“Am I interrupting?” asked Faith, intrigued.
Roy spun so fast, coffee slopped out of his cup.
“Not in the least, Miss Faith,” said Butch, his grin broadening while his partner glared at him. “Roy here and I, we were just debating the merits of anonymous tips.”
Cassandra. Faith struggled to keep her features only vaguely interested. They’re discussing Cassandra.
She said, “I suppose you’re getting a lot of those, huh?”
Roy looked strangely stiff. “Uh, yeah,” he said. Then he looked down at his coffee and his wet hand. He seemed confused for a moment before putting the cup on the corner of the desk and wiping his hands on his slacks. Plainclothes detectives, Faith knew, wore suits because they were supposed to present a professional image despite not being in uniform. Roy stretched the definition of the word professional. “Everybody loves a serial killer.”
Faith blinked at him.
He seemed to realize just how stupid that sounded, and changed the subject. “What are you doing here?”
“Now, son, that is no way to address the lady,” scolded Butch, but Faith wasn’t bothered. Roy was definitely big, just like Greg had warned. And he’d been shouting. So why didn’t he seem scarier?
“I got a call that they arrested some of those gang members. I get to do a lineup.”
“Ah.” Butch nodded. “Speaking of ladies doing their civic duty.”
“You want my advice?” asked Roy, then gave it without waiting. “They’re not boys. They may not have been boys even in Huggies. Think of them as perps. It’ll be easier to press charges.”
That’s when Faith noticed the charcoal sketch on the desk. It was the sketch she’d described to Evan. The killer looked even less threatening in two-dimensional black-and-white than he had when he’d hesitated in Celeste’s doorway—but Faith knew what she’d smelled, sensed and heard. It was him.
Celeste must have delivered it, just as she’d promised.
And now it sat on top of an open book of mug shots?
Butch must actually be using it, looking for matches. God, she loved Butch.
“You do still want to press charges, right?” asked Roy, through her distraction.
She started, then tried her damnedest not to look guilty. As far as they knew, only Celeste and Cassandra had seen the man in that drawing.
“If I can find the lineup room, anyway,” she said, tipping her face up toward Roy.
“Follow me,” he offered, and said over his shoulder at Butch, “If you can survive without me for a few minutes?”
“You kids take your time,” chuckled Butch, as if they were heading out on a date.
Roy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, ’cause serial killers are known for waiting around until we make a little time to investigate them. Get the address on the brother-in-law—we’ll head out as soon as I’m back.”
It was kind of cool, watching them together. Their affection was palpable. And now that she noticed…
Strangely, as long as she’d been focused on Roy, Faith had barely registered the disturbing undercurrents of leftover energy around here. In fact, as the detective walked her to the back room, she became aware of something else. Okay, two things. But the first was simply that she liked the view of his rangy body from the back. That wasn’t surprising. At least one woman there—who, by her dress, seemed to be under arrest for prostitution—was ogling him with blatant interest.
More important, Roy had such an assurance about him, such a mixture of aggression and confidence, that the misery of this place didn’t seem to touch him. Faith didn’t know a whole lot about auras. She was no Nessa, thank goodness. But from how she’d heard them described, she wouldn’t be surprised if Roy had some kind of natural, auric shield. If so, it was sizable. As Faith followed his cocky saunter, well within his personal space, the air felt neutral. Clean, even.
Several of the police officers stared as Roy and Faith passed. Only one person, a skinny guy with a yellow buzz, handcuffed to a desk, dared comment. And he barely managed to start—“Looky here, looky what walked in,”—before Roy turned on him.
“You got something to say?” he demanded, low. He took one threatening step toward the guy and leaned into his space, suddenly seeming bigger and wider than he ever had. His smile was pure predator. “Wanna share it?”
The skinny guy shrank back in his chair. “No sir.”
“I didn’t think so.” Roy extended his hand, an after-you gesture for Faith. She noticed he didn’t drop his eye contact with that particular offender until after she’d passed.
“How’d you learn to do that?” she asked over her shoulder, aware of his bulk close behind her. Her best way of dealing with that kind of scum would’ve been to ignore him. Roy’s way had been far more satisfying to watch.
He looked honestly confused. “Do what?”
Throw your personal energy around like a weapon. But that would sound way too psychic-y. “Get him to shut up?”
“That guy? He was just posing. Here you go.”
They’d reached the room that she recognized from dozens of movies and TV shows, with a two-way mirror and everything. But it was empty. Apparently she was early.
“So aren’t you going to say it?” he asked, shifting his weight, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets.
Say what? “Thanks for the directions?”
He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and bent nearer her. He did that a lot, when they talked. “No. I told you so. You believed the note. I didn’t. You’ve got to have heard about this morning’s vic.”
“Nessa.” She nodded. “I didn’t know her that well.”
“Thank God for small favors. Well, you were right, I was wrong. It’s a serial.”
Suddenly, Faith didn’t like the way that sounded. “It’s not like I made some big prediction or anything.”
“Actually…” He leaned back against the doorjamb, with a quick glance down the hall. Apparently they had a few more minutes. “Boulanger says you’re the one who noticed the missing hair and the running water. That’s not half-bad.”
“I can be observant.” Faith glanced toward the empty chamber beyond the mirror, wishing for a distraction.
“Yeah, but at least you’re observant of reality. The crackpot calls have already started to come in.”
“Crackpots?” Did he mean Cassandra? The very idea annoyed her.
“People claiming to be the killer—we have to follow those up. People claiming to know the killer. And then there’s my favorite, the psychics who claim to have otherworldly information about, of course, the killer.” He laughed, freeing a hand from his pocket to spread expressively. “The other night some broad who claims to talk to the dead says she’s seen him. Alive, mind you. And how’d she know who he was? His dead victims ID’d him.”
Faith stared at his obvious amusement. “Some of my best friends are psychic readers,” she reminded him coolly. “You know, you really are—”
An ass. But Cassandra had called him an ass just the previous night, hadn’t she? Better to minimize their similarities.
Roy waited, eyebrows arched in exaggerated expectation, clearly still amused.
“Very, very annoying,” she finished weakly.
He shrugged. “I get that a lot. But if it makes you happy, I’ll say one nice thing about the lady. At least the medium had the guts to identify herself and come down to the station, which is more than most of the crackpots will do.”
As opposed to Cassandra.
Was he calling Cassandra a coward?
Finally the lights came on in the chamber beyond the mirror. Blinds were pulled. A police officer came in and introduced himself to Faith, letting her know what to expect, then hurried out for another delay.
Roy took a step back—probably to go to someone’s brother-in-law’s house—then hesitated, his body pivoted toward the door, his head turned toward her.
“About this morning,” he said.
Faith waited, curious.
“When I first saw her…Nessa French…” He wasn’t smiling. “For a minute, she looked like you. That’s why I called, once we were done for the night. Logically I knew who she was, but still…”
He shrugged again, scowling.
Then he turned and left her to her lineup.
Between his departure and her surprise at his confession, the negative energy of this room swept onto her full-force. But this time, Faith didn’t let it drag her down. She took a deep breath and imagined her own auric shield, part swagger, part cynic. She had a job to do—ID the perps, then find out what Celeste could tell her about Penelope Lafayette.
It worked. Instead of drowning under all the previous instances in which someone in pain had stood right here, forced to stare at the people who’d hurt them or someone they knew, she was able to feel strong in herself. Neutral. Clean.
So that was the secret.
Maybe she could handle police stations after all.
Chapter 10
It was a lot easier to be Cassandra-the-anonymous-contact when she waited until Butch was off duty Tuesday. There were far fewer interruptions.
Even then, though, Faith couldn’t stop imagining what Roy would say if he were listening in. He would complain that Cassandra wasn’t specific enough. That Cassandra was a coward. That Cassandra was a fake.
Well…as an individual, Cassandra was a fake. She didn’t exist and Faith, who gave her voice, wasn’t really psychic. Not exactly.
But the information Cassandra passed on—that was always real. Like this time. She’d confirmed it with Celeste.
“One of the earlier victims,” she drawled, telephoning from the library on her lunch hour, “was named Lafayette. Penelope Lafayette, with a P? She died February 18, four years ago.”
She had to clench her fist to keep from offering the address. It wasn’t just that she thought the detectives should do some of their own work. It might sound too much like what she’d overheard Roy demanding, like describing the killer as six foot two with a mohawk, living at 2348 Marsais Street.
But, she thought with grim satisfaction, she did now have the address if he needed it.
“Miss Cassie, you are a wonder,” said Butch. “I will surely look up that child as soon as I get to the station. But I’m afraid I have an even bigger favor to ask.”
“You ask it, Detective Sergeant,” she said. “I’ll let you know what I can do.”
“Would you do me the honor of meeting with me?”
Damn. This had to be Roy’s doing. He’d been pushing for a face-to-face meeting from the start.
“Now Detective Sergeant, you know that’s not the kind of relationship we have. Let’s just keep ourselves long distance, shall we?”
“Aw, Miss Cassie. You know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, don’t you? That sketch your friend brought to the station for us, it was mighty helpful. But when I pulled some mug shots, I’m afraid Miss Celeste just couldn’t be sure of any matches. All I’m asking you to do is meet with me, look at the pictures and tell me if any of those boys is our killer.”
At the station? Faith thought. The energy there she could handle. The chances that she’d be recognized, on the other hand…
She managed to retain her Virginian drawl when she said, “I don’t believe I should do that.”
“You don’t trust me,” sighed Butch. “That’s it, isn’t it? What can I do to convince you otherwise?”
“Stop trying to guilt me into a meeting just to prove I trust you?”
He laughed. “You name the place, Miss Cassie. You name the time. You don’t even have to get close to me—I can put the pictures down and back off to give you space. You can choose any of them what looks like the man you saw, and put it separate from the other shots before you go. Then I can come in closer and see what you chose. Maybe we can just wave at each other.”
Now Faith laughed. He really did seem to be bending over backwards. Except…“I’m just a li’l ol’ psychic, sir, but it seems to me that my ID wouldn’t be enough to justify a search warrant, let alone an arrest.”
“No more than your anonymous tips have been, but they surely do point us in the right direction. Once we know who we’re looking for, you leave the justification to us. You could sure save us a mountain of time, all the same.”
Faith couldn’t believe she was even considering it—but she was. He was right about how much time it would save them, to have a name on which to focus their investigation. That was time in which another psychic might not die. How could Faith even consider weighing her anonymity over that? And was it even that great a risk? She did trust Butch, more than she trusted his partner anyway.
And besides…
That’s why she’ll never meet with you. She knows that you’ll see she’s full of shit.
Wouldn’t it be nice if the NOPD put this one to bed because of the help of someone Roy had called a coward and a crackpot?
“St. Louis Cemetery,” she decided, choosing a location in which it would be very, very easy to lose someone. “Thursday morning. Dawn.”
“Number One?” Butch asked. It was a fair question. There were also St. Louis cemeteries Number Two, in the Garden District, and Number Three, near the Fairgrounds.
“Number One, in the French Quarter.” And across the street from the 8th District police station. But the cemetery was much, much larger. “We’ll meet by Marie Laveau’s tomb.”
“You do know, Miss Cassie, that the cemeteries don’t officially open until 9:00 a.m., don’t you?”
She smiled. “And you do know, Detective Sergeant, that folks manage to get in all the same, don’t you?”
“I reckon I’m willing to risk a trespassing charge if you are, ma’am,” he chuckled. “And I surely do appreciate you taking our relationship to this next level.”
“You’ll come alone,” she instructed. “If I see anyone else there, especially that partner of yours—”
“I promised discretion, and discretion you shall get.”
So why, when Faith hung up and looked around, did she feel so uneasy? No other library patrons had come near the pay phones and bathrooms as she’d spoken to Butch. Nobody was watching her.
And she did trust him, on a gut level. He had no reason to betray her. It’s not as if she—Cassandra—were wanted for any sort of crime. Butch needed her help, not just on this case but on who knew how many other future cases with which she might assist?
And Faith might be able to see, hear and smell very well, but she didn’t get psychic hunches.
She decided what she was feeling was simple anxiety at leaving her comfort zone, the same cowardly feeling for which she’d broken her date with Roy. She shook her head and told herself to grow up.
It was time to get back to work.
And now she had to put together some kind of disguise for Madame Cassandra’s first and only appearance.
Faith had to tuck her gauzy skirt up into its waistband before she could scramble over the iron fence that surrounded the cemetery. The trick was to carefully stand on the top rail, so as not to impale yourself on the spike-topped bars. A ground fog cloaked the whole of the Vieux Carre, the French Quarter, that morning. The railings were slick with dew. But she dropped fairly easily onto the grass inside the fence. She just hoped that Butch, as an officer of the law, would manage an easier way in. It wasn’t the kind of climb you’d normally wish on your grandfather figure.
It wasn’t the most cheerful of locations, either. She’d chosen it because, unlike most of the other obvious landmarks in the area, this one should stay relatively private until 9:00 a.m. But she’d been thinking of the cemetery as a tourist attraction.
She’d all but forgotten it was also a cemetery!
Not just that, but the oldest and probably the creepiest cemetery in New Orleans. Especially with ground fog cloaking the architecture of death that spread before her.
Since much of New Orleans was below sea level, graves had to be kept above ground. The St.
Louis cemetery had hundreds of raised tombs, crisscrossed by dozens of alleys and paths. There were wall vaults, multiple tiers of graves two and three levels high built from whitewashed bricks, most of which had lost the majority of their white. There were step tombs, partly buried, with stone slabs rising perhaps a foot above the ground; platform tombs, easily as high as they were wide; and the even taller sarcophagus tombs, as large as buildings. Some of the crypts had huge cracks running through them. Over two hundred years of hurricanes and heat waves would do that. Some tombs were no more than ruined lots of crumbling brick. Then there were all the monuments—weeping angels and oversize urns and lambs atop children’s graves—and rusting, ornate ironwork and railings. The place was such a labyrinth that tourists were warned to avoid it except in groups. It offered too much concealment for muggers and other ne’er-do-wells.
Like, Faith supposed, herself. Or maybe like Cassandra.
She loosened her gauzy skirt from her waistband so that it fell almost to her ballet shoes, drew on her elbow gloves and fastened across her nose the veiling she’d borrowed from Moonsong, whose main form of exercise was belly dancing. She was already wearing her black wig and a decent amount of Krystal’s old jewelry—the mystical jewelry that Krystal’s mother hadn’t wanted. She’d used Absinthe’s gothic eyeliner and mascara. Copiously.
She didn’t plan on letting Butch close enough to get a good look at her. But just in case, she had every intention of looking like someone named Madame Cassandra, not Faith Corbett.
And if Butch recognized her anyway…well, she’d default to simply begging him to keep her secret.
The problem with meeting at dawn, she decided as she made her way from one tomb to the next cloaked in the stillness and the mist, was that to get there early, she had to arrive before dawn. The sky wasn’t even graying yet. She had excellent eyesight, even in the dark, but still…
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