Leopard's Prey

by Christine Feehan

  Mahieu gave her his cocky grin. "Not a chance, Bijou. Remy doesn't want you goin' anywhere without an escort right now. He's gotten all paranoid between the murders, you getttin' harassed last night at the club and Robert actin' like an idiot. You're goin' to have to be a little patient with Remy until he figures things out. He's got a protective streak a mile wide when it comes to you."

  "I'd love to feel very special, Mahieu, but the truth is, Remy feels protective over everyone. That's why he's a cop."

  She went inside and stepped back to allow him to lead the way. The truth was, everyone was going to stare at her, and she didn't mind Mahieu running interference. He was a big man, much like his brother, all muscle with that smooth, fluid way of walking. He exuded confidence, just like all the Boudreaux brothers and Saria. She wanted to be like that and was determined that she would be, given a few months. For too long she'd tried to be someone she wasn't and in the end she just couldn't sustain it.

  Following Mahieu through the bull pen, she rounded a corner to find the homicide division. Remy's office was in the corner, with several desks out on the floor. Mahieu waved her to a chair, but there were several policemen looking at her, staring, some sporting grins. She didn't feel like sitting there on display for them all. Mahieu went over to talk with someone he knew, and she wandered around the room, trying to get a feel for Remy's work.

  Set up in the middle of the largest wall was a huge whiteboard with pictures of Pete Morgan and the altar. Alongside that were pictures of Ryan Cooper and the altar. The pictures were in horrible, gruesome detail, and although it was one of those situations where one could almost not stop looking at the train wreck, she managed to shift her gaze.

  In a line down either side of the grisly murder pictures were photographs of men. Her manager, Rob Butterfield, and his friend Jason Durang were among them. Bob Carson was up on the wall as well. She recognized a few other faces from the men who had been in her club and had harassed her. She couldn't imagine why any of them had been singled out and would be considered suspects.

  Above the pictures, a map caught her eye. It was of both the United States and Europe. There were red pins in various cities. She moved closer and studied the map. It took a moment or two for the significance to sink in. She stood there, staring, biting her lip, suddenly very much afraid.

  "Come away from there," Remy said.

  She whirled around to face him, one hand going defensively to her throat. She felt the color drain out of her face. "What is this, Remy?"

  "Don' be lookin' at that, Blue," he cautioned. "Come into my office. You shouldn't see that. There's no reason." He took her hand and tugged.

  "No, I need to know. What is this?"

  He sighed, his fingers stroking the back of her hand in a caress. "It's a murder board. It helps me keep all the facts straight. Putting everything up, I can work the pieces like a puzzle until eventually it all comes together."

  "You have Rob Butterfield up there. You even have Bob."

  "I'm not calling them suspects, but they are persons of interest. All of them were here four years ago when the first series of murders happened here in New Orleans. All of these men were. I have to rule people out and so far, I haven't quite gotten there with them, but I'm certain I will. Among others, I'm talkin' with them now. Of course not together. I like to keep my persons of interest separated so they can't come up with the same story."

  "Why would they even be suspects?" She wasn't buying his "persons of interest" story for a moment.

  "They were in the wrong place at the wrong time with no real alibi." He gave a careful, casual shrug. "Come away from here now."

  Bijou resisted the tug on her hand. "Why are all those cities flagged with red pins?"

  Remy went very still, her actions suddenly really catching his attention. "Do you really want to know?"

  "I wouldn't ask if I didn't," she replied. Her heart pounded hard. Her mouth went dry. She felt the rise of her leopard coming close to the surface as if offering to take her place.

  "These are his kills over the last four years. The first that we found with the same pattern was in New York City."

  Bijou closed her eyes briefly. "And the days, months and year written above each pin are when he killed?"

  Remy nodded grimly. "Four kills in each city. Even in Europe, but we know of only three sites there."

  She had to tell him. She felt sick to her stomach. "I need to sit down, Remy. Maybe a glass of water?"

  Remy regarded her carefully, his piercing eyes sharp with intelligence. She knew she'd gone pale and that her skin had suddenly become clammy. There was no way to hide it from him since he was holding her hand. His thumb slid innocently over her pulse. He was well aware something was radically wrong. She wasn't a wilting flower. Her distress had nothing to do with the detailed pictures of the two men she knew who had been brutally murdered.

  He didn't question her further, simply led her into his office, put her into a chair and went to get her a glass of water. She leaned her head into her hand. Nothing made sense anymore.

  Remy returned and carefully closed the door. "Drink this, chere, and then tell me what's wrong."

  Bijou took a long, cool sip, hoping it would help. Her mind raced with possibilities. "Remy, those cities on your murder map, I played shows in every single one of them. Includin' the places in Europe."

  He went very still, his hip on the desk, his eyes locked on hers. She couldn't have looked away if she wanted to.

  "The same days, the same months. Every time I was in a city playin' a concert, the killer was there too. That can't be a coincidence."

  She twisted her fingers together to keep her hands from trembling. "And the first set of murders, I was here in New Orleans for Bodrie's funeral." She looked up at him. "What do you think that means?"

  "It means your manager, his mysterious friend and your stalker just moved to the head of the list." Remy toed a chair around and straddled it, sitting close, facing her so he could watch her every expression. "Were you at any time aware of the murders before Pete was killed?"

  "After I left town, which I did fast after Bodrie's funeral, I read about a serial killer in the Garden District. It was in the news on the television as well. But I didn't know about any of the other killings. When I'm on tour, it's exhaustin'. I spend most of my time goin' from city to city, so when I have the chance, I spend my time relaxin'."

  Bijou looked down at her hands, her fingers twisted together. She hated confessing to him, making herself look like a loser. Those years had taken their toll on her. She didn't believe in herself, or people anymore. She'd lost who she was. "I don' trust easily, Remy. I saw the people who surrounded Bodrie. They weren't his friends. They were usin' him."

  Remy leaned toward her, reaching out to cover her hands with one of his. "Chere, they weren't real. You know the difference."

  "I spent most of the time alone in hotel rooms, readin' books. I love to read. I guess that's my form of escape. Not drugs or alcohol, but books. I disappear into them, and durin' that time of my life, I needed them. I wasn't watchin' television or readin' magazines because I was afraid I'd see or hear something about me. I know that sounds vain, but I just don' have the personality to be in the spotlight. I realized I'd chosen the wrong profession, but I didn't know how to get off the merry-go-round."

  "Being a public figure doesn't necessarily mean you have to give up your privacy."

  "That's naive, Remy, and I think you know it. Anyone chosin' to be in the public eye is free game. Being Bodrie's daughter I was already there from the time I was born. Like an idiot, tryin' to prove something to myself and to others . . ."

  "What, Bijou? What did you ever need to prove to anyone, let alone yourself?" Remy asked, his thumb sliding gently back and forth across the backs of her hands.

  She ducked her head. "That I was good enough. Everyone wanted me to be him and when I first started singin', people were saying things like, 'What does she think she's doin'. She has
no talent.' They always compared me to him, and of course I came off second best."

  "Are you crazy? You're a total success in your own right. Half the planet is in love with you and your voice."

  She shrugged. "It didn't start out that way, but by the time I'd made a name for myself I realized that wasn't my world--that I didn't even want it. Can you imagine how that made me feel? I was a success and people loved my music. I felt like the ungrateful brat the tabloids and all of Bodrie's fans thought me. Here I had everything I'd wanted and dreamt of and I still wasn't happy." She looked him in the eye, wanting him to understand. "I was so miserable I could barely drag myself out of my room, but I performed nearly every night. I found myself exhausted and so unhappy I couldn't look at myself in the mirror."

  She took a deep breath. "I guess I'm just tryin' to explain to you why I wasn't up on the news. I hid from everyone while I was on tour and then when I made the decision to quit, I hid from my manager because he was so angry with me. I needed time to figure out what I really wanted to do."

  Quite frankly she was ashamed of having to tell him she didn't have her life together, not even when she was young. She wanted him to see only her good side, not all the floundering and angst she'd gone through before she realized what she needed--and wanted in her life. For all the crazy things going on around her now, she knew she was right to have come home. She loved her club. She loved the intimacy of it and the fact that she could control when she performed and how often. She was certain she would fit into the community given time, and the paparazzi would lose interest and eventually leave her alone.

  She didn't want him to think she was a loser sitting in her hotel room, feeling sorry for herself and not even watching the news when other people were suffering, being murdered and he was trying hard to put a stop to it.

  "I'm glad you've come home. Butterfield's upset because he's losing his money ticket."

  "He says I'm letting my fans down," she said. "And I suppose he's right."

  "If they're fans, Blue, they'll love what you love. Just because you aren't singin' rock and roll like your father, that doesn't take away your voice."

  She smiled at him. She couldn't help it. He talked in that velvety smooth tone and looked at her with those piercing, amazing eyes of his and her stomach did flip-flops. Her heart beat far too fast and her mouth went dry. He just had so much charisma, a magnetic pull she couldn't seem to ever resist. She knew better than to fall for his charm--he'd made it very clear his attraction had little to do with her--but still, she found it hard not to react to him.

  "Thanks, Remy. I hope you're right, but if not, I know the club is what I want."

  "Good girl. I think the club suits you, but more than that, you need to do what makes you happy."

  "I didn't have anything at all to do with those murders, Remy," she said, making certain to look him in the eye. She was in the same city where every one of the murders occurred.

  "I know that. I can't imagine you hoisting a grown man up a tree, let alone carvin' him up. I didn't think for one moment you had anything to do with the murders, Bijou," Remy said. "But it's very possible you know the killer."

  She wanted to protest, but her gaze strayed through the glass toward the map on the murder board. There was no denying the fact that where every single murder took place, she had been present. "I do have a few extremely devoted fans," she admitted. "They follow me from one concert to the next. Some even followed me out of the country on my world tour. There's a special group that run a fan club and the members are the first ones to be able to buy tickets and backstage passes."

  "Can we get a list of their names? Do you know them all by sight?"

  "I'd recognize the ones who come backstage on a regular basis, but if they don', and not all of them do, there's no way I'd be able to recognize them. In any case, Remy, I can't remember who was at what concert."

  Remy tightened his hands around Bijou's. She was extremely distressed, but holding herself together. He could feel the tension in her. Her hands trembled beneath his. The idea of knowing a serial killer, that he might be traveling to her concerts and killing at every event, sickened her.

  "Could I have done somethin' to make this happen? A song? Ignorin' someone? There're so many people and I really try hard to autograph for as many as possible and talk a little with anyone I meet, but I'm exhausted after every concert and maybe I didn't take the time I should have." Bijou delivered the confession in a little rush.

  Remy shook his head. "I don' know what the trigger was for this man to begin killin', Blue, or even if he has anythin' to do with goin' to your concerts, but it has nothin' to do with you. I've run into killers before, many times, but no one has ever been this cold. Believe me, chere, this man was born a psychopath."

  Bijou shivered. "Why would he be followin' me around?"

  "If you were a target, he'd have killed you already," Remy stated bluntly. "He doesn't seem to have any trouble gettin' to his victims. But you've really helped me by givin' me this information, Blue. I'll be able to ask the right questions now."

  He sat back in his chair and regarded her steadily. "Does your manager have an insurance policy on you?"

  "Yes. He took one out ages ago, when I first signed with him."

  "Were you aware he served time in prison and that's where he met Jason Durang?"

  "I knew about Rob, of course, he disclosed that he'd gotten in trouble with the IRS and had served time. He hadn't paid the employees' taxes, but he knew Bodrie and he had a good reputation in the industry."

  "He's a gambler."

  She nodded. "But he doesn't gamble. He goes to regular meetings."

  "Is that what he tells you?"

  She swallowed hard. "Remy, if you have somethin' to tell me, just get to it."

  He shook his head. He had no proof. He couldn't see her prissy manager as a cold-blooded killer. He'd thrown up when Remy had shown him the crime scene photographs, but Jason Durang was an altogether different proposition. He hadn't looked away or even showed any reaction whatsoever. Neither had the Rousseau brothers. Regardless, he believed Rob Butterfield and Jason Durang presented a danger to her.

  "What about Durang?"

  "I've seen him with Butterfield a few times, but I've never talked to him. He always avoided me. I don' know what he does."

  "I'll drive you back home. I got a call from Drake and he wants me to meet him at the Inn to talk to Robert and Dion."

  "You don' have to do that. I should check on the apartment and see how that's comin'. I was hopin' I could move in soon."

  She sounded innocent. Her gaze didn't waver and there wasn't a single hint of being coy. He was tempted to reach out and shake some sense into her. Whatever sin he'd committed she hadn't forgiven him. She'd come to his office to get out of the Inn and away from Robert and his brother. She'd been glad to see him, she hadn't even attempted to hide that fact from him, but she wasn't planning a wedding anytime soon.

  He didn't know whether to be hurt or angry, or just plain both. "You know you're probably pregnant with my child," he said bluntly. "Birth control doesn't work so well on leopards." He sounded smug even to his own ears.

  Her lashes fluttered, veiling her expression. Her lips made a little moue. He saw the "tell" in her fingers rather than her face. Her hands curled into fists, but she immediately straightened them and clasped them primly together in her lap.

  "Well, we'll have to see, won't we, Remy? The idea was very scary when you first mentioned it, but I've had time to think about it and I have no doubts I'll be able to handle havin' a child."

  She sounded downright haughty, as if he wasn't in the picture at all. He leaned toward her, his eyes locking with hers. "We'll be able to handle it, Blue. There's no more 'I' here. If you think you're walkin' out on me, you can just think again. In fact, set a damn weddin' date and let's just get it over with. Talk to your idiot lawyers, I'll sign whatever prenup they want signed, but we're gettin' it done soon. And when I say soon, I mea
n no more than a couple of weeks."

  She scowled at him, her eyebrows emphasizing her complete disgust. Both hands went to her hips. She stalked to the door, yanked it open and turned back. "Remy Boudreaux, you don' have a single romantic bone in your body and I'm ignorin' everything you just said and might say from now on. In fact, it would be better if you just didn't speak."

  The entire bull pen turned around, including Mahieu. His brother was the only one who dared to grin.

  "Blue . . ." Remy started.

  She cut him off. "Don't say another word to me right now." She actually held up her hand to stop him. "For your information, lookin' hot and relyin' on your charm only carries you so far. Bein' good-lookin' doesn't give you a free pass to be a . . . a . . ."

  "Jackass," Mahieu supplied helpfully.

  Bijou nodded her head. "Thank you, Mahieu. That fits perfectly."

  Several of the detectives coughed hard, turning their backs on their boss. Mahieu bowed. Bijou marched toward his brother, turning her back completely to him. She had a really nice sway to her hips that caught his eye.

  "Mahieu would you mind givin' me a lift back to the Inn?"

  That was enough. "If you value your life and don' want me spendin' the rest of mine behind bars, Mahieu, you'll politely decline," Remy warned. He'd already grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it, as he trailed behind Bijou.

  Mahieu held up both hands in surrender. "When he's like this, it's best to just give him whatever he wants, Bijou."

  She gave a little delicate sniff, but didn't turn around and didn't protest. Deliberately, Remy put his hand possessively on her back, down low, close to the curve of her buttocks. She glanced at him over her shoulder, but she kept walking. He heard the wave of laughter rippling behind him as they walked out.

  "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" he demanded, moving up beside her, sliding her beneath his shoulder, one arm wrapping around her waist.

  "A little bit, yes," she admitted, a hint of laughter in her voice. "But you deserved it." The amusement faded from her voice. "Never talk to me like that again. I don' like to be ordered around. Even if I'm pregnant, doesn't mean I want to run off and marry a man who just likes havin' me around for great sex."

  "At least you admit it is great sex," he muttered.