Say You Love Me (8 page)

He wanted to complete the ritual sacrifice. But he was a man and just as the crocodiles did during mating season, he had to mate with numerous partners.

Tonight he'd choose another.

He fell into the shadows and changed his clothing. Another disguise, this time one that would entice a woman. A white shirt and tie. A pair of dress slacks. An air of authority.

A wad of money.

And a mask over his face.

Another redhead, although her wavy hair was dyed an unnatural shade, tapped her foot at the corner of the House of Love, wearing a black micro-mini skirt, thigh-high boots and a flashy green top that looked like a bra. Her cleavage spilled over and through the mesh netting, her dark nipples stood turgid.

She twisted her head one way, then the other. Her nose jutted in the air as she took a drag from a menthol cigarette and flicked ashes on the grimy pavement. Finally aware he was watching her, she dropped the cigarette to the concrete, crushed it with her boot, then curled a finger toward him, beckoning him to join her. She looked impatient, primed, ready.

In need of some cash. Probably for drugs.

He had those in his pocket, as well. One that would give her the high of a lifetime.

He smiled, then smoothed his jet-black hair into place and strode toward her. Tonight, the whore would pleasure him. He might even draw out the fun a day or two if she was good, play with her, test her resistance.

Make her beg.

Then he'd force her to confess her sins before he killed her and added her to his kingdom.

Six days before Mardi Gras

R
ATTLED BY
D
ETECTIVE
D
UBOIS
and by the cozy family dinner they'd shared the night before, Britta settled in her bed the next evening with a cup of tea and more letters. The sooner she figured out who'd sent her the letter and photograph, the sooner the police could catch the murderer and put him behind bars.

Then she would have no need to see Jean-Paul Dubois again. Or be taunted by his sexuality.

And more importantly, she wouldn't have to worry about watching her back for fear he'd discover the truth about her past.

Determined to block out the sound of the partying below, she put in her favorite Harry Connick Jr. CD and allowed his seductive voice to soothe her as she read.

Heat rushed up Britta's neck, and she forced herself to skim the remainder of the letter for hints of violence, then placed it in the stack of possibilities for publication. Remembering her mission was to search for possible notes from the killer, she quickly skimmed the first paragraph of the next few letters, looking for details of S and M, violent tendencies or indications that the man hated women.

A blue envelope caught her eye and she opened it; the first line made her pause.

Britta slid the letter back into the envelope. Bestiality held no appeal to her, but it didn't mean the person was a killer. Besides, it was written by a woman.

The killer was male.

Using that logic, she sorted the letters by sex, so she could focus on male submissions.

In the next letter, the woman fantasized about bondage. Hmm. A perfect target for the killer.

A disturbing thought struck her. What if the killer chose his victims from her letters?

But how would the killer know who had submitted the letter or how to find the woman? He'd have to tap into their computer base….

Tomorrow, she'd verify that Elvira Erickson hadn't written to her. If she had, she'd alert R.J.

And Detective Jean-Paul Dubois.

The phone rang and Britta jumped, the last strains of Harry Connick's voice dying as the song ended. She stared at the caller ID, half expecting to see the detective's number, but the display read as an unknown listing. She must be crazy. Just because she'd thought of Jean-Paul Dubois, didn't mean he was telepathic. Or that he was thinking about her.

“Hello.”

Heavy breathing rattled over the line. “Did you like the picture I sent you?”

Britta's breath caught in her throat. “Who is this?”

“The man who knows your secrets.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Britta's neck. She started to slam down the phone, but hanging up on him would do nothing to help the woman he'd murdered. “Why don't you tell me your name?”

Laughter, low and sinister, rumbled from him. “One day I will. But I must build my kingdom first.”

A frisson of alarm rang through her. His kingdom, meaning he was just getting started. Detective Dubois was right; her column had drawn sexual deviants like sweet molasses drew flies. “You're a coward,” Britta whispered.

His voice held a threatening edge. “No, Britta, I'm the one in control now. You feel it, don't you?”

He'd never control her. No man would. “Then why hide behind the phone? Behind the notes?”

“Because my work has only begun.” Another laugh, even more sinister, filled the silence.

“I must save those women, make them repent for their sins. Just as you must.” Agitation made his voice raspy. “You run from town to town—changing your name, your hair—until you don't even know who you are anymore. You're as dead as the people whose names you steal. I can see it in your eyes.” He lowered his voice. “Your fear controls you.”

She twirled the phone cord around and around her fingers, winding it into a knot. He was right.

But how did he know so much about her? How long had he been following her?

“Please leave me alone. I don't want any part of your twisted games.”

Again she started to hang up, but his next words stopped her cold.

“You don't want to know who I have now?”

Britta clenched her hands into fists. “Let her go,” Britta whispered. “Please don't hurt anyone else.”

“I can't, Britta. Not yet. Not until she learns her lesson and pays for her sins.”

The phone clicked, then went dead in her hand.

A vision of the woman begging for her life taunted her. Then the crude mask of Sobek and an image of this man offering the woman as a sacrifice to the half crocodile, half man.

Time swirled backward. The smell of death, blood and the marsh assaulted her. Then the hiss and snapping of the gators as they churned the muddy water, anxious for their meal….

* * *

T
WENTY-FOUR HOURS
since they'd found Elvira Erickson. Jean-Paul Dubois sighed, loosening his collar in the smothering heat as he exited the precinct. Another long, frustrating day. And no headway on the case. He'd questioned the two mask-makers in town for the festival and neither of them made or sold one like they'd found at the scene. Both men had alibis, too.

The necklaces, however, were a dime a dozen.

Several reporters suddenly rushed him, jamming microphones in his face. A camera flash nearly blinded him and he threw up his hands to block another.

“Tell us about the woman murdered in Black Bayou!” a reporter shouted.

“Is it true she was stabbed with a lancet?”

“Did the gators get to her?”

“He raped her before he killed her or after?”

“Do we have a serial-killer case?”

Jean-Paul had to make some kind of statement. But what could he tell them? That so far they had no evidence, no name, no one to arrest? He spotted Mazie Burgess and headed toward her. She was a friend of sorts; had written stories on the hurricane and was fair. She'd also asked him out, but he hadn't been ready or interested in dating. She smiled and met him halfway and he took the mike.

“We did find a woman murdered yesterday,” he said matter-of-factly. “At this time we have no suspects in custody, but the police are doing everything possible to find the woman's killer. Now, get out of the way so I can do my job.”

Mazie thanked him. But instead of backing up, the mob moved in, surrounding him. He shouldered his way through, shrugging off a skinny guy who chased him to his car. “Come on, Detective, you have to give us more than that. Someone said that the killer contacted the editor of the
Naked Desires
magazine.”

Bon Dieu!
If they caught wind of the picture Britta Berger had seen, there would be widespread panic. “No comment,” Jean-Paul barked. The last thing he wanted was the press hounding Britta. They might even scare off this guy from sending her information.

And he refused to give the swamp devil the pleasure of seeing a big write-up in the paper.

He tried to pry the man's fingers off his car door but the reporter resisted. “If you don't move out of the way, I'm going to arrest you for interfering with a police investigation and charge you with assault.”

“I didn't assault you!” the man screeched, but he did back away. Jean-Paul hit the accelerator and bolted.

Next on his agenda—he had to check R.J. Justice's alibi. He drove to the pricey new lofts near the edge of town and met Carson. Debbie Waller, the woman with whom Justice claimed he'd spent the night, supposedly lived in one of the units. The inside of the building consisted of chrome and cement and showcased exposed beams and concrete walls. Apparently the artsy, rich twenties and thirties crowd had flocked to buy the units.

He knocked on the metal door, his shoulders tight. Loud rock music nearly drowned out the voice who yelled for him to hang on.

Carson shot him a wired look. “What do you want to bet that this chick has a sugar daddy?”

Jean-Paul chuckled. “Maybe Justice himself.”

The door opened revealing a twentysomething platinum blond in three-inch metallic-black heeled boots, a leather skirt that…well, Jean-Paul wouldn't consider a skirt, because the front was split to her crotch and she wasn't wearing underwear. Damn.

Tattoos of scorpions danced along her arm as she gestured with her hands. “I didn't invite the cops.”

“We invited ourselves,” Carson said, inching one booted foot inside the door.

Jean-Paul quickly made note of the room. The place smelled of booze, weed and sex. Black netting formed a canopy on the wall like a spiderweb and draped a black-lacquer bed with rumpled sheets, sex toys and leather masks.

“Justice must have told you we'd drop by,” Jean-Paul said.

She hitched out a hip. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. About that dead woman.” A half-dozen earrings sparkled on one ear, while a network of tiny scars lined her neck. “Such a shame. But sometimes sex just goes too far.”

“How far is too far?” Jean-Paul asked as he elbowed his way past her.

“Death,” she said. “Otherwise, it's just a game.”

“Murder is not a game,” Jean-Paul muttered.

She gave him a pouty look. “I just meant that when two people want to do it their own way, they should be entitled to. Danger heightens the senses, makes sex more titillating.”

“We're not arguing titillating,” Carson said. “We're talking cold-blooded and vicious homicide.”

“How did you get your scars?” Jean-Paul asked in spite of the fact that he was certain he already knew the answer. From his vantage point, he spotted a whip and mask on the bed, a vibrator with metal prongs and a wicked set of leather chaps. Blood stained the sheets of the unmade bed; leather wrist and foot bindings were attached to the four corners. The rope indicated the couple had delved into asphyxiation sex. Handcuffs and a silver-studded black-leather dog collar lay on the bedside table beside a ceramic hand-shape candy dish that would have held peppermints at his mother's house but contained an assortment of condoms.

Hmm. What would Britta's hold?

“I like it rough,” she whispered, cozying up to Carson. “As long as I trust the person I'm with, anything goes.”

Carson's eye twitched. “Just tell us about the night before last. Was R.J. Justice with you until morning?”

She nodded, then gestured toward a triangular table. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Jean-Paul asked.

“Yes. He was my submissive. I turned him into my lamp.”

Carson coughed and Jean-Paul gritted his teeth. He'd read about the latest tools the sex addicts were into—turning their partners into household objects to humiliate them.

She walked over to the table to demonstrate. “He was naughty, so I punished him. His head comes up through that round hole in the center of the table and serves as a fixture. I hung my panties over the shade and made him watch.” She laughed at Carson's stunned eye-raise, then turned to Jean-Paul. “You know what I'm talking about, don't you, Detective?”