She nodded, clutching the schedule and her purse, backing up another step.
“Let me walk you out.” His nineteenth century manners, buried under a century of solitude, resurfaced, along with his feeling that he had control of the situation. He could deal with this.
“No, no, I’m fine.” Sara moved, revealing the sketch of Anne pinned to the wall behind her. “Bye.”
Then she was gone and he was staring into the pleading eyes of his long dead lover, captured by his own hands, and possibly killed by the very same.
* * *
Sara had only walked a half block on Royal Street when she saw a coffee shop and veered straight into it. She needed an iced tea and a minute to sit down, gather herself. She hadn’t expected this would be so difficult, that she would feel so awkward in Gabriel’s presence. He spoke to her with such apparent effort, like he was struggling to carry a conversation, yet his eyes pierced her, made her feel stripped and vulnerable, weak.
That feeling of weakness was something she couldn’t stand. She should just quit, give up this ridiculous quest right here and now, forget all about the past and concentrate of the present. The future, for God’s sake. But she wouldn’t. She knew that even before she had the cap off of her bottled iced tea. She had to have answers. Had to know who killed Anne Donovan. Had to know who killed her mother. Had to know if in some bizarre, insane, utterly unbelievable way they were connected to each other.
Her phone rang in her purse and she retrieved it, taking a seat in the back of the coffee shop so she wouldn’t disturb anyone. It was past prime lunchtime, so the shop was quiet, only a few customers working alone and sipping their drinks. Her screen showed a Florida phone number, but not one that she recognized.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Sara, how are you?”
Her stomach dropped. Just hearing his voice made her feel guilty. “Rafe?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m back at my place since my release. I want to see you… I’ve been worried about you. Are you at home? I’ll stop over with some dinner.” His voice was filled with concern.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” Maybe that was an exaggeration, because God knows she could use someone to worry about her, but that wasn’t his burden.
And she felt horrible that she had been such a wreck, so completely incapable of supporting him in any way during the trial. Even when she had tried to defend Rafe on the witness stand, the prosecutor had shredded her. Every word out of her mouth had been manipulated, twisted to made it look like she and Rafe were the true lovers, that his relationship with her mother was a front, a con, until she had been so afraid they were creating a case against her as well as Rafe, she had shut down entirely.
She’d abandoned him essentially. Left him hung out to dry for a crime he didn’t commit to protect herself, and now he wanted to feed her. He was definitely the better person than her.
“How are you, Rafe? Is the press leaving you alone?” Sara sipped her tea and rubbed at her temples. There was no running away. She needed to regroup, process, deal with all of her emotions, her guilt, her fear.
“Today hasn’t been too bad. Nobody camped out on my front lawn. The last three weeks I could have done without though.”
He spoke lightly, and while that should have made her feel better, it only drove home how much stronger of a person he was than her. The last year had been hell for both of them in different ways, yet he had survived with his kindness, charm, and humor intact. He planned to move to the west coast and revive his medical practice away from the media circus of Southwestern Florida, and didn’t seem to harbor any residual bitterness that he had spent six months sitting in prison while his character was dragged through the mud.
She had collapsed under the weight of her mother’s death, gotten hooked on tranquilizers, and now was sitting in New Orleans trying to feel some elusive connection to her mother’s youth. That familiar guilt, self-doubt, pressed down on her but she fought it. This was a fresh start.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she said. “I really am.”
“I understand.”
And she knew he did. “I left town.”
“You left Naples? Why? Where are you?”
“I just needed to get away. I’ll be back soon. You can reach me on my cell if you need to talk.” She didn’t want to admit to anyone what she was doing. Going to the city her mother had grown up in smacked of the need for counseling. And if she told him about the book, he’d think she had totally lost it, grasping at forensic straws to solve a murder the police considered unsolvable at this point.
“Sara… where are you?” He sounded worried.
Maybe he should be.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. I’ll be back soon.” Maybe. But they’d cross that bridge when she got to it. “Take care of yourself, and be sure to let me know when you’re leaving Naples. I want to see you before you head west.”
“Okay.” He paused, than just sighed. “Be well, Sara.”
“Yeah, you too.”
“I’m going to take Jessie some flowers. Can I take something for you?”
That gesture hit her like a smack. Tears popped into her eyes and Sara fought for control, to not lose it in the coffee shop. “Sure. Take my mom some carnations, will you? In a crazy wild color.” It had been a source of contention between them. Sara had always told her mother carnations weren’t classy, they were a cheap filler flower, but her mother had liked them. Maybe for that very reason. And she had always wanted them in bright blues, greens, and hot pinks, hues achieved through dye, not nature.
“Okay, I can do that. Promise me you’ll stay in touch.”
“Yep. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.” Sara hung up the phone before Rafe could hear the waver in her voice.
And found herself digging in her bag and pulling out her manila folder, where she had been keeping gathered materials on the case. She flipped through the papers inside rapidly, stopping when she got to a copied newspaper article.
STABBED TO DEATH!
The headline was glaring and to the point. It was interesting to Sara that she had assumed media coverage of murder and other crimes had grown more sensationalist in the TV and Internet era, but from what she’d seen of the Anne Donovan case, nineteenth century journalists had been just as salacious.
October 7, 1849- Anne Donovan, age 23, a lewd and unfortunate woman, was found MURDERED in her bed at the House of Rest For Weary Men, Dauphine Street, a den of gambling, drink, and other unsavory activities. Stabbed seventeen times with a bowie knife, her facial features obliterated, and her breasts mutilated, the violent nature of the crime has shocked even the hardened Madame Conti, who sent a girl for the coroner after being alerted of the victim’s state. Miss Donovan was last seen alive by Mr. Jonathon Thiroux, her LOVER, who maintains he heard or saw nothing of her death, even though he was in her room at the time. There have been no arrests, and we must ask, Ladies and Gentlemen, if this is what our fine city has fallen to. Are murders so commonplace and the reach of wealth so deep into our city officials that our police do not even bother to investigate such a horrific death? If Miss Donovan were murdered in a better address would justice be sought in her case?
That is perhaps a question for the mayor.
So obviously the journalist had used Anne Donovan’s murder as a platform for airing political grievances, but Sara figured any attention given the case was a positive. It meant more articles, more court papers, more documents, and more physical evidence had been gathered and had survived through the decades, which meant a higher probability that together with Gabriel St. John she could solve the crime. Which mattered to her, because if she would never see her mother’s killer behind bars, which despite Gabriel’s opinion seemed likely, it would give her a certain sense of satisfaction to know she had solved her great-great grandmother’s murder.
For four generations in her family, a woman had been brutally murdered, starting with Anne Donovan. Endin
g with her mother. It was a fear that had plagued her all her life- the bogeyman, the family curse- the toxic press of mortality clouding everything she did, every decision, every long term goal, that she would die young, suffer a brutal death at the hands of a stranger. Her mother had laughed at it. Disregarded it.
But her mother was dead now.
And Sara was afraid that one way or another, she would be the next to die.
Chapter Two
Gabriel was in a much better mood when Sara Michaels showed up promptly at one the following day. He had gone walking the night before, to the river, down Frenchman Street, then across Rampart over to Louis Armstrong Park, grateful for the cooler night air, appreciative of the fact that as an immortal, he could walk into areas that weren’t safe for the average man at night. The park was dark and desolate, the perfect place to be mugged, but Gabriel enjoyed the solitude it brought him, the joy in knowing that while everyone else stayed away, he could walk alone.
He had spent his whole life on earth walking alone. That hadn’t been his job. He had been sent to Watch. Guide. Protect. But he had failed on all counts and knew there was no forgiveness, no redemption for him. He could never make amends large enough to recompense the wrongs he had committed, though he wanted to at least try in Anne’s case.
It was a triumph, a goal well met that he was living a chemical-free life, and he fought hard against the temptation to slide back into bliss, the fog where he was smart and right and everything was easy and calm. That fight took everything he had and there was nothing left for sorting out a path to redemption, which was why he had never attempted to confront the truth in Anne’s case, had never wanted to know if ultimately he had been the man who had taken her life.
He was ready to face that truth now. And even if he didn’t and couldn’t seek true redemption, an entrance back to the kingdom of God, he wanted to be released from his punishment. He wanted to be more than a watcher. He wanted to participate in humanity, something thus far he couldn’t do, because every woman he touched craved him as an opiate. They all spiraled down into desperate despair when he couldn’t give them enough, was never enough, and he had chosen to isolate himself entirely rather than bring that fate on any woman. But he didn’t want to be alone anymore, and he wanted to be released.
He thought maybe the answer to the future lay in the past.
Despite the rocky introduction, he felt cautiously optimistic as he let Sara into his courtyard, then up the stairs to his apartment for the second time. He had realized that this working arrangement with Sara could be mutually beneficial. They both wanted murders solved that they were personally haunted by, and it would be easier for both of them with the other acting as a buffer. They could each focus on the opposing case, and eventually compare the two, and as a result they would both be able to hold back, retain some measure of logic and control. He hadn’t addressed the facts of Anne’s murder since its occurrence, not wanting to find irrefutable proof that he had in fact killed her. But now, it seemed the timing was providential, and there was more at stake than clearing his own name, or absolving his own guilt.
There was Sara’s mother, and the intense need to fix the future of his long, mortal, flawed existence.
He didn’t necessarily deserve companionship, but he was also looking forward to it. In some capacity. Without allowing Sara to get too close to him or his life. It was a fine line, and he wanted to walk it. That alone should alert him to the inherent danger, should serve as a red flag that he was seeking out the thrill again, disregarding good sense for the sake of personal interest. But Sara seemed harmless, and he was in control, in ways he hadn’t been before. He was stronger now and he could handle anything.
Sara looked tired, even more so than the day before, and her shoulders drooped, her expression pinched like she was suffering from a headache.
“Rough night’s sleep?” he asked as he led her into his office.
She sank without hesitation onto the couch when he gestured for her to sit. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Did you drink a lot of caffeine?” His editor complained about not being able to drink caffeine past seven, so it seemed like a safe thing to say.
“No.” Sara stared back out into his living room. “Do you play?”
“What?” He looked where she was gesturing, confused for a second. Then he realized what she was referring to. His baby grand, collecting dust in the left corner.
“The piano. Do you play it?”
Never. “I used to. Not anymore. But the piano’s been here since the house was built. It was brought in as they were framing the house so it would fit the narrow doorways. There’s no way to get it out now without destroying it.” Much like him.
“Why don’t you play anymore?” Her sad, tired eyes locked with his.
Sara Michaels wasn’t losing sleep from too much caffeine. It was worry keeping her up. He felt that interest again, nagging, persistent curiosity scratching at him, and for some reason he told her the truth. Heard the words come out of his mouth before he even thought about the wisdom of speaking them. “I don’t hear music anymore.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry… that sounds sad… I didn’t mean to….” She blushed, obviously distressed.
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” It was true. He didn’t hear music in his head, his heart, his soul anymore. Everything had gone silent. His fingers no longer ached to sketch, to capture the light and the figures around him, the notes no longer played in his mind, and words weren’t clamoring to escape onto paper. “I don’t miss it.”
Whether that was true or not, he wasn’t sure, but Sara looked like she needed reassurance. “Do you miss being in the lab?”
She propped her chin up with her hand, leaning forward so her elbows were on her knees. Wearing another flowing dress, she exuded that same sense of femininity, fragility as she had the day before. “Not right now, I don’t. Which worries me. It’s been almost a year since I took a leave of absence. I should miss it more.”
“Maybe it’s a matter of going back. When you get there you’ll realize you missed it more than you thought.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t look any more convinced than he probably sounded. “You too, then, you know. Maybe if you play, you’ll realize you miss it.” When he didn’t answer, Sara straightened up. “So what do you want me to do on the project? What’s my first assignment?”
Business was good. They should stay there. Safe and aloof and distant. Except that this business was based on his guilt and the need to appease it, along with the desire to find justice for Anne, who hadn’t deserved to die.
“First you need to familiarize yourself with the basic facts of the case. Then I want to hear your interpretation of the physical forensic evidence as we accumulate it. I’m writing the book passages myself, but I need you to assess the old evidence, determine if it’s possible to use modern forensics on any of the trace evidence that still exists. We need to show the difference use of forensics makes when we compare the old case to the current case. Most of the research hasn’t been processed yet. We need to follow the clues, try to unravel both cases from every possible direction.”
“Why do you write true crime?” she asked. “I saw your list of credentials. You’ve written ten true crime books and I’m just curious how you got into this.”
“It’s easy. All facts,” he told her flatly. No emotion. Or maybe it wasn’t a lack of emotion, since it was violent crimes, after all. They were filled with negative emotion, and maybe that was why he did it. Maybe it was self-punishment. Retribution. “It’s puzzle solving based on cold, hard facts. And it pays the rent.”
He handed her a file folder he had put together that morning of pertinent info. “Go ahead and read this.”
Sara took the folder Gabriel was handing her and tried to make eye contact with him. But his eyes darted over behind her, and she sank back on the couch and opened the folder. Her brain felt swaddled in thick cotton, her body exhausted from
lack of sleep. She’d lain in bed for four hours, staring at the ceiling of her stark rental, before giving up and surfing the Internet mindlessly until dawn. She’d taken an hour nap around ten, but besides that was running on about six hours of sleep for the last three days.
The folder contained the police report from Anne Donovan’s murder. The handwriting was hard to read, the photocopy a little spotty, but Sara could decipher the pertinent facts.
October 7, 1849
Second District
Name of Deceased~ Anne Donovan
Residing at 25 Dauphine Street, The House of Rest, a gaming and drinking establishment
Location of murder the same
Murder assumed to take place between the hours of eight pm on October the 6th and 2 am on October the 7th according to witnesses
Victim discovered by John Thiroux, reported to authorities by Madame Conti, owner of the dwelling
No arrests made at this time
Witnesses~ John Thiroux, Madame Conti, various and sundry other women in residence at The House of Rest
That was it. No description of the body, the room. No interview with John Thiroux, no mention of a weapon. Nothing useful at all. The reports from her mother’s murder had seemed thirteen miles long, the questions endless, every hair, every fiber, every scrap of anything out of the ordinary collected, catalogued, saved. Sara glanced up. Gabriel was at his computer.
“Is this the only police accounting of the crime scene?”
He glanced back at her and gave a brief smile. “Not exactly stellar police work, was it?”
“No. It doesn’t tell us anything at all. If you line the two crime scenes reports up next to each other in your book, you’ve proved your point already. Forensics has essentially altered the entire face of criminal investigation. I know you want to see if we can solve the Donovan case, but how can you solve a crime based on this piece of nothing?” She felt shut down, disillusioned already.
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 33
