Contact

by Evelyn Vaughn

  Sated, satisfied, He climbed the steps back to the Moonwalk, made sure nobody was watching, then headed toward the riverboat landing. He could choose His own prey, now. That’s how strong He’d become.

  Even the Master couldn’t control Him, now.

  Nobody could. He could do anything He wanted.

  And that’s how He liked it.

  Chapter 9

  The phone in the den screamed through the dark apartment.

  Faith switched on her bedside lamp. She never fumbled for it; she could feel where it was, which Moonsong used to say was odd.

  Light blossomed in her room as the phone rang a second time. Even as Faith padded into the hallway, then the den, she saw lights come on in Evan’s room and saw light spilling out of Absinthe and Krystal’s—rather, Moonsong’s—open door. They had only the one phone, which Absinthe was reaching for as it rang a third time.

  At least Absinthe had pulled on a shorty robe; she tended to sleep nude. Faith wore boxers and a tank top. Moonsong, in a filmy white nightgown that contrasted mistily against her dark skin, hugged herself. Her eyes were as big as a heroine’s in an anime cartoon.

  “Something awful has happened,” she whispered.

  Absinthe looked strange, even vulnerable, without her heavy makeup. She broke that impression when she picked up the phone with the words, “It’s three in the fucking morning. What the hell do you want?”

  “’Sup?” murmured Evan, arriving last in a pair of pj bottoms. He usually woke up faster than that. Then again, Faith had kept him up late the past two nights sketching a passing likeness of the killer, based on her keen observations.

  Absinthe thrust the phone, stiff-armed, in their direction. “It’s for Faith.”

  Faith’s first step was hesitant, then she hurried. You didn’t have to be psychic to fear phone calls this late at night. “Is it my mom?”

  “No, it’s that anthropoid detective.” Absinthe passed over the phone and shuffled back toward her room, black-dyed hair spiking in strange directions. “Teach him how to tell time, will you? I’ve heard some simians are clever that way.”

  Faith pressed the receiver to her ear. “Roy?”

  It seemed too dark, too soon since she’d been dreaming, to call him Detective Chopin.

  “You’ve got some sweet friends there,” he said. But surely he hadn’t called to gripe about Absinthe.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Sort of. I shouldn’t have called.” He seemed to be overthinking each set of words, as if he were drunk or very tired. Or both.

  Faith sank into the overstuffed sofa, waving the others away. Waving Evan and Moonsong away, at least. Absinthe had already given up on the lot of them.

  At least, if he shouldn’t have called, this couldn’t have been an emergency. Right?

  “Well, you did call,” said Faith. “And I’m awake now. So talk to me. What’s up?”

  “I just…uh…” More hesitation on his end made her distinctly uncomfortable. She hadn’t thought of Roy Chopin as the kind of guy who hesitated so much. “I wanted to apologize, okay? For contacting your mother after you broke the date. For being a jerk when you called me on it.”

  Faith pulled her feet up onto the sofa, drew her bare knees to her chest. Whatever had happened, it had upset him. “I was less than nice when I called you on it.”

  “Yeah.” He snorted, but his amusement seemed short-lived. “It’s just…it comes with the job,” he admitted then. “Suspecting people. We call it the asshole theory. The longer you do the work, the more assholes you think are out there. Bad enough when I was in uniform, but now, working homicide—nothing shocks you. It twists how you look at the world. That’s why Butch thinks…”

  Faith wasn’t sure what to say about something that sad—especially since he may have been right to suspect her mother. “What does Butch think?”

  “It’s stupid. It’s about personal lives and balance. It doesn’t matter.”

  Oookay. “So…you’re apologizing?”

  “The words I wanted to apologize mean something else to you?”

  Now that sounded more like Roy. “Then I forgive you.”

  “Don’t dip too deep into your generosity fund there, Corbett.”

  “Why’d you decide to apologize at three in the freakin’ morning?”

  His heavy exhalation of breath was his only response. Again she thought drunk or exhausted. Or both.

  Oh, god. This couldn’t be good. “Roy?”

  “Don’t change, hon. And tell your roommates to be extra careful, okay?”

  “Roy?”

  “I can’t talk about the rest just now. Business as usual. You’ll catch the highlights at work tomorrow. By which I mean, today. Damn. I shouldn’t—”

  “I’m glad you called,” Faith insisted, before he could dig himself in deeper. She’d worked with cops long enough to know that sometimes, they really couldn’t give more specifics. If it involved her personally, he could have said more. Since it didn’t…She would know soon enough.

  “Sleep tight, okay?” he asked, his voice thick. “Be safe?”

  “Sure. You too. Be safe.”

  “As much as the job allows.” He hung up.

  Faith settled the receiver into the cradle more slowly, more than a little unnerved, and not just because she didn’t know what to make of Detective Roy Chopin anymore.

  Moonsong was right.

  Something awful must have happened.

  Roy had been right. Faith “caught the highlights” almost as soon as she arrived at work—the fact that some of the night shift were still milling around, running tests and going over clues from something that had gone down the previous night, was her first hint. Then Greg called her into his office as she passed, to break the news more gently than an excited tech might have.

  “Your roommate may have been murdered by a serial killer.” He came out from around a cluttered desk and gestured to one of a pair of chairs. As they both sat, Faith was strangely reminded of her reading with Celeste. “Either that, or one skillful copycat. A second woman was strangled last night—her body’s in back right now, and night shift is still running the evidence. She was blond, like your roommate. And she was a psychic. Did you know someone named Nessa French?”

  Nessa? Oh, God. Nessa. “Enough for us to say hi at parties,” Faith admitted, stunned. “We weren’t close.”

  “At least there’s that.” Greg leaned nearer, his elbows on his knees, his posture carefully nonthreatening. His even breathing and casual heartbeat were remarkably comforting. For a science geek, he seemed surprisingly focused, for once.

  On her.

  “Are there any details you would like to ask about, before you start pretending it’s just another case?” he asked gently.

  “She was strangled?”

  “Yes. The weapon left similar marks to the one used on Krystal. We’re running tests to confirm if it was the same cord.”

  Faith wondered if he realized it might be the exact same cord, complete with Krystal’s blood still on it. Probably. Greg had been doing this for a long time. Not much surprised him.

  She tried to swallow past a rush of nausea and focused on the soothing regularity of his pulse, his breathing. “Did he take some of her hair?”

  Greg’s pale eyes blinked from behind his spectacles. “Why would you—? Faith, when your roommate’s hair was taken, she was already in the morgue. That was some kind of souvenir collector, not a killer’s organ trophy.”

  “But was some of this woman’s hair missing?”

  After staring a moment, his brow furrowing as he considered the consequences, Greg nodded. “Yes. Some of her hair was gone.”

  She considered it. “Has the FBI been called in?”

  “They’re aware of the situation, but with only two vics, they’re just going to monitor for now.” He didn’t have to add that the vics were members of a subculture that didn’t carry a lot of political clout. As if, just by being psychics, Krystal
and Nessa had been asking for trouble. “It’s still New Orleans’ jurisdiction.”

  Which meant New Orleans would just have to solve it. “Did the killer leave a faucet on, near her?”

  “No, she wasn’t found indoors. She was on the edge of the levee, beside the river. Rotten luck—you know how hard outdoor scenes are to clear. The detectives were there halfway through the next shift.”

  Faith took a deep, shaking breath. “I think the river counts as running water.”

  Greg’s heartbeat began to speed with interest at that possibility. “Wait, you think he deliberately left both bodies near some kind of water?”

  “Running water,” she clarified. “I’m not sure what it means—”

  “Witches,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  He sat back in his chair. “You must have heard the old superstition. My grandmother used to tell us stories about it, the same way she’d warn us not to walk under ladders or say the devil’s name three times. People once believed witches can’t cross running water.”

  “So at least there’s something he’s afraid of.”

  Greg stood, excited now. For Greg. He was almost cute, worked up like this. “I’d better call the station, tell them about the hair and the water. You know, Faith, you’re very good at this. If you finished your degree, I think you’d be an asset to the staff. That is…not that you aren’t already. An asset.”

  Now he looked uncomfortable, which was also cute. Greg proved many of the generalizations about science nerds, but the city was damned lucky to have someone this smart. “You only meant to say that what I do now doesn’t take such specific skills,” she clarified for him. “Or pay as well.”

  “But you do it with excellent skill,” he agreed, “and deserve to earn more.” He smiled, and it lit his bearded face, like sunshine through the clouds. He suddenly looked younger than she’d thought he was.

  Then he stopped smiling, as if he feared being too forward. He was trying so hard not to cross the supervisor/employee line, Faith almost felt guilty for having drawn the line in the first place.

  “Thanks, Greg. For everything. I’m…I’m sorry for the scene I caused, the other day. When I got mad at Detective Chopin in your office, I mean. It was unprofessional of me.”

  “I admire Roy a great deal, but he could drive anyone a little crazy. Especially if you’re…dating?” He turned to examine a folder with feigned nonchalance, but his pale eyes sought her out over the top of his glasses.

  “We’re not dating,” she assured him. But since she respected him, she wanted to be completely honest. “I’m not sure what we are.”

  “Why don’t I just say that I hope everything works out for the best. How’s that for appropriately vague?” But his heartbeat and breathing, which had evened out as they discussed her education, were increasing again. Was he worried about something?

  She hesitated, then asked, “Is there something I should know about him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I shouldn’t have asked. Never mind.”

  Greg’s squint sharpened, and his shoulders went back. “Has he been bothering you?”

  “No! He called in the middle of the night, but that’s probably nothing….”

  “And he telephoned your mother when you broke a date,” Greg provided. He took a deep breath as he considered his options, then said, “This doesn’t leave the office, all right?”

  Faith nodded, needing to hear what he had to say, half-afraid to.

  “Roy Chopin is a stand-up guy and a first-class detective,” said Greg. “There are few people I’d rather have at my back. But I’ve heard rumors—and I stress that these are rumors—that he’s a little rough on the women he dates.”

  Faith felt a chill of unease at the implications.

  Greg’s eyes widened as he seemed to recognize the implications at the same time. “No! I don’t mean physical abuse, not that I’ve heard about. But he’s got a temper. My guess is, someone that big and that loud can get pretty scary, even if he doesn’t mean to be. If he’s a little jealous, maybe a little possessive…”

  Like the kind of guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer? Who would call her mother when he got Faith’s answering machine, just because she broke a date? Who would call her at three o’clock in the morning?

  He’d seemed almost sweet, but she wondered now what his mood would have been like if she’d been out at the time.

  Damn.

  “I shouldn’t have said that much,” said Greg quickly, efficiently. “You’re a grown woman, you can certainly handle your own dating life. And I like Roy.”

  “I know,” said Faith, standing, trying to hide her uncertainty. “Stand-up. First-class detective.”

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Faith even dared to lightly touch his sleeve. “You’re a good guy yourself.”

  He held her gaze for a moment—and she sensed feelings off him. The interest. The attraction. The dilemma over that attraction. “I care about you,” he admitted softly.

  Before she could think of what to say, he shook off the moment. “I care for all of my staff,” he added, picking up a sheaf of files as a distraction. “Anyway, I thought you should know. About Nessa French.”

  Since he seemed uncomfortable with praise and thanks, almost as uncomfortable as he was with what he clearly saw as an inappropriate distraction, Faith simply smiled her gratitude before returning to her desk.

  Instead of beginning her data entry, she started work on a computer search. There were benefits to being able to access the NOPD’s records this way.

  Crime: Homicide. She would also look up suicides and accidental deaths, just in case. Sometimes the investigating officers got it wrong.

  Method: Strangulation. She also included choking, garroting, suffocation and hanging.

  Extent of Search: Three years. She resigned herself to going back further if necessary.

  Victim: Female. Psychic. Blond.

  And after searching for all of that, she began hunting for victims whose first names began with a P.

  The search took a lot longer than she’d hoped, especially since, for the sake of fairness, she made herself stop to work on her actual job now and then. She ate at her desk. She exchanged smiles with Greg as he went out to lunch and looked quickly away when—smiling amiably back—he bumped into the doorjamb. But by late afternoon, just as she was giving up hope, Faith found someone.

  Penelope Lafayette had been eighteen four years ago when she was found strangled in her Algiers Point apartment, across the Mississippi from the French Quarter. There were clear discrepancies, which was why Faith hadn’t found her more quickly. Penelope had been strangled with what the coroner thought was a curtain string. She wasn’t a practicing psychic reader, instead working concessions at the Superdome. But one of the angles the Times-Picayune had brought out—Faith had double-checked the newspaper database on each possibility—was that this might have been some kind of satanic killing. They reported that Penelope had been involved with tarot cards, Ouija boards and witchcraft.

  Faith made note of the woman’s name, intending to call Celeste as soon as she was away from work. If anyone could confirm Penelope’s identity, it would be someone who spoke to the dead for a living. It looked like Madame Cassandra might have to place another call to Butch Jefferson.

  Then Faith hit a detour in the form of a call from a friendly sergeant at the 8th District police station. Three young men matching descriptions that she and Evan had given had been brought in. Could she come down to the station and pick them out from a lineup?

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Of course.” But her heart sank. For one thing, she wanted to pursue the lead on Penelope Lafayette. For another…

  Well, she didn’t necessarily like the police station.

  Bad enough that the gangbangers had attacked Evan, had threatened her. The inconvenience of being an official crime victim was going to drive her crazy.


  Or maybe it was just exacerbating how crazy she already was.

  Faith had hated going through the mug shots the previous week. Every time she’d touched a page, she had sensed lingering emotions and ugly feelings. Almost every person who’d turned those pages had been in some way victimized. People who’d suffered rape or robbery, who’d seen killings take place. Emotions that powerful didn’t just go away. They stuck to what they’d touched. Worse, the whole station was just as highly charged. Except for the police and the lawyers, almost everyone who spent time there, perpetrator or victim, did so on what for them was a very bad day. It was like a stain that would never come out.

  Faith promised to come right over, and she did—after stopping at a public phone.

  “—about a voice, Butch, it’s in the eyes!” Having been sent back by the desk sergeant, Faith heard the now-familiar bellow easily above the cacophony of ringing phones, insistent voices and office machinery from copiers to typewriters. “That’s why she’ll never meet with you. She knows you’ll see that she’s full of shit.”

  Faith rounded a corner and saw them, amidst the usual chaos. Butch Jefferson and Roy Chopin stood by a high-piled desk, having what could kindly be termed an animated conversation. Roy had his back to her, suit jacket off. His pinstriped shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, almost completely hid his partner.

  “I’m beginning to think maybe neither of you wants to be disillusioned, there,” he challenged.

  “You have a suspicious nature, son,” protested Butch pleasantly. He wasn’t shouting at all, but now that she saw where he was, Faith could easily follow his voice. “Could be the lady just wants to do her civic duty while protecting her privacy. I say we give her that chance.”

  “Bullshit. Reporters can’t act on anonymous tips—why the hell should we?”

  “Because the girl was right.” Butch caught Faith’s eye around the barrier that was Roy’s waving arm, and he smiled. He had a great smile, cheerful and wise. If she’d ever had a grandfather, Faith could imagine him being just like Butch. Just not black.

  Roy made a strangling sound of pure frustration. “It’s not like half the crazies in the city weren’t already calling him a serial killer. It’s not like she said he’s six foot two with a mohawk and lives at 2348 Marsais Street.”