Boulet turned his focus back to the group. “Listen carefully. You must follow my instructions to the letter. Ladies, do not enter his van under any circumstances. Prostitutes are his favorite targets, the easiest for him to lure. He takes them to a quiet spot, snaps a chunk out of the jugular with a hand-held device after he bleeds them out. Profilers are saying his twisted mind has conjured up a religious purpose. And gentlemen, make no mistake. He has and he will kill a man if caught in the act of bleeding his victim. He is fast, and he is strong—very strong.”
Sully hunched forward. “Can’t beat a bullet.”
“True.” Boulet quirked his lips. “And good luck if you get that chance. He will count on you to underestimate him.”
Hank sat up straight, rubbed at his square jaw. “If he tries to do an end run, we shoot. Corner him, we haul his ass outta the van and cuff him.”
“No.” Boulet’s face turned hard, his sharp cheekbones paled. “This is gonna sound a little unorthodox, but it’s a direct order from my boss, Director Witherson. Wedge this perp. Surround him. Then it’s vital that I try to take this man alone.”
The room fell silent. Rita held her breath.
Sully slid forward on the chair, a gray lock of hair falling onto his forehead. “Alone? That’s crazy. What kind of nut job would give an order like that? Makes no effin’ sense.”
“No fuckin’ way.” Hank slapped the table and jumped to his feet. “This jerk-weed is going down anyway we can get him. We’ve already got three dead that we know of.”
Rita looked to the back of the room at the Chief who sat stone-faced. He cast her a wary glance and hitched his shoulders in his “nothing I can do” shrug.
“Let me repeat. These orders come from higher-up,” Boulet said.
“Want to share the why of those bullshit orders?” Della asked.
“I argued with the director, but he’s keeping y’all on a ‘need to know’ basis, and my orders are that you folks don’t need to know—yet.” Boulet sighed again. “Look. I know this all sounds bizarre, but I’m saying you have no choice but to ride with this.”
Hank sat heavily and shot Sully a look.
Della toyed with a pencil. “And what the hell are we decoys supposed to do when we spot him?”
“Again, let me repeat: Do not get into his van. You’ll be wired so only your partner can hear you. And he will be keeping a very close watch on you. When you spot our man, they’ll give me a heads-up. Stall. Keep him talking until I get there, then join your partner and stay back.”
“And what are we supposed to do while you take him,” Sully shouted, “a fuckin’ crossword puzzle?”
Hank kicked out his black-sneakered foot and shoved the chair in front of him. “I still say we take him down when we get the chance.”
Chief Lipinski rose to his feet. “Back off, people! I have my orders, too. We follow Boulet’s plan. Hank, you and Sully hand out these sketches to as many girls you see walking the streets before Della and Rita start their rounds.”
Della nudged Rita. “Guess we get our ‘Sluts R Us’ duds out of mothballs.”
Rita nodded. She would follow orders, but too many unanswered questions floated in her mind. She raised her voice. “Since he’s such a big, strong, badass, who lived to provide the sketch?”
“Me.”
The way Boulet uttered that one word made her teeth click together.
Boulet tugged down the ribbed collar of his sweater. A red scar marred the cords in his thick neck. “My partner and I were doubling him. We were too late to save the woman. He nicked me first. While I was trying to stop bleeding, he took out my partner.” He studied the floor, then his eyes hardened as he made eye contact with everyone in the room. “But now I know this bastard, and I’ll be ready for him.”
“Sounds more like a personal vendetta,” Rita said.
“Yeah, that too.” His lips pulled back with an ironic chuckle. “More than you can imagine.”
The chief dismissed them, setting the start time for nine that evening.
Rita remained seated, staring at the sketch and finishing her coffee as the others left the room. She guessed the man’s age as late forties. He had a prominent widow’s peak and the defining bump on his nose. The eyes narrowed below bushy brows. Whoever drew this had made the perp look like he was laughing at them. Why had the crystal failed her?
Her thoughts turned to Agent Boulet. His strange orders and how the empathic contact had shaken her. Sure, she had felt some slight psychic nudges occasionally, but never a sharp, strong connection as she had from him. What did it mean? She didn’t deny her attraction to him. Maybe the amulet was shoving her into sensory overload. Yeah, sure it was.
A touch on her shoulder pulled her back to the present.
“So, Gypsy Girl, I hear you have skirt-work tonight. Just saw the sketch passed ‘round in the bullpen.”
Rita hadn’t heard Bobby enter the meeting room. She glanced up. “Aren’t you off duty?”
“Came back to volunteer for tonight. Wanted the update. Can’t do without ol’ Driscoll riding herd on the streets. Don’t worry, Gus and me will take special care of you.”
“Do what you always do, Bobby. Watch the skirts, play a little grab-ass.”
“Gypsy, I really want to set things….”
“Am I interrupting?” Boulet stood behind Bobby.
Bobby swung around, lifted his chin to look at the agent and glanced back at Rita. “I’ll catch you later.”
Rita grinned and gazed up into heavy-lidded blue eyes. “Not interrupting at all, Agent Boulet. What can I do for you?”
He bent over the table and lowered his voice. “Detective, I need to have a word, if you don’t mind. It’s important.” Boulet put his lips closer to her ear. “This place is busy. Can we go somewhere else for coffee?”
She couldn’t help but be intrigued, plus she hadn’t felt this pleasant pit-of-the-stomach surge for a long time. “There’s a Starbucks across the street. Follow me.”
“Anytime, anywhere.” He grabbed his leather jacket from the coat rack when they passed through the outer office.
That quirky smile, and his soft-spoken words, sent her pulse racing fast enough to get a speeding ticket.
Chapter Three
“Spill, Agent Boulet. What’s this about?”
They had found a table tucked into a corner of the shop and sat with their fingers wrapped around hot mugs of coffee. From the overhead speaker, Johnny Cash bemoaned falling into a “Ring of Fire.” Was the song an omen, or was she just being paranoid?
Boulet lifted the cup, blew into the coffee, and took a sip. “Call me Matt. We’re going to be working closely for the next few days.”
He wasn’t wearing a wedding band, and she berated herself for the smile threatening to form on her lips and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay, uh, Matt. Why the private talk?
“I need to be blunt, Rita.” He pulled his chair nearer and rested his arms on the table. “Earlier today, I pulled the teams’ jackets. I like to know about the people I’m working with. I noticed your Roma heritage. That led me to do more digging into your background.” The corners of his lips twitched. “And, like any good agent, I googled.”
Rita gripped the edges of the small table. “You mean you dug into my private life? You have a hell of a lot of nerve.”
“Hold it.” He put his arms up in surrender and gave her that smile. “Don’t get your hackles up. Most of it’s pretty much public knowledge anyway.” He leaned in and placed a hand on hers. The pad of his thumb brushed her knuckles.
She damned the delicious tremors inching up her arm and pulled away.
“Sorry, wasn’t thinking.” He pushed back and laid his palms flat on the tabletop. “Please, don’t give me that ‘I want to gouge your eyes out’ look. The thing is, we don’t have a hell of lot of time here, and I felt I had to delve into anything that might help me.” He moved forward, closer to her. “I learned your mother used to make
a living by reading palms and crystal ball gazing. Seems she helped some people, her predictions proved true more times than not.”
”So? My ancestors are Romanian. My mother still reads palms and tea leaves. It’s legal, and she doesn’t harm anyone. What’s the big deal?” Rita glared at him. “You’re an educated man. Don’t tell me that you believe in gypsy curses and crystal balls?”
He studied her for a moment, then grinned. “Hey, I’m from New Orleans—Marie Laveau’s long gone, but her followers do some shit that would make your skin jitter and keep you awake for days. So, yeah, I think your mother might be able to help me. At least it’s worth a try. Will you ask her?”
Rita realized her mouth was open and snapped it shut. Usually people made snide cracks about her mother’s fortune telling, especially law officers. Where was this guy coming from? No way did she intend to tell him the reason her mother hadn’t used the crystal ball in years. She looked into her coffee cup. “No. I’m not going to ask my mother. This case sounds downright weird. What’s really going on?”
His jaw tightened. “I can’t tell you. Not yet.”
“Hey, Mister Special Agent Man, are you forgetting that Della and I will be the ones strutting our asses on the street.” She smacked the table, and the coffee sloshed in her cup. “We damn well deserve to know what we’re up against. What makes this killer so extra-special that only a big brave Fed can go after him?”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you this much, and it stays between us.”
“Okay.” She wriggled her chair back and arched her brows, waiting.
“They didn’t nickname our unit ‘Peculiar’ for nothing. We go after some strange badasses.”
Rita leaned back and forced a laugh. “Who knew the Feds had a sense of humor.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Whooo. ‘The Men in Black.’ Let me guess. The killer is an alien, right?”
“No.” Matt set the empty cup down with a thump. He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “But, I’m this close to catching this damn maniac, and I need every advantage I can get. I think your mother has a gift.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Damn it, I think she can guide me, give me some direction. I could use the edge.” He lowered his voice. “By any chance, are her gifts hereditary?”
Her fingers tightened around the cup. She avoided his eyes. The crystal warmed sending the weird sensation through her again, and his determination hit her like rolling waves, almost drowning her.
“It was written all over your face.” Matt tipped her chin up with a forefinger. “There was some sort of a connection between us at the meeting. You could see…feel some of what happened to me.”
Rita couldn’t toss it off, pretend nothing had happened. “Ah. That was a first for me. More than anything, I sensed your pain.” She wouldn’t tell him about the crystal, and didn’t intend to tell him it was happening again. It wasn’t his “need to know.” She squirmed in her chair and glanced around the shop, keeping her features expressionless. “You’re from New Orleans, huh? I understand the rebuilding is still going slow from Katrina all those years ago. Must have been rough.”
“It was rough for everyone.” Matt gave her a puzzled look, raked his fingers through his hair, stared into the space over her head. “My dad died in that flood. And my mom’s still suffering from depression.” He clenched his fist, his knuckles whitened. “One evening, last May, my twenty-year-old niece Carlie was walking home from work at the Thrifty Shop. This fuckin’ bastard grabbed her off the street. They found her body the next day. Same M.O.”
The empathic connection slammed her, so sharp she cringed at the depth of his grief, his raw anger. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t imagine having to cope with all he had been through. Rita fought to get her jumbled emotions back in check. “You have a personal stake in this case. Why are they letting you stay on it?”
“For the same reasons I can’t divulge. You don’t realize what kind of danger is stalking the streets of Keyport right now.”
“You’re not talking to a rookie here.”
Matt frowned and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. If your mother is willing to try to help me find an edge, I’ll tell you what I can.”
“That sounds like you’ll just skirt the truth. No way.” The disappointment on his face made her stomach sink. “Besides, my mother packed her crystal ball away years ago. She’s out of the crystal gazing business.”
Two young women at a nearby table were covertly eyeing Matt. To break the tension, she tilted her head in their direction. “You have admirers.”
He shrugged, didn’t bother to look. “I like the view in front of me.”
Rita raised her eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a detective. Figure it out.”
Sipping more of her lukewarm coffee, her hands trembled. Johnny Cash now “Walked the Line.” She felt as if she was walking it with him.
Matt suddenly clasped her hand and looked into her eyes. “Listen, would it hurt to at least ask….”
An electrical current buzzed up her arm. The crystal heated between her breasts. Air trapped in her lungs. The dishes clattering, the whirring blender, and the babble of voices became a mixed cacophony of sounds that faded into the distance. Her peripheral vision turned pink and fuzzed. Her thoughts tripped into a no-fly zone.
A customer bumped into Matt’s shoulder, the moment shattered, and he quickly pulled his hand away. He inhaled a deep lungful of air and exhaled slowly. An impish grin split his lips, then vanished so fast she wondered if she had really seen it. He threw her a pleading look.
She wanted to reach over and stroke his cheek to comfort him, wipe the wistfulness from his face. At the same time, she wanted to slap the truth out of him. Uncover the big secret about this killer. And, good God, she definitely wanted to jump him.
Whoa! She had to get away from him before she said, or did, something idiotic. “Thanks for the coffee and the not so revealing tête-à-tête.” She pushed to her feet and leaned over the table. “I’ll see you later. Look for the blonde hooker in the red mini-skirt and mile-high heels.” She left the table and hurried out the door.
Chapter Four
Rita parked her Rover in the Old Century Square Mall parking lot. She strolled to the edge of the lot, leaned on the guardrail, and gazed at the wide Monongahela River far below. The trees that sloped down the valley glowed, their fall colors bathing in the last rays of the fading sunlight.
This spot, this view, never failed to give her a sense of stability when her world wobbled out of its orbit, like today. The ritual killings. The strange orders—Matt. She didn’t know what to make of their connection, this magnetic attraction. It had been a long time since she felt the urge to get naked between the sheets. She had begun to think she was more suited for a nunnery. Now, all of a sudden, her hormones had shifted into overdrive after one meeting with a secretive agent. Okay, so a gorgeous hunk of a secretive agent.
The autumn breeze carried a sweet, clean scent. She inhaled deeply and tried to relax her tense muscles. What she intended to ask Anna today would raise hell. But, damn it, this case, the crystal not working, the nagging sense of foreboding she couldn’t shake, well…she had to give it a try. Matt was right. They needed an edge.
Rita walked through one of the arched passageway connecting the lot with the open-air plaza. The Gypsy Tearoom that her mother and uncle had opened when she started college was one of the forty themed tourist attractions set around the cobblestone square. It snuggled between “Ye Olde Antique Attic” and “The Reader’s Quarry.”
Park benches lined the front of the shops. Fountains graced each corner. Hanging baskets of fall blooms added to the charm. Potted trees adorned with twinkle lights formed an idyllic ambience for shoppers. Wide-eyed tourists milled about, snapping their cameras and cell phones to capture the quaintness.
Rita pushed open the wooden door of the Gypsy Tea
Room. She glanced into the large room on her left. Customers clustered around most of the tables. Some sat in the booths that lined the front of the draped windows. Each table held a thin, fluted vase centerpiece filled with colored, cut glass, a Romany tradition to impart good luck. Women servers were dressed in long, flared skirts, the bangles sliding up and down on their wrists. The men wore loose-belted, colorful shirts.
Anna sat near a maroon-clothed table, her face fixed in deep concentration, and reading the palm of a young, overweight woman. Dark, wavy hair hung to the middle of Anna’s back, giving her the stereotypical mystique of a gypsy seer. The way the woman was ooh-aahing meant her mother must have been telling her a bunch of “your fondest hopes will soon come true.” Rita grinned. Ma shied away from foretelling any seen frightening truths to customers. She worked the “partials,” as she called them.
Ahead of her, Uncle Dragus waved from behind the counter. A gold loop swung from his left ear and glittered in the ambient lighting. He had knotted the bandana on his head below his right ear. Gray hair met the collar of his baggy shirt. He had a red sash tied around his thickening middle. His broad fingers began arranging a tray of fresh-baked brownies on the lower glass shelf as she headed toward the counter.
Uncle bobbed his head up above the shelves. “About time you visit. Be too long.”
Rita always thought of Uncle’s broken English as cute. He had come to America years after her mother and hadn’t bothered to grasp all the nuances.
“Busy.” Rita plopped on a stool at the counter next to the breads and pastries that her uncle delighted in baking. The heavy, chocolate aroma made her mouth water and reminded her that she had missed lunch. One of Uncle’s brownies, loaded with black walnuts, were a chocoholic’s fix for a week.
Finished with the stacking, he yelled to the back kitchen. “Millie. Make chicken salad. Sweet rye bread, for my niece to eat.”
Gypsey Blood Page 2
