The Forbidden

by Heather Graham

  “Will you be available about one or two in the afternoon? We’re going to need to get out to the estate at least a few hours before dark,” he said.

  “Estate?”

  “The body of a young woman was found about two years ago on a historic property—she was in antebellum attire, set on the porch of a seldom-visited site that is still registered and officially a tourist attraction. But it’s not a major attraction—one elderly gentleman watches over the property and conducts the occasional tour. The security cameras are fake—the house is in the woods.”

  “Oh!” Avalon said. “Is that where you were today?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I was talking to the detective in charge of the case. He’s since retired, but the case still haunts him.”

  “He—he sees the dead, too?” she asked tentatively.

  Fin smiled, shaking his head. “No, I mean...he’s never really happy, he can’t just live his life, because he can’t stand the fact that he didn’t find the killer. But, anyway, he’ll meet us out there. He’s given me everything he has on the case. I was with him earlier and watching security camera footage from the casino where the young woman was staying, reading witness reports and talking with him about it. Tomorrow afternoon, I need to speak with the caretaker/guide, and see where she was left.”

  “Are you hoping we might find someone—a ghost—who saw something, but didn’t have the power to tell the detective?”

  “That would be handy, but that’s not usually how these things work.” He grinned. “You know, my field director is a pretty amazing guy. My unit is an amazing place for a man like me to be. We know there are dead who linger. But every one of us also had to make it through the academy, and the logic, persistence and footwork of investigation always come first.”

  “But why do you want to see the estate, in that case?”

  “I want to walk the grounds, see the porch—I want to know if there is anything else there at all that can help us.”

  “But... Christy Island was crawling with forensic experts and police...”

  “And they collected dozens of prints and bits of trash that people don’t even know they’ve left behind. And there’s just one thing they’ve discovered.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That nothing they have found is out of the ordinary. Every print they took from any place in the mansion or on the island matches someone who was supposed to be there—the owners, and your cast and crew.”

  Avalon shook her head. “A killer like that would be careful. I never went through a police or agency academy and I don’t pretend to know law enforcement. But even I can figure a killer like that would have worn gloves, that he would have been extremely careful to not leave a thing behind.”

  “Yes. But somehow, somewhere, he’s tripped up. We need to find out where. I want to get back out to Christy Island, too.”

  She nodded. “And Cindy?”

  “She’ll be released soon. I believe her cousin has arrived.”

  “Will...well, I hope she’ll speak with us. We want to make sure... I mean, if she doesn’t have plans, we may be able to help.”

  “I can let her know. I believe I’ll meet her at some point before we leave tomorrow.”

  She nodded. He offered her an encouraging smile.

  “And thank you,” he said softly.

  “I didn’t know Cindy that long or that well. But she was my friend. And I know to you that doesn’t matter—no, I mean, I don’t mean it that way! I mean to you, every victim deserves justice. Regardless of who they were.”

  She was sure she had sounded so horrible.

  But he was smiling and inclining his head slightly.

  “I understand,” he said. He stood. “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day for both of us, I imagine. Where would you like to be picked up? Here, or at your client’s place?”

  Avalon thought quickly. She’d asked Lauren to come with her, and they’d talked about finding lunch and a music venue...

  “At the client’s on Magazine Street, but then we’ll need to drop Lauren back here—she’s coming with me. The place is called ‘Samara Stella’s Theater of the Fantastic.’”

  He nodded.

  “You know it?”

  He grinned and laughed. “Am I a customer? No. But I’ve been on Magazine Street many, many times and I’ve passed it.”

  “Ah. Well, as I said, we’ll need to drop Lauren back here.”

  “That will be fine.”

  “Great.”

  “So. Ready to see me out?”

  She nodded.

  The hall was quiet; she realized it was about one in the morning, but that still didn’t mean much of anything. Boris, Brad and all of them were accustomed to working long hours, often through the night.

  But if any of them were up and together, they were silent.

  She headed downstairs ahead of Fin. At the door, she keyed in the alarm to open it.

  Fin Stirling stepped out. Avalon fought the sudden temptation to beg him to stay.

  It wasn’t that she was afraid. She had told herself that whatever came, she wasn’t afraid. She’d learned to live with talking to ghosts, for God’s sake!

  And she was safe in this house with people she knew.

  And still...

  Fin lingered on the step. Again, there was a moment when they locked eyes, uncertainty and tension in the air.

  Then he said lightly, “I’m going to stand here until you lock the door and key in the alarm. And then call me from your room.”

  She smiled. “You were just in here. Once I lock the door—”

  “Humor me.”

  “Sure.”

  She closed the door, locked it and set the alarm.

  The house was still dead silent, except for the light sound of the fall of her footsteps as she hurried back up the stairs.

  She locked the door to her room and found her phone.

  “All locked in,” she told him.

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

  “Right.”

  She thought he was going to say more. The line stayed open a moment, then it went dead.

  And she wondered if she was dreading whatever would come the next day...

  Or if she wasn’t looking forward to it a little.

  Because whatever came, she would be with him.

  Six

  Wednesday

  Fin stood in the local offices, prepared with video and every note he had. The room was filled with agents, NOPD and state police. He shared with them what he had learned—all they knew about Christy Island, the owners and the cast and crew of the movie. Boat captains had been vetted. Every possible stone was being turned, with the dirt beneath it investigated.

  He was glad he knew so many of his fellow agents in the local office, and that he’d also worked so closely with the police before.

  Then he shared everything he’d learned from Tom Drayton, and the possibility that this killer had struck before.

  He was questioned as a matter of course, especially when he pointed out the drawing done of the man who had last seen Cindy West alongside the video surveillance from the casino in Biloxi.

  “The clothing isn’t the same,” an officer pointed out.

  “That’s true—but the method of choosing victims might be the same. We’re working on recovering a site that appeared briefly on the dark web—”

  “Fin? Sir!” Jodi Marsh had come into the room. “The site had a cherry bomb!” she said.

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  “We’re still trying to trace the origin, but it was put up with a cherry bomb—that meant that it exploded, or disappeared, at a certain time. Whoever put it up knew to take it down in a way that would make it almost impossible to trace.”

  “Thanks, Jod
i,” he said. And he went on to explain what had been on it, to the best of his ability, aware he was paraphrasing what had been paraphrased by Avalon. He told the group his words were far from exact, but he gave the gist of the site. “The killer stalks his prey and loves beautiful women. But for him, the sexual gratification doesn’t come until his beauty is dead.”

  “Necrophilia,” someone said.

  Another officer cleared his throat. “It is legal in Louisiana and a few other states,” he said. “Even though I’m not sure how—”

  “Murder is not legal,” Fin said. “And, yes, there are still strange laws on the books...and not on the books. But the point of this is the girl was taken by a man. He murdered her, and she was young and had years of that life before her. She had spent the night out with friends drinking, so whether he plied her with more alcohol or not, we don’t really know. She went with him willingly, so he might have been familiar to her. You’ve seen the sketch and have an idea of what his appearance was when he met her on the street. We believe he knows or stalks his victims, and one way or the other, has a good story or a good pickup line.”

  “The other murder was two years ago,” an officer said. “Can we be sure that they’re related?”

  “No, but there is a chance.”

  “A victim every two years?” another officer asked. “Then...”

  Fin knew what the officer was thinking. Thankfully, it might mean there wouldn’t be a new victim soon. It also made him harder to catch.

  “What we’re sure of is this—Cindy West was working as the lead makeup artist for a low-budget movie being filmed on Christy Island. Everyone involved—from the cast and crew to the owners of the island—has an alibi for the time the murder occurred with at least one other person. Those alibis may be lies, but we haven’t been able to prove that anyone has been lying. Boat captains, caterers and those connected with the island in any way have been questioned. She was last seen outside a pizza parlor on Bourbon Street meeting up with the man in the sketch. There was a murder two years ago near Biloxi where the victim was bled dry and posed in a chair in costume. We’re following the lead on the person who wrote the site—with the cherry bomb. Now it’s difficult here to tell you all to watch out for unusual activity. We believe the killer stalks his victims, so be aware of anyone who seems to be following a woman or watching her covertly. This doesn’t mean we stop every man in the street who looks up when an attractive woman goes by—you are all smart. This is New Orleans. You’ve all learned to go for more dangerous crime amid chaos. Keep your eyes open, please.”

  Ryder spoke next and questions were posed and answered. And then, at last, the task-force meeting had come to an end, and all Fin had left to do was the scheduled press conference.

  He was glad to be doing it himself; people needed to know to beware.

  They didn’t need intimate details, though, and at this time, he wouldn’t inform the public of the murder in Mississippi.

  As he spoke, he wondered why camera flashes had to be so bright and annoying when most cell phones could capture an image just as well.

  But he managed to ignore them for the most part.

  He was anxious for it to be over, and the afternoon to come.

  * * *

  People watched people.

  Men watched women.

  Women watched men.

  He watched her.

  Her every movement was lithe and filled with grace.

  Her laughter was music.

  He’d brushed by her for the briefest touch...

  Her hair was silk, and her eyes were pure magic.

  Anticipation was a sweet emotion. Dreaming filled the heart and mind with gladness, with purpose, with a love and desire for the future.

  He could imagine her. Taking his time, enjoying the silk feel of her hair as he held her. He could imagine her eyes, the crystalline beauty of them as they met with his. The light within them, the fantastic light and emotion.

  He could imagine...her. The warmth of her...

  And the coldness, slipping in as he held her, as light faded, as she became his, really his.

  Yes, anticipation, so sweet it was almost a taste upon the lips.

  He watched. And he waited. Anticipation, so sweet, so savory...

  Because he knew his turn was coming.

  * * *

  “Are you ready for this?” Lauren asked.

  Avalon laughed. They were about twenty feet from the door to Samara Stella’s establishment and Lauren looked uncomfortable.

  “I’m ready, but are you? Lauren, you don’t have to go in.”

  “I guess I just wonder if people think, seeing us go through that door, that we want to become part of a dominatrix...crew. Or worse! If they think we want to be chained up, or walked around on a dog leash, or... I don’t even know what else.”

  “I’m not really too worried about people I’ll never see again or don’t know me from Adam...or Eve,” Avalon said.

  The words were barely out of her mouth when a middle-aged man stopped in front of them, staring at Avalon.

  “You’re...her! I saw you on that show. You were great! Oh, my goodness, I love Texas history, and...man, you played that woman well.”

  “I, uh, thank you,” Avalon said. She smiled. “Thank you very much.”

  “Is it possible...? Would you give me an autograph?”

  “Sure.”

  “And a picture? My wife isn’t going to believe that I got to meet you!”

  “Of course.”

  The man pulled out his camera and came to stand by Avalon, ready to do a selfie.

  “Oh, please... Let me help you,” Lauren said, grinning as she took the man’s camera and stepped back.

  “May I put an arm around your shoulder?” he asked politely.

  “Sure,” Avalon said. She smiled for the camera. He didn’t have paper; he asked her to sign his jacket.

  “That could ruin a perfectly good jacket—” Avalon said.

  “Please.”

  She signed his jacket, chatted a minute longer and then said goodbye. At Avalon’s side, Lauren was laughing. “They won’t know you from Adam...or Eve! Well, at least I’m a behind-the-camera girl. They really won’t know me. Oh, I can see the headlines—young, up-and-coming actress known for her work as historical figures seen entering dominatrix den!”

  “Ha, ha, Lauren. How about young actress who doesn’t want to be broke working on a website?”

  “All right, all right. Hey, coast is clear—let’s slip in.”

  Lauren said the words, but they both paused. Windows in front advertised the establishment with pictures of Samara Stella in black leather and lace, wielding a whip, holding a dog collar and bending low over a table filled with chains.

  “Wow,” Lauren muttered.

  “All in a day,” Avalon said. “You don’t have to come in.”

  “Right. You bought me that great breakfast, and now I’m going to cop out on you.”

  “You really can.”

  “Open the damned door!”

  Avalon grinned and opened the door. The reception area was sumptuous. A beautiful—and very well-endowed—blonde sat behind the counter wearing a leather halter top and studded leather headband. She smiled when she saw them.

  “You must be the web designer! Or designers,” she said.

  “Yes. Hi. I’m Avalon Morgan, and this is Lauren Carlson.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the girl said. “Excuse me, I’ll just call Miss Stella.”

  As the girl worked her interoffice phone, Lauren whispered to Avalon, “She looks pretty normal.”

  Avalon elbowed her.

  A moment later, Samara Stella walked out.

  She really was a striking beauty. Someone in her background had most probably been Asian; someone else had been African Ameri
can, and someone else from somewhere in Europe. It all combined and created a stunning woman with bronze skin, flashing eyes that were a startling hazel—both the green and brown in them being bright—and long, elegantly straight hair in something close to pitch-black. She had a warm smile.

  “Hey, thank you so much for coming! I’ve seen your work, sites you’ve done for several old friends, acquaintances and coworkers. Great stuff!”

  “Thank you,” Avalon said.

  Samara smiled at Lauren. “And I know who you are, too. You did the makeup on the young child actor for that last comic-book-superhero movie. That was wonderful.”

  Lauren stared at her in shock for a minute. No one, outside of the business, ever paid attention to the credits.

  “I... Thank you!”

  The woman laughed. “Hey, I didn’t start out this way. I was going to be a great Shakespearian actress. It just didn’t work out—with me making a living, at any rate. Come on in and I’ll give you the lay of the land, and you can tell me what my new site should look like.”

  Lauren glanced at Avalon with a subtle shrug. She was obviously liking Samara Stella far more than she’d been expecting she might.

  They went through large black doors into the “parlor.” A cushy black sectional sofa surrounded a shiny black table. Deep red cushions picked up the colors in the lush carpeting.

  A large screen advertised the various pleasures to be enjoyed. Spankings were available, a special when they were “served” along with the drink of the day and the house chicken wings.

  “You serve food, too?” Lauren asked her.

  “Some of the best in New Orleans. My family includes Creole chefs, Cajun chefs and my one grandma, who made a killer meat loaf. Well, as she would say, she prepared a killer meat loaf—the animals ‘made’ the meat. Anyway, yes, we have a kitchen, but again, I wasn’t making it as just a restaurant. This is New Orleans—competition is fierce. Not that there isn’t enough room for countless good restaurants, but...well, I’m horrible at marketing. This way, I’m making a living. A good living.” She grinned.

  They went through other rooms that offered “stages,” along with a few private rooms with various forms of equipment—feather whips lined the walls of one room.