One more cop, Mia fumed. If just one more big, sweaty body got in her way, told her not to walk past a window or open a closet door, she’d shoot it and to hell with Crucible and his uneasy allies.
By the time the tearoom closed—later than usual at her firm instruction—a tropical storm was already chasing the crowds from the streets.
Tired of Iona’s predictions of gloom and doom, and with a serious headache brewing, Mia escaped to her second-floor office. She locked the door, left the lights off, lit two candles, and, deciding she was in the mood for Bogart and Bacall, slid Key Largo into her Blu-ray. Because under no circumstances did she want to think about Helene Dubose or a killer that one of today’s more superstitious cops had referred to as Jack the Ripper reborn. Granted, none of the victims had been disemboweled, but the sketch on the calling card suggested some kind of shadowy figure. And, like Jack, this shadow tended to leave a great deal of blood in his wake.
Too restless to sit, Mia paced the office floor and told herself not to recall the expression on Iona’s face when she’d chosen the Death card from the Tarot deck.
“I knew it,” the fortune teller had moaned. She’d kneaded Mia’s uncharacteristically cold hand with her thumbs. “You’re marked.”
The word “fraud” had hovered on Mia’s tongue, but she’d swallowed it. Iona meant well and, to be fair, she did have a Haitian great-great-grandmother.
“What I am,” she’d made herself reply, “is plagued. Or maybe ‘bedeviled’ is a better word. I’m tripping over police, still irked at Crucible’s high-handed attitude and most of the way too pissed off over the fact that an agent called Rogue, who’s supposed to be protecting me, hasn’t bothered to put in an appearance yet. Unless he’s posing as a cop to throw both me and the killer off.”
“We live in a city of disguised souls,” was all Iona would say.
“Deep,” Mia murmured now. Alone in her office, she rocked her head from side to side and paced to Bogey’s laconic drawl.
The scent of New Orleans wound through the closed French doors like ghostly fingers, enticing her to let the city in, let the exotic flavors and the rich dark textures work their magic on her soul.
Instead, a clap of thunder brought an ironic smile to her lips. Yes, the city beckoned, but people stayed inside in weather like this. It was unfortunate the system hadn’t materialized last night instead of its white sister. If it had, Helene Dubose might be alive, the Rose might be open, and she might not be considering the idea of having a voodoo doll made in Crucible’s image.
Pausing there, she let her amusement blossom. “A voodoo doll in Crucible’s image…” she mused aloud.
“Why Crucible’s image?”
“Jesus!” A reflexive jerk had her spinning around to face—no one. Mistrustful eyes skimmed the shadows. “Don’t play games with me,” she warned. “Who are you? Where are you?”
“Never where you’ll expect.”
Another quarter turn and she spotted a man’s silhouette, five feet away. Almost, but not quite visible by the flickering light of her flat screen.
The shadow he stood in stirred. “I see you like the dark.”
Whoever he was—Rogue, she sincerely hoped—he had a sexy voice, understated, with the barest hint of amusement and, of course, seduction. No problem. She could deal with that.
Circling away, Mia studied the shadows that concealed him. “If you’re Crucible’s agent, maybe I should have requested a password.”
“Spy school 101,” he agreed. “I am Crucible’s agent.”
“I’m not a student or a fan of the school.” Still watching, she put her desk between them. “I’ll need some kind of verification, or we’ll be standing here for a very long time.”
“Because you have a gun in the top drawer, and I’m unarmed.” As if to prove it, he held his hands out to the sides.
Mia glanced into the drawer. Her Magnum was right where she’d left it. Whether it was loaded or not remained to be seen.
“You people love to create an air of mystery, don’t you?” When he offered nothing back, she summoned a bland smile. “Still waiting for verification of your status, Rogue.”
Dropping his hands, he started toward her. “Crucible,” he said. “Big man. Some might call him imposing. Bald by choice, not by genes. He makes a strong impression.”
“He does, yes. And you have gold eyes.”
As he continued to advance, those eyes fixed on hers. Music drifted up from the lounge below, underscoring the movie and surrounding her, surrounding them, in a swirl of black notes. “Witchcraft,” she realized and almost gave in to the spell it wove.
“My grandmother said my eyes were the color of old gold,” he told her. “She had the soul of a poet. You want to pick up that gun, don’t you, Mia? Why?”
She had to dig to find her voice. Thankfully, it emerged calm and steady. “Crucible spoke to several people in the Rose today. His code name could have come up. You could have been eavesdropping.”
“You’re a careful woman. I like that.”
“Flattery’s lovely. Proof’s better.” Assuming he had any and wasn’t planning to slit her throat. She lowered her gaze. “Let me see your left hand—ring finger.”
His lips quirked. “I’m not married.”
“There’s good news. Ring finger, please.” Her own hovered mere inches from the Magnum.
He waited another beat before extending his hand, palm up.
By the moody flicker of the movie, she saw four capable-looking fingers and a thumb. One of several knots in her stomach loosened.
“I’m not left-handed,” he said and at long last moved into a pool of light strong enough to reveal his entire face.
His features were…the word “mesmerizing” sprang to mind, along with “hot.” If she’d been susceptible to outward appearances, she might even have said, “jaw-dropping.”
Dark hair fell in waves well past the collar of a badly scarred leather jacket. He had a lean and hungry look about him, all six feet three inches of him by her estimation. Long legs clad in faded jeans led up to a pair of excellent shoulders, and an even more excellent mouth. And no way could anyone miss those striking gold eyes.
“Do I pass?”
“Only the first small test.”
“In that case…”
He reached around to the back of his jeans. As he did, Mia closed her fingers on the Magnum.
“Suspicion’s a benefit—” his eyes held hers “—in its place.” When he brought his hand around, she saw the iPhone he held. “I’m not James Bond, and this isn’t a cleverly disguised weapon. I’m going to show you a video.” He swiped the screen with his thumb, tapped it twice and set it on the desk between them.
Crucible’s face appeared. He stood in an ultra-slick office. Mia saw a smoked glass desk, a strappy leather chair, and a projection portrait behind him that contained five faces: four around the perimeter, his own in the middle.
The integrated group of uneasy allies?
He walked to the front of the desk and perched. “No one should ever trust a man who materializes out of the darkness, Mia. I told you Rogue would identify himself. If you’re watching this video, he’s done just that. Reid’s one of the best in the business. Unfortunately, the best is what you need right now. Trust him, Mia. Trust me. But don’t trust another living soul. Take care.”
The screen went blank. Mia glanced at Bogey’s dangling cigarette and gave her head a mildly humorous shake. “Well, that was Bond to the core. I wonder if the man who killed Helene has a gold prosthetic finger.”
“Did you know her?”
She returned her attention to the man across the desk. “Helene Dubose? No. She looked up at me, and then the killer looked up at me. A second later, he was gone, and so was I.”
“Where did you go?”
“To an inner office. I bolted the door and phoned the police. If you ask me did he try to climb onto my balcony, I’d say no. My flowers were undamaged. They would have been broken or at least displaced if he’d pulled himself over the rail.”
Rogue slid his eyes to the French doors.
“The exterior alarm’s activated,” she said. “And the light’s angled to come on if anyone attempts to breach the barrier. Now, I have two questions for you. Exactly how do you plan to keep me alive, and do I have to call you Rogue?”
“I think we’d both prefer it if you didn’t.”
She’d also prefer it if he didn’t use those amazing eyes or that quiet, sexy voice on her. “So, what was it Crucible called you?”
He started around her desk, didn’t look at anything except her. “Leave it at Ryder. I don’t like my first name. Storm’s getting worse. We need to go.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere he might think to look, but isn’t likely to find. To the swamp, Mia. The bayou.”
“People can get lost in swamps, Ryder. Good guys and bad.”
“Not if you know the terrain.”
“And do you know it?”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Her lips formed a smile. “In that case, laissez les bon temps rouler.”
* * *
The phrase was Cajun, but overall, the bayou as a hiding place suited Mia just fine. Someone—either Crucible or Captain Martin—had told her that Helene Dubose came from the bayou. She supposed it gave her another strong reason to want the killer caught.
“Do you have pets?” Ryder asked as they descended from shadow-filled light into a soft red haze of stereo music and muted cop voices.
“I had a cat once, and a mynah bird. Not at the same time and nothing at the moment. You?”
“A dog named Blackbeard. Chocolate Lab, no beard. I liked pirate movies. Did you pack heavy or light?”
“By your standards, heavy. By most females’, painfully light.”
“Mia! Kitten.” Iona rushed across the club floor, arms outstretched. “You’re not leaving the city in this storm.”
At Ryder’s skeptical expression, Mia smiled. “Iona’s a fortune teller. She works primarily in the tearoom.”
“You!” The older woman stabbed an accusing finger at Ryder’s face. “I see darkness in your soul. Darkness and danger.” She squinted at him. “And treachery.”
“Fortune teller,” Mia repeated when his eyes narrowed, “equals drama queen in Iona’s case. I’ll be fine,” she promised and patted the woman’s plump arm. “Ryder was handpicked—”
“By that other dangerous man,” Iona finished. “You trust too easily, pretty kitten.”
“I either trust someone, or I die.” Mia gave her arm a decisive last pat. “I’m not ready for the grave. You and Henri are in charge while I’m gone. I hear voices. Are all the police still lurking?”
“Like bothersome rats.”
“We go, they go.” Ryder’s lips quirked. “Eventually. Who’s the head rat?”
“A man named Despar.” Iona sniffed. “He smells like old booze and even older cigarettes. The one called Keen is clean cut and has a less offensive manner.”
“I need five minutes with them.” He made a head motion at Mia. “Are your bags ready?”
“They’re in the storeroom.”
“Two of the female rats have been watching them. Oh, kitten…” Iona’s eyes filled with tears.
Mia dealt with the storm inside while Ryder went in search of Despar and Keen on the street. He rejoined her five minutes later with both officers in tow. All of them were soaked.
“We gave your truck a thorough once-over,” the crusty officer named Despar told him. “It looks good. Still, you get your throat slit halfway to wherever you’re taking her, what happens then? Ms. LeMay’ll be on her own. You should give us something, just in case.”
A smile ghosted around Ryder’s lips. “You’ve got everything you need.” He nodded at the man’s trench coat. “Your cigarettes are getting wet, Sergeant.”
And his hands were dirty, Mia noted. Dirty, wet and stained with nicotine. She should probably be grateful Despar wasn’t Crucible’s rogue agent.
With the rain falling in buckets and several last-minute details to sort out, darkness had fallen by the time she and Ryder reached the New Orleans city limits. They listened to Ella Fitzgerald on his iPod and didn’t talk much for the first part of the trip.
“Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered” curled like a mesmeric vapor through her head. Iona’s fortune-telling counterpart occasionally performed the song in the manner of a New Orleans torch singer at the Rose. A little dry ice, a little red and black haze, and the crowd was hers.
Easing her mind back, Mia noticed that Ryder looked in the rearview mirror far more often than he looked at her. A sigh rose. If the sudden horror that had invaded her life wasn’t bad enough, now her ego was being slapped down as well.
Eventually, the pounding rain set her frayed nerves on edge. Lowering the volume, she shifted to regard him. “Is being the strong silent type your nature, or are you brooding over an assignment you’d rather have refused?”
He flicked her a brief look. “What makes you think I didn’t want this assignment?”
“I don’t think anything. It was a question. Some people prefer the vibe of the city. In New Orleans, it’s all about courtyards and cafés and the kind of music that lives and breathes. It’s about sex and sin and decadent food.”
“It’s about bourbon, Mia.”
“That, too,” she said. “Bourbon and beignets are particular favorites of mine.”
“Thus the reason for owning a tearoom and a bar.”
“People do what they do in the Quarter, Ryder. Everything there has color, flavor and heat. That’s the vibe. Only vibe you’ll find in most bayou towns involves alligators, insects and snakes. Swamp’s even more of a creature feature.”
“I don’t mind taking a break from the kinds of creatures that live in cities. An alligator’s dangerous, but no more so than a crackhead with a loaded gun.”
“Or a masked man with a knife?”
He held up his left hand. “Still have all my fingers.”
Pulling the visor down, Mia regarded the road behind them. “You also have the edge here. Crucible told me to trust you, but how do I know I can trust Crucible? Or the police for that matter. Sergeant Despar hates both of you.”
“Sergeant Despar hates the world.”
“And himself, judging from his two pack-a-day habit.” Lowering the window, she let the first hint of the bayou inside. “On that subject, a few of Despar’s men were drawing comparisons between the killer I saw last night and Jack the Ripper. Between that and the things Crucible told me, I’m getting that some of the earlier murders were a bit more gruesome than Helene Dubose’s.”
Ryder glanced in the rearview mirror. “The first was the worst.”
Something in this tone brought a chill to her skin. “How did he or she die?”
He frowned. “Didn’t Crucible go over any of this with you?”
“As I’m sure you know, Crucible’s a man of very few words. All he told me was that the man I saw is very likely not the only one using the silhouette calling card. He also said that two of the six victims were connected, but not in a way that gave him anything to go on.”
Ryder shrugged. “The connection Crucible mentioned didn’t come about until last night. Helene Dubose had a sister named Madeleine. She was the first victim.”
“The first and the worst.” Still facing him, Mia set aside the distant rumbles of thunder from yet another storm. “What was done to her?”
“Sure you want to know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
“The killer cut off her tongue and gouged out her eyes. Then he tore a strip from her dress and used it to tie a stick-figure doll around her neck. The doll had gray hair, black holes for eyes and Madeleine’s blood dripping from her mouth.”
Mia made herself nod, but she could imagine Iona hissing at her. It’s bad magic, kitten, in the wrong hands, in the wrong mind. It’s the bokor. Sorcery. It’s what many would call black voodoo.
Mia’s expression gave nothing away as she regarded him from under her lashes. “Are you messing with my head, Ryder? Or is it closer to the truth to say that someone tried messing with yours, and now you’re doing the same thing to me. You want to know if I’m susceptible to the lore of the swamp, don’t you?”
“Maybe.” Ryder kept his voice noncommittal, but a chuckle slipped out. “You’re good, angel.”
“Not angel,” she said firmly. “I’m a lot of things, but even my grandmother, who loved me, wouldn’t have called me that.”
He glanced at her in the washed-out light of a two-lane highway that was fast becoming a river. “I’ll rephrase. You have the eyes of an angel.”
She laughed, and the sound shot an arrow of lust straight at his groin. He realized he’d need to control that fast, and he managed—barely—not to wince.
“Let’s go with ‘no comment’ for the moment,” she said, “and get back to Helene Dubose’s sister. Did Madeleine’s murderer really leave a voodoo doll tied around her neck?”
“A crude one. If such people exist in areas like this, the experts concluded that the doll was nothing more than an amateurish attempt to muddy up her death.”
“Get everyone focused on the voodoo aspect and hope it would lead the authorities down a false path.” Ryder didn’t miss the small shiver that ran through her. “I imagine it worked to some extent.”
“Yeah, it worked, even on people who should have known better.”
“People like you?”
“The mind’s a powerful weapon, Mia. Controlled, it’s your best ally. Derailed, even a little, you wind up fighting not only yourself, but also the person who caused it to go off. Why did you shiver a minute ago?”
Those sea mist eyes sparked. With what, he wasn’t sure. “Iona warned me you’d be trouble.”
“I heard ‘dark’ and ‘dangerous’.”
“You also went outside to talk to the officers who were watching me. Iona’s a hit-or-miss fortune teller who swears she has the ‘sight.’ Who knows, maybe she does from time to time, but the fact is I have five Creole aunts in the bayou. Two of them live in the swamp. I’m not what you’d call a believer, but I’m not overly comfortable with the idea of a murderer, shadowy or otherwise, who tosses magic—especially old magic—symbols around as if they meant nothing.” She glanced into her visor mirror. “Flip side, a murderer, shadowy or otherwise, who truly believes might be even more terrifying.”
Ryder studied her back. “Translated, that means…?”
The sly look she cast him tied his belly in knots and almost caused him to overshoot a sharp bend in the road.
“I’m open to a number of possibilities. Voodoo is a dark and dangerous practice. So is murder. You know, Ryder, you really do have the most amazing eyes.”
And all his fingers intact. Although he might be in danger of swallowing his tongue if she looked at him like that again. “I read your police statement, Mia. I know what you saw in that alley.”
“It was…grisly. Efficient, but horrible.” She adjusted the angle of her visor.
He glanced over. “Problem?”
“I see headlights.”
“We’re on a highway. It’s night.”
Her expression held a grim warning. “I’m not stupid or blind. I know you’ve seen them, too. If you haven’t, you should be sweeping Crucible’s floors, not guarding his witnesses. The lights have been there for the past thirty minutes. The driver’s not gaining on us, but he isn’t dropping back either.”
He could tell her she was being paranoid, but the lie would be too obvious. So he cut the taillights on his truck and nodded into the murk ahead. “Rain’s letting up, but I’ve been hearing thunder since we turned off the main highway. Whoever he is, we’ll lose him.”
He wished he could say the same for the unexpected twist of guilt in his belly.
His beeping iPhone would have been a welcome intrusion if his conscience hadn’t been clawing past the barrier he’d erected. Shoving it back, he regarded the screen and thumbed the line open.
“Not now,” he told the caller.
“Oh, excuse me.” The man on the other end responded with a layer of sarcasm he didn’t need to hear. “My misunderstanding. I thought I was running the show here.”
Ryder made a point of not looking at Mia. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Actually, that’s my question, or one of them. Is she with you?”
“Well, duh.” Were the headlights gaining, or was the phone call making them feel closer? And why the hell did his mind conjure images of voodoo dolls and black magic spells? “Look, you need to trust me,” he said. “I’ll get the job done.”
“You damn well better,” the caller spat. “It’s my life on the line here. You screw this up, I’ll make sure yours joins it.”
“I screw this up,” Ryder fired back, “and I’m a dead man. Later.”
Breaking the connection, he tossed the phone back on the dash.
Mia removed her gaze from the visor mirror. “Let me guess. One of Crucible’s integrated group members doubts your ability to protect me.”
“If by that you mean are the directors at odds, the answer’s yes.”
“That isn’t a particularly reassuring statement given my current situation. Is Crucible a director?”
“He’s their leg man. It’s complicated.”
“Like you.”
Grinning slightly, Ryder shook his head. “Mia, I’m Jack climbing the beanstalk. The directors are the giants at the top.”
“Again, not especially reassuring.”
With only his running lights to guide him, he almost missed the poorly marked exit ramp. “Depends how you look at it,” he said. “After all, who lived and who died in that story?”
“That analogy only works if Jack and Jill are climbing the beanstalk, but then not only would we be mixing fairy tales with nursery rhymes, we’d also be trying to grow a beanstalk in the bayou, and why in God’s name am I doing this? Saying this?” She drilled her index fingers into her temples, paused and peered upward through the windshield. “Is that thunder getting louder?”
“No idea. I know the road’s getting thinner.”
“And bumpier.”
Add in the heavy air, the thickening plant life and the brackish smell of swamp water, and Ryder knew they’d arrived. Unfortunately, when he looked back and spied the headlights behind them, he realized they hadn’t done so alone.
* * *
Crucible strode past an animated group of tourists, through the cemetery gates and straight to the raised crypt that was beginning to feel like a weird second boardroom these days. He closed the door with his boot.
“Would you mind telling me just what the hell is going on?” He thundered out the last part of the question, coupling it with a laser-sharp glare that would have sliced many agents in half. “Why are you here, and where’s Mia LeMay?”
The man on the far side of the raised coffin tapped out a cigarette. “I was blindsided. What can I say?”
“You can start by telling me how much liquor it took to turn the brain of one of my best agents to mush.”
Grogan’s expression didn’t alter. “Look around you, Crucible. Reason it out. You’re standing in front of Madeleine Lessard’s coffin. Her sister Helene will be joining her in a few days. Who the hell do you think drugged my beer, then got me rolled and damn near dumped in the river?”
Crucible’s gut cinched, but he kept his voice low and level. “You let Ryder drug you?”
“Did I say ‘let’?” Grogan held his glare. “Guy’s a ticking time bomb. Worse than that, he’s a guided missile in human form. He’s got a purpose, thanks to a dedicated killer. He’s got knowledge, thanks to you. He’s got weapons, he’s got a plan, and like it or not, Crucible, he’s also got your witness.”