by JoAnn Ross
“I don’t know....” He was looking decidedly torn. “Even if I were to ask, I can’t guarantee Detective O’Malley will be able to speak with you anytime soon.”
“Things look serious,” she observed, trying a different tack.
“Crime is always serious. Ma’am,” he added, making her feel, although she was only twenty-five herself, about as old as dirt.
Then again, she figured she’d probably seen a lot more crime than this fresh-faced rookie had. “Of course it is.” Her expression was appropriately grave. But as badly as she felt for the victim, she had a job to do.
As she began to work the cop, Desiree got caught up in her interview enough that the initial chill she’d felt upon hearing the news, began to warm. There was nothing like a major story to start her blood pumping. “But, of course, there are varying levels of crime,” she suggested. “Which is why it’s such a tragedy that this time the rapist has murdered his victim.”
As he watched the ambulance attendants wheel the gurney over to the pond, the distracted patrolman murmured a vague agreement.
Bingo. She now had her confirmation. Her mind surged into high gear, already writing her lead-in. “So he did kill her.” She managed, just barely, to keep from sounding triumphant.
Belatedly realizing that he’d been expertly baited, the young cop twisted his head back to Desiree and shot her a chagrined, irritated look. “I’ll go give Detective O’Malley your message,” he muttered after a brief pause. Being outwitted by a woman was bad enough. Being manipulated into leaking information on a capital case by a reporter was enough to make any cop—rookie or grizzled veteran—angry.
Desiree smiled sweetly. Agreeably. Having achieved her goal, she could afford to be generous. “Thank you, Officer.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” a low rumbling voice observed.
Desiree grinned up at Sugar, who had materialized beside her during her conversation with the patrolman. “Who, me?”
He shook his head at her display of feigned innocence. “Taking advantage of a poor green-as-grass boy that way.”
“That poor green boy just happens to be a New Orleans policeman,” she stated. “Which means he may as well learn to keep his mouth shut now, rather than spilling the beans in the future to some unscrupulous reporter who doesn’t realize there’s a very fine line between freedom of the press and the need for police to withhold certain information in order to solve their crime, thus protecting society.”
“You learn those pretty words outta some journalism textbook you read in college? At Hahvaard?” He added a Boston twang to the word.
“Actually, I picked them up last year. From the gospel of Detective Michael Patrick O’Malley.”
“That sound like the man,” he agreed with a nod of his enormous bald, black head. “It also sounds as if you’re indulging in a bit of self-justification.”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked a long way up at him. It was not the first time she’d witnessed Sugar’s instantaneous transition from black street rapper to someone who sounded as if he possessed a degree in psychology or philosophy. The enigmatic man was definitely not what he appeared at first glance, she decided, thinking of O’Malley’s description of being layered like an onion.
That thought brought up another that was never far from her mind these days. Roman Falconer.
From the first moment she’d seen the former district attorney, she’d been drawn to him in ways she could not begin to understand. And although she considered herself a rational sort of person, whenever she was around him, she found herself reacting with pure emotion.
Which was, of course, foolhardy with any man. But even more deadly with a man like Roman.
That thought led directly to yet another—a recent memory, only minutes old, of when her beeper had providentially sounded, rescuing her from a dangerously intimate moment. There was something that bothered her about that prolonged interlude. Something niggling at the far reaches of her mind; something she couldn’t quite get a handle on.
Before she could figure out what it was, O’Malley began striding toward her, his expression as furious as she’d ever seen it. Beside her, Sugar lifted the portable videocam to his shoulder and began shooting.
“Good idea,” Desiree murmured as she viewed the icy murder in the detective’s eyes. “This way, if he kills me, you’ll have the evidence on tape.”
“‘Less he kill me, too,” Sugar suggested. “And from the look of him, that be a definitely possibility.” He’d switched back into the street accent that added to his mystique.
“Well, if it isn’t the Bobbsey Twins,” O’Malley muttered scathingly. His sharp glare could have cut diamonds. “Don’t you two have anything better to do with your nights than hang around crime scenes?”
“We’re just doing our job, Detective.” Desiree refused to let him annoy her.
“Since when does your job include harassing my men?”
She gave him her most-innocent look. “I was only asking him a few questions.”
“His assignment was to keep civilians away from my crime scene. You got questions, ask me.”
“Fine. I will.” There was no point in telling him that she’d tried to do exactly that in the beginning and had only switched to pumping the patrolman when her game plan had begun to fall apart.
Desiree glanced over his shoulder to where the uniformed rookie was throwing up beneath an oak tree. “She must have been in the pond awhile.”
Although she’d guess that it was the young cop’s first close-up-and-personal look at a corpse, she suspected his reaction was due more to its condition.
Working in an area surrounded by water, Desiree had seen floaters before. Including one politician who, it was belatedly discovered, had won reelection with a few too many cemetery votes. Even for this state, where politics tended to be absolutely Byzantine, that was stepping over the line. When forced to resign, the depressed state senator had ended up taking a dive off the bridge into the river.
She’d been on the scene when he’d been fished out a week later. It was not a pretty sight.
“Best guess is a few days,” O’Malley concurred. “A couple of kids making out in the gazebo spotted her.”
Desiree glanced at the gazebo where she and O’Malley had sat in the warm December sun, drinking their coffee and arguing. “My God, Michael, she could have been there.” When she began to shake from the inside out, she dug her teeth into her lower lip to steady herself. “Right below us.”
“I’ve already thought of that.” His eyes appeared haunted, revealing just how much this investigation was getting to him. “We’ll know more after the M.E. is through with his autopsy.”
Desiree watched the gurney with the black body bag being wheeled toward the waiting ambulance and empathized with the rookie. She suddenly felt more than a little sick herself. “I realize it’s probably too early to tell, but—”
“It’s the same guy,” he finished for her.
She’d known it was. But somehow, hearing it made it seem so much more real. And threatening.
“The ribbons?” she asked, her voice a faint thread of sound.
“Yeah.” His mouth was a harsh, tight line. “The bastard tied her up, undoubtedly raped her, then cut her throat. From ear to ear.”
The familiar words echoed in Desiree’s mind. It wasn’t that unusual a way to kill someone. The fact that the slaves allegedly murdered at Roman’s house had also been reported to have had their throats slashed was only a coincidence.
One more coincidence in a very long line of them. Beginning with Roman just happening by the cemetery the night the last girl had been raped. And then, of course, there was the little matter of Desiree having found her books in the man’s personal library.
Which didn’t mean a thing, she assured herself. Thousands of people owned copies of her novels. There were probably hundreds right here in New Orleans Parish alone.
When she became aware of both Sugar and O’Malley
looking at her with curiosity, she realized she’d allowed her discomfort regarding Roman Falconer to show. “I don’t suppose you have a name yet.” This time her voice was brisk and professional.
“Not yet.”
“But she’s a prostitute?”
“Either that or Santa is missing an elf,” he growled. “She was wearing one of those Santa’s helper’s outfits,” he elaborated.
“She could be from one of the malls.” Only yesterday Desiree had seen a similarly dressed young girl handing out candy canes at Jackson’s Brewery.
“I suppose that’s a possibility,” he replied. “But how many of those girls have you seen wearing a red, fake-fur-trimmed garter belt?”
“Good point.” She envisioned the girl as she must have looked when she’d made the fatal mistake of getting into a car with the wrong man. “You know,” she mused out loud, “an outfit like that would be bound to draw attention. Even in the Quarter.”
“The wrong kind of attention, as it turns out.”
“True. But someone must have noticed her being picked up.”
Although the street prostitutes were known for their colorful and often outrageous attire, Desiree guessed that anyone who’d wear an elf costume would be young. The victim had undoubtedly been another runaway. Once again Desiree thought back on how many times she’d wanted to run away herself during those painful teenage years when she’d been boarded out like some inconvenient pet her grandmother hadn’t wanted to deal with.
Once again she thought about how desperately she’d yearned for love. Was that what those girls had been seeking? Had they also been looking for someone to hold them in the long, lonely hours of the night? Someone to make them feel appreciated? Valued? Loved?
It could have been her, she realized, her attention drawn to the ambulance that was pulling away with a lack of lights and sirens. If she hadn’t had the warm memories of those early years with her parents to hang on to during the bleak times, she could have ended up as lost and drifting as the rapist’s unfortunate victims.
“We’re already running a check of the neighborhoods,” O’Malley said. “There’s nothing for you to do here, Desiree. Why don’t you go home? I’ll be holding a press conference at nine at the station. You can get your facts then.”
“With the others.” She frowned, putting away hurtful memories along with thoughts of those raped and murdered slaves allegedly buried in Roman’s garden. “You promised me an exclusive, O’Malley.”
“And you’ll get one. When and if the creep ever calls you.”
“What if he doesn’t? What if he’s already given up on me? Come on, Detective, surely I should get some little reward for having kept the story off the air.”
“You’ll be the first I call when we nab the guy.”
“Thank you.” She nodded, satisfied for the time being, at least.
“But for now, it’s obvious that I can’t keep this under wraps any longer. I’ve got to go public, Desiree. And that means a press conference.”
It was exactly what she’d been lobbying for from the beginning. Still, she couldn’t help wondering how such a decision would be viewed at the mayor’s office. “This isn’t going to make you real popular downtown,” she said, telling him nothing he didn’t already know.
“Tough.” His expression was one she’d seen before—when he’d promised her that he’d nab her stalker. “I’ve got wide shoulders. I can handle a little political flack.”
Ignoring Sugar’s still-whirring videocam, Desiree put aside professionalism and lifted her hands to those wide shoulders. Going up on her toes, she kissed O’Malley’s cheek. “It’s times like this when I remember why I fell in love with you.”
His large hands instinctively settled on her waist as the two of them exchanged a look rife with memories and regret. And, she thought, resignation. Although neither of them could possibly be called a quitter, their relationship simply would not have worked. No matter how hard they tried.
“You’re right,” she said when the moment drew out a bit longer than was comfortable. “I’d better go. And let you get back to work.”
“I suppose you going home to bed would be too much to hope for?”
“I’ll go home eventually. But first I’ve got to run by the station. Hey, as tragic as this is, it’s still a scoop,” she said quickly when she sensed he was prepared to argue. “Now that you’ve decided to go public, I’ve got to run with my story. Such as it is at this point.”
He gave her one last long look. “Just be careful. I don’t want to be pulling you from some damn duck pond.”
“Never happen.”
“You’re not Wonder Woman,” he reminded her.
“Believe me, O’Malley, I’ve already figured that out for myself.”
She placed a call to Karyn from the cellular phone in her car. By the time she arrived at the station, the producer had arrived. The rest of the early morning crew showed up within minutes, and after a frenzied few hours writing copy and editing Sugar’s video, Desiree repaired her makeup, brushed her hair and taped her report.
The first part was professional and to the point. The second part was a personal request to the rapist that she knew was going to make Detective First Class Michael O’Malley go absolutely ballistic.
“Wow!” Karyn leaned against the anchor desk and eyed Desiree with a mixture of admiration and worry. “That was quite a piece.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly emotionally and physically drained, Desiree gathered up her papers. It had been the right thing to do, she assured herself. The only thing she could do.
“You realize, of course, that you’re a shoe-in for Nightline now.”
“I wasn’t thinking about Nightline,” Desiree said. “I was thinking about all those potential victims.” She dragged her hand through her hair in a weary gesture. “He has to be stopped.”
“Not that I don’t think you were brilliant, because you were, but I feel obliged to point out that stopping the guy is O’Malley’s job.”
“I realize that.” Desiree stood up. “But even the Lone Ranger needed Tonto’s help from time to time.”
“You know, of course, that Michael isn’t going to be at all happy when he sees this morning’s broadcast,” Karyn warned.
“He’ll undoubtedly want to kill me,” Desiree agreed. “I guess I’m just going to have to depend on you to use all your feminine wiles to keep that from happening.”
When her comment caused a decidedly feminine blush, Desiree laughed. Then she left the station and drove through the dark and mostly deserted streets.
The first thing she saw as she pulled into the driveway of her Irish Channel Victorian cottage was the sleek black Porsche parked at the curb. When the driver’s door opened, she immediately reached for her car phone, prepared to call 911. As the spreading glow of the streetlight illuminated Roman’s face, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded as she climbed out of her own car. She was irritated by the way just seeing the man could cause such an unwilling surge of pleasure.
He was moving toward her with his loose-hipped, predator’s stride, but for some reason, this morning she didn’t feel threatened. “I was worried about you,” he said simply as they met halfway.
“I was working.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you work too hard?”
All the time, she could have answered. “My work hours aren’t any of your business,” she said instead.
“That’s what I kept telling myself these past hours while I’ve been parked outside your house waiting for you to come home. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I couldn’t make myself believe it.”
Desiree shook her head. “I really don’t want this,” she murmured. She had too much on her plate right now to handle any new relationships. Let alone one that was already proving intensely complex.
She was visibly exhausted, Roman noted. Her always fair complexion was unna
turally pale, giving her face the look of fragile bone china. “Want me to leave?”
The funny thing was, she didn’t. Telling herself that it was only because she was still too wired from taping that news segment to get any sleep, she said, “Now that you’re here, you may as well come in.”
He’d certainly received warmer invitations in his day. But, willing to take Desiree any way he could get her, Roman followed her into the house.
10
THE INTERIOR OF Desiree’s house proved to be as feminine as her name.
It was obvious to Roman that here, in the privacy of her home, she allowed her emotions free reign. Violets bloomed on the cream, papered walls, needlepoint carpets were scattered about the stenciled, pine-plank floors. Lacy white curtains topped with billowy balloon valences framed the Gothic arched windows.
Although the cottage was small, the high ceilings and airy furniture gave it a feeling of spaciousness.
“You’ve put in a lot of hard work,” Roman said.
As she shrugged out of her coat, Desiree glanced around as if seeing the living room for the very first time. The house, located in a working-class district of the city that was undergoing regentrification, had fallen into disrepair when she’d discovered it.
Although the poor little Victorian cottage had appeared on its last legs, the structure proved sound, and fortunately, some distant owner in the 1950s had upgraded the plumbing and electrical systems.
Which, other than the new roof that was needed to stop the streaks left on layers of peeling wallpaper every time it rained, left Desiree with mostly a great deal of cosmetic work.
“It’s been a labor of love,” she admitted, more than a little pleased with the results. She hung the coat on an ornate brass coatrack she’d discovered in an antique store across the street from the station.
“It shows.”
He paused in front of a gilt mirror that had been hung on the flowered wall with a lavender satin ribbon. Her exquisite face was reflected in the glass, and Roman decided that if she ever looked at him with the warmth of emotion that was glowing in her eyes right now as she studied the results of her renovations, he’d marry her on the spot. Because even with her pallor and those smudged shadows beneath her eyes, she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. He slipped his hands into the back pockets of his jeans to keep from touching her.
