Say You Love Me Page 9

  His stomach rolled. Even if they found the woman tonight, she might not be alive. And what about Britta? Would she be safe in her apartment alone?

  There had to be a personal reason for the killer to phone her. Had he known her in the past or simply fixated on her now?

  * * *

  THAT SICKENING phone call echoed in Britta’s mind, along with her conversation with Jean-Paul Dubois. The things she’d told him.

  The things she hadn’t.

  That the killer had been looking for her for a while. Which meant he’d known her before….

  Would another young girl die tonight because she refused to share her secrets?

  Because she had to stand alone?

  She opened the nightstand and removed the photo album, then flipped to the first page, to the one photo she had of her and her mother. The rest of the pages were empty. No family mementos. No Christmas-tree shots. No happy Easter Sundays. No hugs hello or tearful goodbyes. No promises of a future.

  A dull ache settled in her chest—the longing for all that she’d missed. All that she’d never known. All that Jean-Paul Dubois had with his family.

  She wiped at a tear, then removed the familiar white-satin box and gently lifted the lid. The simple white pearl combs winked back beneath the moonlight. They had been a special gift from her mother when she had turned thirteen.

  Britta had been shocked. Normally, her mother had preferred flashy, colorful costume jewelry. The cheap stuff that made her look even cheaper.

  Her mother had saved for a long time to buy her the pearl combs. She wanted Britta to be beautiful. To be classy and sophisticated and to grow up with a nice life, not like hers.

  But then her mother had betrayed her. She’d taken Britta to that cult and offered her up as if she was a piece of property.

  What had caused her mother to change so radically? To give up her dreams and plans to escape? Drugs?

  Britta’s hands shook as the memories bombarded her. A lifetime ago.

  The voice of Adrianna Small.

  Crawling under the bed, folding her tiny body to make herself disappear. Hiding from the monsters.

  Then years later…

  The oils and ceremonies, the bathing rituals, the chants and prayers to ward off the devil. The young women sharing their beds with so many. The cries in the night from the ones who didn’t want to be taken.

  Then the sacrifices.

  Shrill voices reverberated in the darkness. A girl screaming. Her own voice. Others.

  Then the man’s husky low voice in her ear. You’re a bad girl, Britta. You know where you belong. You must give your life to be saved from your sins.

  But she had refused to die.

  So she’d run.

  Found herself on the streets. The bayou. She was drawn to the evil and the darkness.

  But on every corner, in every stripper or homeless face, she saw herself. And she continued to search for her mother. Sometimes Britta sensed she was dead. The uncertainty would nearly make her double over. Other times, she felt her mother was still out there. Maybe hurting. Maybe alone. Maybe needing her….

  The familiar well of guilt weighed on her shoulders. She had to somehow make it all right, pay her own penance.

  The need to be outside rippled through her veins. She had to smell the night air. The draw was strong.

  It was also dangerous.

  But she had lived too long on the edge to be frightened of those who wandered the town.

  She slipped from her bed and dressed in a short skirt and flashy top—her other persona. Stiletto heels came next, then she dabbed mousse into her hair and fluffed the layers. A touch of blush and lipstick and she was ready. After all, she had to fit in. Mingle. Become one of them. In a place where she was comfortable. At home.

  Not like the awkwardness of being with the Dubois family.

  Shaking off any lingering thoughts of them, she grabbed her keys and headed downstairs into the sultry night. Booze and raunchy sex scented the air. Footsteps, laughter and the drums of the ancient witch doctors echoed around her. The stench of the marshy swampland teased her memory. The blood, the vermin, the swamp devil. The gators were the gods in the bayou. And all of Black Bayou should respect them.

  Jean-Paul Dubois would never approve of her venturing into the night. He was so transparent. A cop all the way. Judgmental. He looked down at the lost ones on the streets, hovering around trash cans and alleys scrounging for food.

  But what did she care about his opinion?

  It was too late for her. She couldn’t outrun the devil inside her or be a part of the all-American family.

  And no one could change her.

  * * *

  NEARLY TWO in the morning. A woman lost. A life in jeopardy.

  And Jean-Paul had no idea how to save her.

  He and Carson had canvassed Bourbon Street asking questions, searching the bars, trying to get a jump on who might be missing.

  So far, they’d had no luck.

  His mind raced to Britta as they passed her apartment again. Why was she getting to him? Why did he want to go upstairs and hold her? Make sure she was safe? Comfort her?

  Feel her beneath him?

  Dammit. He had no right thinking anything sexual about her. Especially when she was involved in an investigation.

  But logic had nothing to do with the insane desire that strummed through him when he was near her. Her eyes mesmerized him and made him senseless.

  If it was any other time and he’d met her, he’d go ahead and let the heat between them sizzle. After all, he’d sworn off marriage, but he’d never promised to be celibate. And having sex with the woman would probably be explosive. He could do it without becoming involved.

  Bright lights nearly blinded them from an oncoming car as they passed a graveyard, and Carson cursed. Shadows of the dead rose like mystic creatures in the murky night, bolted him back to reality. Elvira Erickson was among them, waiting for justice.

  “Are you all right, Dubois?” Carson asked. “You seemed a little unglued around that Berger chick earlier.”

  Jean-Paul massaged his temple. “I’m fine. Just thinking about the case.”

  Carson dragged a Marlboro pack from his pocket, thumped a cigarette onto his thigh and lit it. “I thought for a minute you were digging her or something. She sure as hell looked as if she could eat you up.”

  Jean-Paul shot him a cold look. “She’s part of the investigation,” he snapped. “And I’m not interested in her or any woman.”

  “Hey man, I wasn’t criticizing,” Carson said with a wry smile. “It’s been almost two years since your wife died. You probably need a good lay.”

  Was that all he wanted from Britta?

  No, he wanted to know more about her, too. Dammit. “Drop it, Carson. The subject is closed.”

  Carson rolled down the window, the hot, thick air invading the car along with the heady smoke of the cigarette. “Hell. I’m just saying, the chick wants you. Use it to your advantage.”

  He gritted his teeth. Carson might be right. But he didn’t make it a practice to seduce women for information.

  And even if Britta was attracted to him, she wasn’t jumping into his bed—she was running from something.

  What was she so afraid of?

  “Maybe we can pick up Swain tomorrow,” Carson said. “Tonight, I’ll check for any cases with similar MOs across the states.”

  Jean-Paul nodded. “I’ll see what I can dig up on Britta’s past.”

  Carson raised an eyebrow, but refrained from comment as he wheeled into the precinct. Jean-Paul jumped out, climbed in his SUV and drove toward his own house, scrubbing a hand over his bleary eyes. He probably wouldn’t get a wink’s sleep, but he didn’t know what else to do right now. He felt so damn helpless.

  The lieutenant had taken it upon himself to phone the Ericksons and they were flying in from Houston in the morning to identify their daughter’s remains. He’d phoned Damon for a seven o’clock briefing to d
iscuss the case. A task force was being put in place already. And later, Britta and he were supposed to review those confession letters.

  The house he’d renovated—rather was renovating—stood like a monument to the old N’Awlins as he approached it. The basic structure had withstood the elements, but the paint had faded, shingles had been blown off and glass windows shattered during the hurricane. Over the past year, he’d restored it to at least livable conditions.

  Hundred-year-old oaks with massive tree trunks dripped Spanish moss to the ground, while the wraparound porch with its porch swing and the intricate lattice work remained, reminding him of what life might have been like years ago.

  Dry ground crunched beneath his boots as he strode up the clam-shell drive; the crushed shells resembled white powdery sugar spread across the parched grass. Lucinda had loved the veranda, had talked of redoing the garden with rosebushes and azaleas that would add color to the lush green landscape. But she’d never had the chance.

  The shrill whistle of crickets and cicadas sang their nightly rituals. Mosquitoes buzzed and somewhere beyond, near the river, leaves were rustled from an unknown source. A snake perhaps, or maybe a gator who sought the shade of the night beneath the weeping willows and tupelos on his property.

  He surveyed the land beyond, then turned back to study his porch. Beau Monde, his place was called, for the woman who supposedly worked to save her home while her lover went to war. She’d been raped and brutalized by foreign soldiers, yet she’d survived and had refused to leave her house for fear her beloved wouldn’t know where to find her when he returned.

  Lucinda had thought the legend so romantic. Yet she’d believed the man should have stayed home to protect his wife instead of leaving her to fend for herself.

  Just as she’d wanted him to leave police work for her. She’d hated the violence, the fact that he might not come home at night. And she’d shudder if he mentioned what he’d seen, the cases….

  But he’d been stubborn, just like the owner of Beau Monde, and insisted he was doing his duty, that he’d been called to save others.

  How could a person outrun who they were inside? Who they were meant to be? He was a Cajun, born to serve the law, bred to fight the dregs of society. He could be nothing more just as Matthew Monde had been a hundred years ago.

  But he’d failed Lucinda. When the hurricane had hit, he’d been spearheading rescue attempts while looters had killed his own wife.

  Guilt nearly had him doubling over and sweat poured down his face. He deserved the guilt and more.

  But the innocent woman struggling for her life tonight needed him to be strong and pull himself together.

  Muscles tight, he straightened and went inside. He couldn’t change the past, but he could find this maniac who was taking lives. Keep trying to save the innocents to make amends for the one he’d loved and lost. The one he should have protected and saved.

  His head pounded as he entered through the mud-room, and he brewed a pot of coffee, knowing he couldn’t sleep. Mug in hand, he booted up his laptop at the antique oak table, then began to search for information on Britta Berger. There was some reason the killer had phoned her specifically.

  Maybe because she worked at the magazine.

  But he claimed to know her secrets, which implied he’d known her in the past. A past she refused to share with him.

  He opened the French doors, and sipped the hot coffee while he searched for information. Nothing appeared on any of the police databases, indicating that she didn’t have a criminal record. In fact, a half hour later, he scrubbed his hand down his face, exhausted, confused and angry.

  He stood, walked to the bar, poured himself a shot of bourbon and tossed it down, grateful for the slow burn rippling down his throat to his belly. The gnarled branches of the trees enveloped the bayou as if protecting its secrets.

  Just as Britta’s outward mask of control protected hers.

  He had found absolutely zilch on her in the databases. Nothing except for the fact that she worked for Naked Desires, and that she’d moved to New Orleans a year and a half ago.

  Dammit, he’d been an absolute fool. She had sucked him in with those guileless bewitching eyes. But those pretty lips had told him nothing but lies.

  Bon Dieu. Britta Berger wasn’t even the woman’s real name.

  No, two years ago, Britta Berger had died. In fact, she was buried right here in one of the cemeteries in the Big Easy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Five days before Mardi Gras

  EIGHT HOURS SINCE THE killer’s phone call and Jean-Paul still had no idea who the missing woman was or where the killer had taken her.

  Or if she was still alive.

  Elvira Erickson’s parents wanted answers, too, and he had no idea what to tell them.

  The muggy heat bore down on Jean-Paul as he stared at the grave. This one, the woman named Britta Berger. She was buried next to her folks, a man named Wally, a woman named Cassie. Apparently they had died in a car crash, all together. He’d looked them up last night and discovered they were a close-knit family.

  So who was the woman at Naked Desires who called herself Britta Berger? Had she stolen the name from the obituary column? Had she known the real Britta Berger?

  And why had he spent half the night thinking about her, searching for reasons to justify her actions?

  He’d be better off if he’d never met her. Had never wondered what it would be like to kiss her. To touch her bare skin. To have her naked and writhing beneath him.

  Damn. He shouldn’t have read that magazine last night, but he hadn’t been able to sleep and had hoped he might find a clue to their killer between the pages. Instead, he’d found erotic pictures and a few letters that he begrudgingly admitted aroused him. He’d always thought men just got turned on by pictures but surprisingly, the written word had made him hard as hell.

  Then he’d dreamed about Britta.

  But when he’d awakened, he’d been haunted by the fact that she had lied to him. Then again, maybe she had a good reason for changing her name. She might have an abusive boyfriend after her….

  If that was the case, why not tell him?

  He’d witnessed the twinge of sadness in her eyes when she’d claimed she had no family, and that one real moment taunted him to want to trust her.

  Or maybe she’d used that vulnerable, lost look to seduce him.

  Whatever, he had to keep their relationship professional.

  Yeah, like discussing sexual fantasies from her confession letters today wouldn’t get personal.

  A subject he and Lucinda had never broached. Lucinda had been old-fashioned, shy about her body, had insisted on lights off during sex. Simple white cotton gowns, not lacy lingerie as he imagined Britta choosing.

  He damn sure bet she didn’t have to undress in the dark. And he sure as hell wouldn’t want her to.

  No. He wasn’t going there with Britta.

  Hell, if she’d changed her name, she’d probably changed her appearance, as well. Maybe she did have a closet of wigs and disguises just like the masks on her wall.

  Disgusted with himself, he shoved his hands into his pockets, stalked back to his vehicle and rushed toward the precinct. Today he would get answers.

  And hopefully he’d find this killer.

  Just as he’d expected, more reporters stood on the front steps, pouncing on him as he neared. Damn leeches.

  “Detective Dubois, any progress on that murder case?”

  “You have to tell us something.”

  “Is it true the girl was a prostitute?”

  “The cops don’t care about the hookers, do they?”

  Jean-Paul glared at the man, but refused to take the bait.

  Mazie Burgess thrust a microphone in his face. “Come on, Detective Dubois, the public has a right to know if they’re in danger.”

  She was right, but it was too early to talk. “I will make a statement when I have something to tell you. For now, go home and let
me get on with the investigation.”

  Mazie stroked his hand. “Come on, Jean-Paul…”

  He narrowed his eyes, warning her to back off. Unfortunately, they both knew he couldn’t avoid the press forever.

  Still, if word leaked about the second victim, hysteria would erupt. And if the public knew the killer was contacting Britta, her privacy would be shot and she might be in more danger. He rushed inside to the elevator. He had to find out why Britta had lied to him about her identity. And if she’d lied about one thing, she could have lied about others.

  What if she knew the killer or had known him in the past? Her silence could cost more women their lives.

  * * *

  THE FACE OF THE DEAD woman rose like a ghost in Britta’s dreams. Whispering to her for help. To find her killer.

  She jerked awake, a myriad other faces swirling in front of her. Faces she had seen on the streets the night before. Innocent young girls turned to hooking. Girls who’d forgotten themselves and lost their souls to the debauchery of the city.

  Predators waiting to pounce on every corner. Ones who might end up just like Elvira Erickson.

  Yet she had still been called to the streets.

  Jean-Paul Dubois would dub her an idiot. Tell her she was asking for trouble.

  She massaged her shoulder where Shack’s buddy had twisted her arm behind her back. But he had refused to let her see him. The bruise on her chin from his blow could be camouflaged by makeup.

  Jean-Paul would say she deserved those, as well. But he didn’t know the real Britta. After all, she was used to disguises.

  And last night, she answered her calling.