Contact

by Evelyn Vaughn

  Okay, so she wasn’t quite as sure as she pretended to be.

  The captain slapped a Manila folder onto the table in front of her. “We’ve got the sworn testimony of a citizen who saw a woman of your height and build, with black hair and clothes matching those found in your room, leaving the scene of the crime.”

  Roy hadn’t mentioned that part. “Anything else?”

  “As a matter of fact—” But Crawford stopped himself, eyeing her warily. “We’re the ones conducting this damned interrogation, Ms. Corbett, not you. So how about you start answering our questions? What did you do with Sergeant Jefferson’s gun?”

  She said nothing.

  “Who was involved in the killing with you?”

  She said nothing. But she felt relieved they didn’t believe she’d acted alone.

  Corbett slammed a hand down beside the folder, leaning over her now. “Why did you want Butch Jefferson dead?”

  That, she couldn’t ignore. “I didn’t! Butch was a wonderful man. How could anyone want him dead?”

  “Obviously someone did. Maybe you can shed some light on who that might have been?” Before she could stop him, the captain tapped her under the chin to make her look up at him.

  He and his wife were in separate beds. They’d become strangers. His one real joy was his young son. He—

  She swung her head away, pushing her chair back from him—its feet squealed on the concrete floor, and the handcuff that attached her to the table pulled taut. It was either that or head-butt the guy, which would be trouble. “Don’t touch me!”

  Captain Crawford reared back almost as quickly at her reaction. “What the hell?”

  It was Roy’s new partner, Max Leonard, who intervened. “We’ve already established that she doesn’t like to be touched, Captain. Ms. Corbett, sweetheart, he wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

  Faith gritted her teeth, embarrassed by her reaction, angry that they’d gotten her to talk at all. She hadn’t said he was trying to hurt her, damn it. She just didn’t want…

  Okay, so maybe she was feeling the stress after all. The booking process alone had resulted in a few too many casual, normally harmless touches. Time to practice Krystal’s quiet breathing.

  “As Roy told me,” she said tightly, “I have the right to remain silent.”

  “Let me give this a try,” suggested Max, drawing the captain back. Roy’s new partner seemed like a nice enough guy, stocky, balding, fighting a middle-aged spread. He wore a wedding ring and a Mary medal. Instead of looming over Faith the way Captain Crawford had or intimidating her with his ability to move around the room while she had to stay in her little chair, Max sat on the corner of the table and held her gaze. Not touching her. “I’m sure Chopin also told you that you have the right to an attorney, sweetheart. Are you sure you don’t want us to send for one?”

  “No,” Faith assured him, dragging together the threads of her poise. “Not yet.”

  Not until she’d talked to Roy.

  She’d tried, after the initial shock of the arrest. Handcuffed in the back seat of his car on the way over, she’d tried to explain. He’d just turned up the volume of his radio, zydeco music blasting out the windows, so that he couldn’t hear what she had to say. To judge from the way he was treating her now, the Faith he’d made love to not an hour before the arrest could have been someone else. Or dead.

  Faith understood his arresting her. If she’d been a cop and found the backpack, she would have arrested her, too—though how he’d found the backpack was a whole other issue. What her secrets had done to their budding relationship, though—that pressed on her heart like a ten-ton weight.

  They were through. She got that, and she knew she’d brought it on herself, through her secrecy. She wasn’t looking for sympathy. But he had to hear the truth from her, or he might never hear it…and not knowing would be even worse for him.

  The first thing any attorney with half a brain would tell her was not to talk. And she sure as hell couldn’t count on ever getting an audience with Roy if this went to trial.

  One problem at a time; that was how she’d take things.

  “Do you want another cola?” asked Max gently. “You need a bathroom break?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “See, Faith—can I call you Faith?” Max’s good-cop routine was almost as skilled as Butch’s had been. It would have been funny, if only it weren’t so damned effective. Everything about the interrogation room was set up to make her feel alone and helpless. The lack of windows. The industrial-white walls and low-watt bulbs. The rudimentary table and plastic chairs, with her chair farthest from the door. Even the one-way mirror, with the threat of who knew how many unseen people watching her through it, played its role in Faith’s intimidation. Against all that, a little niceness went a long, long way.

  But not long enough to make her forget what she had to do.

  “You don’t look like a killer to me,” Max continued, deliberately soothing. “Like you say, you didn’t want Butch dead. I believe that. If you wanted him dead, why would you have called in help for him? I’m thinking someone else did the shooting, someone you could help us catch. You kept it secret because it was maybe an accident? Maybe you got scared? But we can’t help you, sweetheart, until you tell us how it went down.”

  “And I will,” Faith assured him. Four relieved exhalations followed her promise before she added, “As long as Roy’s here to hear it directly from me. Otherwise, I’m not saying anything.”

  Crawford slapped a hand against the painted brick wall and swore. “That’s it. Clear out, boys. Maybe once Ms. Corbett has a chance to ponder her fate for a while, she’ll figure out that she’s not a guest here, she’s an accused murderer.”

  Slick and Bubba headed out first, exchanging amused glances. An apologetic Max followed and, finally, Crawford.

  Then Faith was alone, one wrist still handcuffed to the table, in the hell room. Alone with her secret weapon.

  One of her secret weapons, anyway.

  They had no idea that she could hear what they were saying on the other side of the mirror.

  “So send me in, Cap.” Ironic, how comfortingly familiar Roy’s voice seemed, even now that they were on opposite sides of more than that wall. At least he’d heard her say she didn’t want Butch dead, whether or not he believed it. “If it makes her confess, where’s the harm?”

  “The appearance of partiality is the harm, Roy! I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

  “I only look partial if I don’t burn her lying little ass with this.”

  “Yes, because we all know that boyfriends who’ve been played for a sap are paragons of impartiality. No.”

  Faith pretended to study her ink-smudged fingers, knowing that she was being studied in turn. She’d been okay with the physical contact when she’d been fingerprinted, but that’s because she’d been braced for it.

  “So why isn’t she asking for a lawyer?” That was Max.

  “She’s a blonde,” said someone who sounded like Slick. “Who says blondes have to make sense?”

  “I’m not questioning it, I’m just counting my blessings,” said the captain. “I’ve known stupid public defenders, but we won’t find one in this city stupid enough to leave this arrest unchallenged.”

  “And they’d be wrong!” Roy protested.

  “Really, Detective? ’Cause I’m thinking it wasn’t a search warrant you had in your pants when you showed up at her door last night.”

  Faith scratched her nose, just in case her lips twitched.

  She would have heard Roy’s yell even without genetically engineered superhearing. “Screw that!”

  “Hey, Chopin.” Maybe his new partner really was a good cop, and didn’t just play one for interrogations. “The captain’s just saying what the D.A.’s office will tell you. Calm down.”

  “You’re talking like I tried to hide what went down. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted. But I’ve been a freakin’ Serpico on this one, C
ap. I’ve been one hundred percent forthcoming.”

  “Oh, really? You were boffing the suspect!”

  “I didn’t know she was a suspect at the time!”

  “And how do we know you wouldn’t have considered it if you weren’t boffing her?”

  “Whoa, now.” Max again. “Let’s all calm down. Chopin, how about you take us through this one more time before we make a decision.”

  Faith pretended to be distracted by toeing a worn spot on the floor. She wanted to hear this as much as anybody.

  Roy groaned—but he talked. “It’s maybe seven-thirty in the morning. I’ve been there since two, two-fifteen. Corbett’s in the shower.”

  “Alone?” That would be Slick again, giving Roy a hard time.

  “Yeah, alone. She’s got three roommates and only one bathroom between ’em. Also, she’s got a job to get to.”

  “Not anymore, she doesn’t.” Slick, again.

  “Can the commentary,” the captain warned. “Let the man give his report.”

  “So my mobile rings. I don’t recognize the number. I answer. And it’s another freakin’ anonymous contact, this time a guy. He says he’s got a tip.”

  Faith bit her lip. So whoever knew about the clothes in her backpack was a man?

  “I don’t recognize the voice—he’s whispering. But he says, ‘You and Cassandra have a good time last night?’ I ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, and he says, ‘Check the backpack on her closet shelf.’ And he disconnects.”

  “Well, that’s a comfort. Any rookie knows that evidence stuffed in a backpack and kept on a closet shelf counts as plain view.” Captain Crawford treated sarcasm as an art form, didn’t he?

  “Except I don’t look in the closet right away. Sure, I’m curious, but I’m no idiot, and this smells like a setup. I pull on some clothes and I head out to the kitchen, where two of Corbett’s roommates—the guy and the black girl—are making breakfast. They say hi. I say hi. I figure the girl, Moonsong they call her, is the most gullible so I say, ‘This is a great place. You mind if I look around while I wait for Faith?’ And she says ‘Sure, do you want pancakes?’”

  Slick laughed. “She offered you pancakes?”

  “I say ‘yes, thank you,’ and I head back to Corbett’s closet. Part of me still thinks this is a joke, but…there it was. The girl said ‘sure,’ Captain. She’s lived there a lot longer than Corbett, and she said ‘sure.’ That’s consent.”

  “She knew you were a cop?”

  “I interviewed her after Krystal Tanner’s murder. In case she’d forgotten that, I had the badge pinned to my belt. We’re covered.”

  Faith considered all that, her expression deliberately neutral. Poor, manipulated Moonsong.

  “Good. Good work. But we’ll need more than that to make a case against Little Mary Sunshine in there. Max is right. She did call for help. She doesn’t look like a murderer, and don’t think that won’t count with a jury. And she has no record.”

  “We’re setting up a lineup for the witness,” said Bubba.

  “And don’t forget, her roommate’s the one who drew the sketch that Butch had with him when he died,” added Roy. “Whether or not it’s a picture of Krystal Tanner’s killer, it links Corbett’s roommate to Celeste Deveaux and to Madame Cassandra. That links Corbett herself. A, to B, to C.”

  So they knew that, too. The number of people Faith had involved in her masquerade were starting to stack up, weren’t they?

  Not for the first time in the five hours that had passed since her arrest, she considered what she was going to do once she got out—and she had to assume, had to hope she would get out, or she’d be lost. She’d alienated her lover, her roommates, even her mom…her surrogate mom, anyway. Even if the charges didn’t stick, she doubted she could or should keep her job for long—the air of suspicion would interfere too strongly with her work. It was almost a year since she’d dropped out of school.

  Maybe her sisters showing up yesterday hadn’t been an accident—not in the universal scheme of things. Maybe it was time to get to know Lynn and Dawn. Maybe Faith should seek out the Athena Academy and the Cassandras, to learn about her biological mother…and help find whoever had hired her killer. Maybe it was past time to confirm who and what she really was.

  Once she knew that the psychics of New Orleans were as safe as she could make them, that is.

  The argument, outside the interrogation room, was going on too long. Soon she would have to use the bathroom, and she wasn’t looking forward to the logistics of that. “It was a man,” she said, loudly. “With a stocking on his head.”

  Beyond the one-way mirror, all conversation ceased. She’d figured they had an intercom on.

  “I don’t think he came to kill Butch. I think he came to kill me.”

  The door cracked open and Captain Crawford stuck his head in. “You’re ready to talk now, Ms. Corbett?”

  She fixed him with as cool a stare as she could manage. “To Roy Chopin, I am.”

  Crawford narrowed his eyes and slammed the door shut.

  Nobody on the other side of the mirror said anything for a moment, so Faith guessed it was all being conveyed with expressions. Then, finally, Crawford said, “Fine. But not alone.”

  “I never said he had to be alone,” said Faith.

  Now, when the four detectives filed into the room, Slick and Bubba looked unnerved. They didn’t know how she’d heard that. Max looked curious, and Roy…

  Roy looked pissed.

  “So I’m here,” he said, coolly spreading his arms. At some point across the morning he’d loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, rolled his sleeves up to his elbow. Only because she could hear his pulse, his breathing, could she tell just how angry he really was. “Talk.”

  “It’s true,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I’m Madame Cassandra.”

  His gaze narrowed, almost imperceptibly. His jaw hardened similarly. But he simply folded his arms, shrugged and said, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  She guessed telling her to go to hell wouldn’t count as a good interrogation technique. The point was to keep her talking, not to shut her up.

  “Okay—the first thing you should know is that Madame Cassandra isn’t exactly a psychic. She’s a…a persona I made up when I tried being a psychic for a few days, about a year ago, back when I met Krystal and the others. I thought if I were psychic, that would explain some things….”

  Roy never looked away from her. “Why would it matter?”

  Faith shrugged. “By then, though, I’d gotten to know some of the French Quarter crowd. I liked them. They trusted me. So when they told me things they thought were important—things they’d overheard, or gotten through a reading—I started calling Butch to pass on the tips. In order to stay anonymous, I said I was Madame Cassandra, but Madame Cassandra doesn’t exist.”

  “So who was with Roy in the cemetery last Thursday?” demanded Roy.

  “I was. Faith. He saw past the costume. He knew me.”

  The words squeezed out past his teeth. “And you killed him for that?”

  Max put a hand on Roy’s arm. Roy shrugged it away, shaking his head at Faith in outraged disbelief. So much for holding back his anger.

  “Of course I didn’t! Cassandra wasn’t a secret worth killing over, and I’m no killer. I was glad he recognized me. It was a relief.

  “I didn’t lure him there either—yes, the location was my choice, but Butch is the one who insisted that we meet, so that I could look at some mug shots.” Holding Roy’s accusing gaze, Faith related everything she could remember about what had happened in the cemetery. How strangely silent the killer had been. How he’d called her Cassandra. How she’d made her way back to Butch. How he’d instructed her on the use of his weapon.

  How Butch had smiled at her, and said Roy’s name…and died.

  By the time Faith finished, even Slick and Bubba looked haunted. Even Max, who probably hadn’t known Butch very well if at all, had bowed
his head.

  Roy moved first, finally. He bent across the table, planted one hand to the right of her, one hand to the left of her, and leaned close enough that she could count the eyelashes surrounding his blazing gray eyes. His jaw had never looked so much like a dare. His voice was a hiss of menace.

  “So why’d. You. Run?”

  “Because Butch told me to.”

  He shook his head, straightened and turned away, like he couldn’t stand to look at her. Maybe he couldn’t. It was Max who gently asked, “Why do you suppose Butch would tell you something like that, sweetheart?”

  Faith frowned down at the worn table, on less solid ground here. “I’ve been wondering that myself,” she admitted, eliciting a snort from Roy. “Really. And it’s only been here at the station, surrounded by cops, that I’ve come up with a theory.”

  The detectives waited. Even Roy turned back long enough to widen his eyes in exaggerated anticipation.

  “Butch must have realized the killer was there for me, not him,” she said. “For Madame Cassandra, anyway—how would anyone know that was me? I didn’t tell anybody I was meeting Butch, but even if someone had found out through me, they would’ve known who I really was. The only way someone would have shown up at the cemetery thinking Cassandra would be there, instead of Faith, was if someone found out about the meeting through Butch.”

  She looked up to meet Roy’s gaze, a chill of horror accompanying her full realization as she said, “Chances are, anyone he told about the meeting was a cop.

  “Butch was protecting me and my identity as Cassandra from one of you.”

  Chapter 17

  Roy exploded. “So now you’re saying I killed Butch? Right down to the dying declaration. Great story, hon, just like all your lies.”

  He cut himself off, shaking his head, raising his hands as if to keep from doing something with them that he’d regret.

  “Of course I’m not saying that! I called you right afterward, didn’t I? I slept with you! You think I would have done that with someone I thought was a killer?”

  “Yeah? Well, that makes two of us.”

  “Butch probably wouldn’t have told you about meeting Cassandra because he knew you were such a cynic about her. He might have told someone else, though, someone more open to the idea. That’s why he wanted me to leave before the police arrived. He thought he’d tipped off the serial killer, and he didn’t want him—whoever he was—connecting Cassandra to me.”