by Rita Herron
“Jean-Paul?”
He exhaled in relief. “You’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Why? Did something happen?”
“No, I just wanted to check. I made a connection between Reverend Cortain and Justice, and wanted to warn you about Justice.”
“R.J. is not going to hurt me, Jean-Paul.”
“He’s not a nice guy, Britta. He’s into all kinds of deviant behavior and he has an assault record. Let me come by and pick you up. We won’t stay long at my family’s house—”
“No.” She cut him off so abruptly that he kicked the dirt with his toe in frustration. She didn’t want anything to do with him personally or with his family. That was obvious. Even worse, she trusted Justice.
“I’ll be fine, Jean-Paul. Enjoy your family. I’m going to work.”
He couldn’t force her. “All right, but call if you need me.”
Silence stretched between them, then she whispered goodbye. Jean-Paul hung up, feeling oddly disturbed and knowing that she wouldn’t call for help unless it was a dire emergency.
The reverend’s words about building his kingdom replayed in Jean-Paul’s head. Strange that the killer had used the same phrase.
Then again, maybe not.
Had Cortain immersed himself in religion to the point of believing himself God? Could he have made it his mission to clean up the streets by killing prostitutes?
Had he started a new cult that met at night in the bayou similar to the one his brother-in-law had built years ago?
He hadn’t mentioned Sobek or human sacrifices. Nothing concrete that would justify a search warrant for the man’s private home. In fact, Jean-Paul walked a fine line. If he harassed a minister, the press would eat him alive.
But he wasn’t convinced that Cortain didn’t possess an evil streak or that he hadn’t appointed himself a savior and crossed the line to complete his goals.
His phone trilled. Carson’s number appeared on the digital display. He connected the call. “Yeah, Dubois here.”
“We identified the second victim. Her name was Ginger Holliday,” Carson said. “Just applied to a med-tech program, but her prints were in the system from a past DUI. Apparently she was paying her way by selling her body.”
Foolish, misled young girls. “What about her family?”
“Lieutenant Phelps notified them. They said she ran away two years ago. Hadn’t heard from her since.”
He couldn’t imagine the hell they were going through. The need to see his sisters had Jean-Paul picking up his pace.
“Thanks, Carson. I just came from Cortain’s sermon. He’s a real piece of work.” He filled him in on Cortain’s preachings. “Maybe Damon will have more on him.”
“I’ll hit the streets. See if I can find any of Ginger’s friends. Maybe somebody saw her with our guy.”
“Good idea. Keep me posted.” He hung up, feeling anxious. He wanted to get into Cortain’s house and take a look.
A quick stop at his parents’, then he’d work on getting a warrant. A few minutes later, the family met him with hugs.
“Come on in, Jean-Paul,” his mother coaxed. “The gumbo is hot and steamy. Just as you like it.”
His stomach growled, reminding him he had skipped breakfast, and dinner the night before.
Damon took the chair opposite him, while Antwaun loped in wearing a pair of gritty jeans and button-down shirt, his beard scruffy. His mother gave him a disapproving look. But Antwaun was working undercover, trying to find out more about the street girls. He had to fit in.
Jean-Paul’s sisters grinned as they joined them. “Antwaun, who’s that girl I saw with you in the Quarter?” Catherine teased.
His mama’s eyes brightened. “Yes, tell us, son. You have a girlfriend?”
Antwaun shot his sister a sideways glare. “No. Catherine’s entertaining her overactive imagination.”
His father brought a bowl of steaming crawfish to the table. “And where is this Britta woman of yours, Jean-Paul?”
He ignored the barb and his sisters’ teasing smiles. “She had plans,” Jean-Paul said curtly.
Catherine’s husband, Shawn, and their daughter Chrissy crowded around the table, thankfully ending the questions. His father offered a blessing, then the family dug into the Cajun meal with gusto.
“Any more information on the victims of that swamp devil?” Stephanie asked.
“We identified the second woman,” Jean-Paul said. “But we haven’t caught the guy yet.”
“I saw an article on that reverend in the paper.” Catherine sipped her tea. “His group was harassing Britta’s magazine.”
“It’s not her magazine. She’s just an editor there.”
Damon and the rest of his family gave him a curious look and he realized he’d sounded defensive.
“I don’t like Reverend Cortain’s high-handedness,” his mother said. “He’s too judgmental. Always the hellfire and damnation speeches.”
Stephanie and Catherine agreed. He cut his eyes toward Damon, who had been unusually quiet.
“We’ll take coffee in the study,” Damon said. “I need to talk to Jean-Paul.”
“More about work.” His mother tsked.
“Go ahead,” his father said. “We’ll clean up.”
Antwaun raised a questioning brow and Jean-Paul nodded for him to join them. They returned to the study and closed the door.
“You missed the task force meeting,” Jean-Paul said.
Antwaun shrugged. “Sorry, I got caught up with an informant.”
“Anything you need to share?” Jean-Paul asked.
Antwaun shook his head. “Another case.”
Jean-Paul filled them in on the second victim, her name and background, then explained his findings about Justice’s background and Cortain.
“Do you think Cortain’s trying to revive the old cult his brother-in-law started?” Antwaun asked.
“It’s a possibility,” Jean-Paul said.
“I did some checking,” Damon stated. “Cortain has been traveling around a lot speaking in various cities. He was in Savannah and Nashville around the time of the other murders.”
Jean-Paul’s pulse pounded. “Then he might be our guy.”
Damon shrugged. “We also traced the lancet from the first murder. It was bought off of eBay. There’s a group of collectors, mostly men, who buy original and replica swords and weapons from the past.”
“How about that specific one?” Jean-Paul asked. “Do you know who bought it?”
“No, not yet. But R. J. Justice’s name appeared several times on the buyers’ list. He must have an extensive collection.”
Jean-Paul’s blood ran cold. Justice had been a part of that clan years ago. He liked the dark side, was into S and M and perhaps bestiality. He worked with Britta and had access to her apartment and the office. And he collected medieval swords and weapons. He had also spotted him at Cortain’s church.
And Britta trusted him.
“I have to go.”
Damon nodded and Antwaun agreed to call him if they discovered any new information.
Jean-Paul said goodbye to his parents, then hurried out the door. On the way to Britta’s, he called to push the search warrant for Justice’s place and to request one for Cortain’s. Getting them issued on Sunday would be hard, but Phelps promised to do his best.
Time was of the essence. The killer might already be seeking another victim.
And Britta was on his list.
* * *
BRITTA HAD ONE HAND on her apartment door, ready to leave, when the phone jangled. She froze. What if it was the swamp devil calling again? What if he’d taken another victim?
She didn’t know if she could handle hearing his vile taunts. But she had to help.
Then again, the caller might be another reporter dogging her for information about the magazine or her relationship with Detective Dubois. Were the reporters looking into her past, as well?
Jean-Paul Dubois had uncovered t
hat she had assumed the name of a dead woman. Had someone else?
Inhaling to steady her nerves, she released the doorknob and checked the caller ID. Mazie Burgess. The woman’s interest in Jean-Paul was obvious from her previous articles and even more so in the segment where she’d interviewed him.
Trying not to let the woman’s interest bother her, Britta walked out the door.
A man with a camera hoisted above his shoulder strode toward the magazine office as she exited the building. She cut down an alley to avoid him, rushing away. All she needed was to end up on the front page again. The picture of her sprawled in the middle of the road had already garnered attention.
Thunder clouds and the hint of winter dampened the air with the onset of a rainstorm. The Mardi Gras attendees wouldn’t be happy about that. Neither would the parade founders with their decorative floats and costumes. But the weather would drive everyone inside, so the restaurants and bars would flourish.
She ducked into another alley, walking briskly and tugging the baseball cap lower on her head in hopes that no one recognized her. Footsteps sounded behind her. A pebble rolled across the pavement, the footsteps getting closer. She pivoted and checked over her shoulder through the fog. A dog barked, its blind owner stumbling over the oyster shells on the street.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she rushed on, weaving her way through the streets in case someone was following her, then dodging a few hungover drunks and crack-heads as she drew closer to her destination. Finally, she ducked inside the warehouse and waved at the other helpers. A line was already forming outside.
“Another Sunday,” Wynona, a heavyset black woman, muttered. “They’ll be piling in for lunch in a few minutes.”
“Your fried catfish and hushpuppies smell great,” Britta said, surveying the huge cast-iron pans brimming with sizzling fish and the massive pots filled with creole.
Wynona patted her on the back. “You doing all right today, hon? Dat face of yores looks plumb wore out.”
“Yeah, girl,” a hunched-over man with gnarled fingers said. “We can handle it iffin’ you sick or somethin’.”
Britta almost laughed. Both Wynona and Eddie had at least twenty years on her. Wynona had arthritis and Eddie had nearly lost his leg the year before to gangrene.
“I’m fine. I’ll dish up the creole and pour the sweet-tea.”
Wynona nodded while two other volunteers rushed in to take their places as the doors of the shelter opened up and the homeless, sick, winos and addicts filed in. Britta’s heart bled for them. Some were so thin their bones protruded. Their skin had turned sallow and they stumbled from weakness. Others looked high on crack or whatever substance fed their abuse, while a few young girls—new to the streets, probably runaways—timidly approached. Yet most were too proud to crawl back home.
But it wouldn’t take them long to realize the petty jobs around town wouldn’t pay them enough to survive. Then Shack or some other pimp would pretend to be their savior and rope them into prostitution before they even realized that was the predator’s intent.
A vicious cycle that needed to be broken.
She jumped into the task wholeheartedly, forcing a smile on her face as she dished up the food. This shelter was where she belonged. With her family.
Not with Jean-Paul Dubois and his picture-perfect one.
In the back, someone stumbled. She glanced up and her heart sputtered. A tall man wearing a black cape and hat stared at her, but shadows blurred his face.
Then he raised his head and met her gaze and a shudder coursed through her. Was he the man who sold those Mardi Gras masks? She’d bought some from him but he was so intense. Odd.
No, it wasn’t the same man. She’d never seen this man before. Or had she?
As if he sensed her unease, a sinister smile played on his lips, making her even more anxious. Then he disappeared into the shadows. She wiped her hands on a cloth in disgust. She was getting paranoid. Not only was she searching for her lost mother in every homeless woman she saw, now she was looking for the swamp devil in every person, as well.
* * *
A HUMBLE FEELING of surprise washed over Jean-Paul at the doorway to the homeless shelter. He’d followed Britta from her apartment, his pulse pounding as he’d watched her checking over her shoulder to see if anyone was following. Twice he’d had to duck into alleyways to remain hidden. He’d first thought she intended to meet a boyfriend or lover, then wondered if she had an appointment with a customer, but in her worn clothes and baseball hat, she looked about twelve years old, not like a woman on the prowl for a man or meeting a john.
It hadn’t once occurred to him that she might be volunteering her Sunday afternoon to feed the needy.
All her false bravado, her acts of defiance, the magazine and her nights on the street—what did it mean? Today, she looked like a different person. Like a young innocent girl, all scrubbed clean, void of makeup and show, free of the disguise. Or was this persona the disguise and the dolled-up version the real one?
Determined to make her come clean, he strode forward. The chatter in the room abruptly came to a stop. A few men and two young girls hid their faces. A hushed whisper of fear reverberated through the sudden silence. He realized his badge was showing.
The people in the line turned around and he froze as Britta’s gaze landed on him. Her brown eyes pierced him with anger. Then she raised her hand to the crowded room and spoke calmly, “Relax, he’s not here to harm you or arrest anyone.”
A second later, she handed over her task to another volunteer and rushed toward him. He wanted to grab her, but she jerked him outside beneath an awning. The mist in the air added a chill that matched the cold look on her face.
“Are you following me, Jean-Paul?”
Guilt flared, along with his own anger. “Hell, yes. I followed you. But I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so secretive.”
“You had no right to invade my privacy.” She released his arm and paced in front of him. “I thought you were eating with your family.”
“I did, but I was worried so I left to check on you.”
“You mean to check up on me?”
Their gazes locked, tension rippling between them. A thunder cloud rumbled above, the gray sky painting shadowy streaks along the grimy, graffiti-covered walls. The vile scent was barely tolerable, yet Britta didn’t seem to notice.
“When I left you, you were with Justice,” he barked. “I found out some things about him that aroused my suspicions.”
“And when you called, I told you I was fine.”
“You also said you were going to stay home and work.”
She sighed. “So you showed up here and scared the bejesus out of these homeless people. All they want is a hot meal, not to be harassed by the cops or treated like criminals.”
He hadn’t considered their reaction. “I didn’t come here to hurt anyone, Britta.”
“They don’t know that.” Her voice rose with such passion that he nearly smiled. “Half of them are junkies or winos, all of them are homeless and a few probably have records or minor offenses that put them where they are now.”
“So you come here to help them?” he asked in a low voice.
“I come here because they’re my family.” Britta pressed a fist to her heart. “This is where I belong, Jean-Paul. Now, go back to your family and leave us alone.”
* * *
WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD, Britta stormed into the center. How dare Jean-Paul Dubois check up on her? Didn’t he realize she could take care of herself? That she didn’t need him around?
Good grief. What did she care what he thought? She wasn’t trying to fit in with the Duboises.
And he’s not here because of anything personal. He’s just doing his job.
She’d overreacted. Heck, she should have told him about the man with the cape. But she scanned the crowded room again and didn’t see him. He was long gone by now.
Besides, he hadn’t approached her. He was probably just
a tourist or another wino and she was panicking.
Suddenly, Jean-Paul stepped back inside, removed his jacket and tie and tossed them on a side table. He seemed oblivious to the fact that several men eyed them with envy. The clothing probably wouldn’t be there when he returned to retrieve them.
The next two hours, he worked alongside her, pitching in to clean and bus tables, empty the garbage and wash dishes. She tried to ignore him, but watched out of the corner of her eye and noticed a few of the women tidying their appearance as he approached them. Then he paused to assist a physically handicapped war veteran to a table and her heart squeezed.
By the time they finished and the last person left fed and happy, she was not only physically exhausted but mentally drained. Her feet and body ached from tension and lack of sleep.
As always, she’d searched each face for her mother but hadn’t found her. Someday, maybe she would accept the fact that she’d lost her forever.
Jean-Paul spoke to each of the volunteers, then leaned close to Wynona and murmured a Cajun expression that made the heavyset woman giggle.
Britta rolled her eyes. Even Wynona had fallen prey to Jean-Paul’s charm. And he’d made friends with the others as if he’d always been a part of their team. She had no idea why she resented it, but she did.
If he didn’t go away, she was going to fall for him.
“Come on,” he said as he dried and stacked the massive pots. “I’ll walk you back to your apartment, Britta.”
“I can find my own way, Jean-Paul.”
His smile faded and he fixed her with an intense stare. “We have to talk. You’re not running from me again.”
She ran a hand through her hair, knowing it was sweaty and that she smelled like creole and soapy dishwater. And he was standing so close, smelling the same way, yet still so sexy and brooding that she had the strongest urge to kiss him.
His dark eyes skated over her, a sultry smile curving his mouth as he reached up and plucked a bread crumb from her hair. “What do I have to do to earn your trust, chere?”
Her throat closed, emotions warring inside her. Trusting a man was impossible.
But it didn’t stop her from wanting him or aching to have his arms around her.
