? Did you know the victim? Had you ever seen her
before?”

Justice
steepled his fingers as if in thought. “No. Should I know her?”

“Not necessarily, but I have to
ask.”

“What was her
name?”

“We haven't
identified her yet.” Jean-Paul paused. “How about the cabin? Did you
recognize it?”

Justice scoffed. “That shanty could be any one of a hundred tucked in
the bayou.”

Jean-Paul pushed on, “Have you received any calls or letters yourself
that might be related?”

“I would have reported it if I had, Detective.”

“Can you think of any reason the
killer targeted Miss Berger with the photograph?”

Justice raised a brow. “She's a beautiful woman.
Maybe the killer saw her photo in the magazine and wanted to get her
attention.”

“You're
probably right,” Jean-Paul admitted, although his gut instinct hinted there
was more. And that Justice was holding back. Maybe
he
was the one fixated on her. Maybe he'd
killed a replica of her to frighten her into his arms.

“How long have you known Miss
Berger?” Jean-Paul asked.

Justice's hands tightened by his side. A telltale sign that the
question stirred his anxiety. “A few months.”