Forbidden Fruit (31 page)

S
antos and Jackson faced each other across the scarred wooden desk, its top littered with stacks of papers, folders and used foam coffee cups. Around them the chaotic sounds of the homicide division ebbed and flowed; they had worked around such sounds so many years that neither noticed them anymore.

Santos cleared a space in the center of the desk and laid out photos of the six Snow White Killer victims. He handed a photo of the last victim to Jackson. “Autopsy's in.”

Jackson studied the photograph a moment, then looked up. “So what have we got?”

“First off, she put up a struggle.” Santos handed Jackson two more photos, ones that documented the dark purple bruises on her arms, shoulders and back. “She must have realized what was going down before our boy got a chance to do her.”

Jackson studied the photos, then tossed them back on the desk. “And the apple?”

“The last two girls didn't voluntarily take a bite. He had to take a bite and stuff it down their throats after they were dead.”

“Charming.”

Santos pursed his lips. “I bet our boy didn't like having to do that one bit. And I'm damn sure he didn't appreciate this last girl putting up a fight. He wants his girls to be perfect, angelic and unmarred.” Santos frowned. “Unmarred,” he repeated. “But he picks prostitutes.”

“And cleans them up.”

“Purifies them.”

“Right.” Jackson steepled his fingers. “He gets them ready for God.”

“But,” Santos said, “he has sex with them
after
they're dead. After he's sent them to God. I don't get that. That's the piece of the puzzle that doesn't work for me.”

“Maybe he thinks he's God. He marks them with the cross, branding them with his sign. Not
His,
but if our theory holds true, his, the killer's.”

Santos met Jackson's eyes, chilled. “And the apple's the forbidden fruit.”

“Bingo.”

Santos jumped to his feet, frustrated and restless, the need for action damn near making him crazy. “God made the apple off limits. The serpent tempted Eve to taste the fruit. She did, then offered it to Adam.”

“Goodbye, paradise, hello, Original Sin.”

“So these girls do it,” Santos continued, “they taste the apple, they sin. They need to be cleansed, they need their sin taken away. He does that by killing them. He's doing them a big favor, he thinks. The sick bastard.”

Santos crossed to the water cooler, then strode back, flexing his fingers. He wanted this guy so badly he could taste it. He stopped in front of Jackson. “So, where's the semen? Where's the biological evidence associated with a sex crime?”

Jackson linked his fingers. “You're thinking foreign object?”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Santos narrowed his eyes in thought. “Or…our guy could be a woman.”

For a moment the silence deafened. Jackson shook his head. “I don't think so. No way.”

“But it's a possibility.”

“Yeah. A possibility. But with what we've got, anything is.”

Jackson was right. They had nothing. Except bodies. Six of them.
Damn.

Santos dragged his hands through his hair. “The girls are catching on. They're scared. They know his M.O. And the problem is, if he can't have things his way, he'll move on.”

“And we won't get him.”

“We've got to get him. He's right under our noses.” Santos hesitated, thinking. “He's a Quarter regular, I'm sure of it. He's someone these girls know. They trust him. Otherwise, we would have seen more signs of struggle before now. I have a feeling about this.”

Jackson rocked back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “Let's look at the crucifix again.”

Santos reached around the desk and tugged open the top-right desk drawer. He took out a half a dozen jewelry boxes and tossed them on the desk. They all contained cheap tin crucifixes, all of the type the killer used to imprint the victims' palms, all had been procured in the French Quarter.

In a town as Catholic as New Orleans, one in which salvation was as deeply embedded in the psyche of the people as sin, religion had made its way into every area of life. Even the bacchanal of Mardi Gras had its roots in Catholicism, and religious items like these crucifixes could be found in every tourist shop, sometimes on the same shelf as coffee mugs shaped like tits and G-strings emblazoned with Y'all Come on the crotch.

Santos selected a crucifix and held the pendant up for inspection. “I got this one from a bible thumper on the corner of Royal and St. Peter the other day.” He dropped it into its box, then selected another, only subtly different from the first. “I got this one in the Cabildo gift shop—” He picked up another. “And this one in the voodoo store on Bourbon.”

Santos ran the last one through his fingers, then dropped it into its box. “No witnesses, no clues. Damn.”

“What about that kid from the St. Charles?” Jackson studied the photos. “I'm not sure I buy his alibis.”

“They checked out.”

“Yeah, but if you ask me, two of 'em stink like last week's shrimp po'boy.” Jackson leaned forward, his expression intent. “He had the opportunity. He frequents hookers. He's around the Quarter a lot.”

“But the way he came to pieces during questioning? That kid's no killer.” Santos returned to his desk, sat down and reached for one of the photos. He studied it a moment, frowning, then tossed it down. “The way he fell apart when we put on the pressure, hell, he would have confessed if he could have. I'm telling you, he's not the one.”

“I'm not convinced. I still think we should hav—” Jackson bit back the words. “Don't look now, partner, but trouble's heading our way. And I think it's got your name on it.”

Santos swung in the direction of his partner's gaze. Glory strode across the room, her gaze on him, her cheeks bright with angry color. He couldn't help noticing the way she drew the gaze of every male she passed. It was no wonder. She was one gorgeous woman. Even as he reminded himself that her beautiful exterior housed a heart of ice, he moved his own gaze over her appreciatively. She looked like a million bucks, like a diamond among pieces of cut glass, like a sleek, pampered pedigree in a roomful of junk-yard dogs.

And she looked as if she wanted someone's head on the chopping block. Santos lifted his lips in an amused smile. And he had a damn good idea whose.

She stopped before his desk, all outraged fury. “How dare you!” she began without preamble. “How dare you…interrogate my employee that way.”

“Good morning, Ms. St. Germaine,” Santos said, smiling, deliberately taunting. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Cut the crap.” She placed her palms on the desk and leaned toward him, glowering. “I forbade you to question any of my employees without clearing it with me first. Who gave you the authority to defy my instructions?”

“You forbade me?” Santos eased to his feet, his gaze not leaving hers. “Defy your instructions?”

“I think I'll just move my chair back a bit,” Jackson murmured, rolling a foot back from the desk. “Wouldn't want to get caught in the cross fire. Shrapnel can be a real bitch.”

Santos sent him a furious glance, then turned back to Glory. He mirrored her stance, placing his palms on the desk and leaning toward her, not stopping until they were nose-to-nose. “First off, Ms. St. Germaine, you have no right to give me instructions of any kind. I'll do whatever I damn well need to, to get the bottom of this case. Second off, we talked to Pete on his own time, not yours.” He narrowed his eyes. “Back off.”

Twin spots of angry color bloomed in her cheeks. “Just because you can't find this guy, Detective, doesn't give you license to single out an innocent boy for harassment. Might I suggest that instead of picking on hardworking kids, you get out in the street and find the maniac who's butchering these girls.”

Activity in the room ceased. For one moment, save for the creak of Jackson's chair as he rolled back several more inches, silence reigned. Santos straightened, fury too mild a word to describe what he felt.

He came around the desk to stand before her, stopping so close she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. She did, meeting his challenge, not backing down a fraction. Oh, yes, he thought, arrogantly sweeping his gaze over her. She had grown into one hard-as-nails, cold-as-ice broad.

He narrowed his gaze. “And how do you know your Pete's not the guy? Hmm, Princess St. Germaine? What if you have a killer working for you?”

She made a sound of disdain. “That's ridiculous. Pete's a nice young man. He's responsible and a model employee.”

“And I'll bet the hotel guests like and trust him.”

She hiked up her chin. “As a matter of fact, they do. Very much.”

“Especially the women. They like…and trust him a lot. Don't they?”

Glory paled. He had struck a nerve, he knew. Because it was true. She shook her head, anyway, making a dismissive motion with her right hand. “You had him in an interrogation room for four hours. No Miranda rights, no lawyer. You all but outright accused him of being the killer.”

Santos arched his eyebrows in exaggerated innocence. “Why would we read him his rights? He wasn't charged with anything. We were only questioning him. Right, Jackson?”

“Right.”

“See?” Santos ran his index finger along the side of his nose, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “He didn't request a lawyer. He didn't ask to call one. Of course, if he had, we would have made one available to him. That's the law, Ms. St. Germaine.”

This time, it was she who narrowed her eyes. “If I were you, I'd wipe that smirk off your face. You know as well as I do that you strongly hinted to him that calling a lawyer would only make things look worse for him. You hinted that consulting a lawyer would make him look guilty, when in fact, we both know you simply wanted him unprotected and vulnerable.”

Santos looked at Jackson in feigned shock. “Did we do that, Jackson?”

“Not that I remember, partner. Maybe she's thinking of some other homicide detective. Or maybe some TV show.”

“Yeah,” Santos said. “Maybe that's it. Too much TV.”

“Don't insult my intelligence.” She let her breath out in an angry huff. “I've had enough of your intimidation and games. Next time, I'll go right to Chief Pennington.”

“No so fast, princess.” Santos met her eyes once more. “Is your employee feeling guilty about something? Why's he so nervous?”

“He's not nervous.” She jerked her chin up. “He was simply shaken by your accusations.”

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Jackson said softly but with a steel edge, “but we made no accusations. We questioned the man. That's our job.”

“Implied accusations, then.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Anyone would be shaken by what you put him through.”

Santos tipped his head, studying her. “Sounds like maybe you have a soft spot for this boy, Ms. St. Germaine. Sounds like maybe you're paying him for more than parking cars.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “How dare you! How dare you suggest that I—”

Santos cut her off. “And what makes you so sure he's not the guy?” He cocked his head, studying her expression intently. “Maybe you know who is? Maybe you're the Snow White Killer?”

“Oh, please.” She made a move to swing away from him, he caught her arm, stopping her. Startled, she met his eyes.

“You have no idea who you're dealing with,” Santos said softly. “You think the serial killer can be picked out in a crowd. You think that, somehow, you can look into his eyes and see the monster he is.”

He leaned a fraction toward her, smiling grimly. “For he is a monster, Ms. St. Germaine. A monster that walks among us. Cold, brutal and calculating, a killing machine without compassion or regard for human life.”

Santos saw fear race into her eyes and felt a grim satisfaction. He meant to scare her. Because her accusations and demands were so arrogantly off base that she deserved it, and because he wanted to punish her. For the present. But for the past, too.

“But,” he continued, “we don't know he's a monster, we don't see it. He wears a mask, he fools us. He wants us to believe he's a…nice guy. A model employee.”

Glory was as white as a sheet. Jackson cleared his throat. “Santos—”

Santos lifted a hand, cutting him off. “Your Pete had the opportunity. He lives in the Quarter. He likes…working girls. Just think, Ms. St. Germaine, he's mobile all night long. He parks cars. He could use any one of those cars, at any time. Cars he knows won't be needed for hours.”

She darted a glance from Santos to Jackson, then wetted her lips. “What are you saying? Are you saying that Pete…that he's—”