Heather Graham (31 page)

Once she walked in, the moonlight would be gone.

“Jon?” she said, and turned. She immediately cursed herself.

She’d walked off. She’d forgotten Jon.

And now...

She was alone.

“Jon, damn you, where the hell are you?” she whispered furiously aloud.

There was no reply.

MANNING.

Some kind of an answer might lie in that open vault. She hesitated, then took a step closer. And closer. She tried to look in.

“Like I’d be sensible enough to have a flashlight with me, right?” she muttered to herself. “But then again, I didn’t leave the house knowing that I’d be prowling around in a cemetery tonight. I didn’t used to prowl around in cemeteries at night. And then again, I didn’t used to frequent strip joints either. Then again, what’s an ex-husband for, if not to provide a little emotional turmoil here and there? Then again, of course, I didn’t used to have a sex life either...hmm, is a sex life an even exchange for the terror of prowling through a cemetery in the middle of the night?

“I’m talking to myself.” She was silent for a moment, just at the threshold of the vault.

“I need to talk to myself. That way, I can be certain that I won’t hear it if the people in the tombs start talking,” she murmured.

A thin strand of moonlight was filtering into the tomb. It was perhaps ten feet by ten feet, with ledges indicating different rows of deceased Mannings.

Many of the vault drawers were broken. She could see the coffins within them. Here and there, the coffins appeared to be smashed.

On the bottom level, there seemed to be a large gap where both wall and coffin had been smashed. The moonlight was reflecting on something.

Paper? Was this where Gina had left her messages? To a secret lover?

Ann took a step into the vault. Suddenly, the paper, or the slip of reflecting-white whatever, disappeared. Ann moved forward.

Only to feel something, someone, moving behind her. She swirled; something crashed down heavily against the tomb, just an inch from her head. She shrieked, ducking as she heard and felt the rush of air as a bludgeon was lifted and lowered.

She spun around, racing out the doorway of the tomb, tearing down the path.

The moon slipped behind clouds.

An awful darkness filled the night.

She kept running, crying out. She tripped, and fell. She’d fallen on a low tomb. A broken tomb. Something was beneath her chin. She touched it, and a well of pure panic rose within her.

Bone. Human bone. A thigh bone?

She rose to her feet, heedless of what injury she might have done her body. She ran down another path, completely disoriented. The clouds began to shift; the moon was coming out again.

She drew to a sudden dead halt. Right in front of her was a figure in a black cape and hood. She couldn’t make out its features at first, because the figure’s head was lowered.

It raised.

She was staring at Jacques Moret.

She let out a terrified scream.

“No, no—please!” he gasped out.

Please what? In terror, Ann turned again, running straight into another body.

She let out panicked shrieks as if every demon in hell was after her.

“Ann!” She could hear Jon calling her, racing toward her.

But if Jon was coming to her now...

She looked up at the face on the solid block of human wall that had stopped her.

“Ann! It’s Mark, stop it.”

“Mark?” she whispered weakly.

People were running in from all around her. She turned in Mark’s hold. There was Jon.

There was Harry Duval.

And there, coming from another path, was Jimmy Deveaux.

They all stopped dead, staring awkwardly at one another. “What the hell is going on here?” Mark demanded.

Ann tried to disengage herself from his arms. “What—what are you doing here?” she demanded suspiciously. She saw Jimmy Deveaux over his shoulder. She didn’t trust him.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” He turned to Jimmy himself. “Did anyone get Jacques?”

“The boys must have. I’ll go back and check,” Jimmy said.

“Jacques?” Jon said, watching Mark. “You came here—because you knew Jacques was here?”

“We’re bringing Jacques in for questioning in the murder of Ellie Trainor—Jane Doe,” he explained. “Jacques’ secretary told us where he could be found on the night of a full moon,” he added. “You slipped the guys watching you at the hospital, Jon.”

“Were people watching me?” Jon asked innocently.

“And you!” he said, arms tightening angrily around Ann. “You haven’t got the sense of a stupid person!”

“Hey,” Jon protested in Ann’s defense.

“What the hell were you doing out here?”

“Trying to solve a murder—since the police aren’t doing so well with it!” Ann informed him.

“Come on,” Mark grated angrily. “We’re all getting out of here.”

As it happened, they certainly didn’t need a cab ride back.

They left the cemetery in police cars.

They all went to the station.

Jacques Moret, admitting that he took part in cultist rituals at the cemetery but denying that he knew anything about the murder of Ellie Trainor, was booked into jail for the night anyway, pending charges from the D.A.’s office. Jon, Harry Duval and Ann sat sipping coffee in a room that offered nothing but a table and a few chairs, until Mark at last reappeared to be with them.

He leaned against the door, arms folded over his chest. “You first, Duval. What were you doing in the cemetery?”

Harry shrugged. “I had heard about the rituals. I told Jon about them earlier this evening. I thought, since he remained a prime suspect in Gina’s death, that he should know. Then I worried. I thought that he would rush to the cemetery, and his wife was with him. I came to help if I needed to do so.”

“Jon?” Mark said.

“You heard him. I’m a desperate man, LaCrosse. And I’m looking for whatever I can find before you get me into a cell. Unless you think that Jacques Moret killed both women? Am I still here with my neck half in a noose?”

“We haven’t any real proof against anyone yet,” Mark said. “Your blood on Gina is still pretty damning.”

“I rest my case.”

“You dragged Ann into a very dangerous situation. I should book all of you for breaking into the cemetery.”

“Waste of taxpayers’ money, don’t you think?” Harry asked him.

He didn’t seem to hear Harry. He was staring at Ann. “Jail might be the safest place for you.”

Ann just stared back. So far, she hadn’t told anyone that she’d been attacked in the Manning tomb.

“Jacques Moret—is being held for murder?” she pursued.

“Yes,” Mark said. “For the time being. However, all I have right now is the fact that he dined with Ellie Trainor and he was the last known person to see her while she was still alive.”

Had Jacques been in that tomb—searching for whatever damning correspondence he might have last carried on with Gina?

Had he watched her tonight...

Waited for her, planning to bludgeon her?

As Gregory had been struck, on the night of the storm?

It must have been Jacques Moret! she thought. God, yes, it had to have been. And now he was under arrest, and pray God, the evidence would now accumulate against him, proving him guilty of both murders and more.

“If you’re not charging me, Mark, may I leave now?” Harry asked politely.

“Yeah, yeah, you can go,” Mark told him.

Harry made a quick getaway.

“Then Ann and I are free to go as well?” Jon said hopefully.

“I’ll take you,” Mark said.

Jon led the way out; Ann followed him. She could feel Mark behind her all the way.

On the street, he ushered her into the front passenger’s seat of his car, leaving Jon to his own resources to enter in back.

“I’ll drop you at your place first, Marcel,” Mark said.

“No, that’s all right. Just take me to Annie’s. I don’t think she should be alone.”

“You’re her
ex
-husband.”

“I’ll be in Katie’s room, if that’s any of your business. She shouldn’t be alone.”

“She won’t be alone,” Mark said.

“What?” Jon said sharply.

“I’ll be on her couch.”

“Oh, really? Isn’t that taking police work a little above and beyond?”

“Would you two please quit talking about me as if I wasn’t even here?” Ann demanded furiously.

“Oh, my God!” Jon breathed. Ann felt his hands clamp on her shoulders. “You’re sleeping with him!”

“Jon, what I choose to do—”

“You’re the
ex
-husband. You don’t sleep with her anymore. You were in love with Gina; you were going to marry her, remember?” Mark taunted.

“Yeah, well, ex-husband rates higher than newly met casual lover,” Jon insisted.

“Stop this!” Ann hissed. “Stop it immediately; I swear I’ll lock you both out—”

“Katie’s room?” Mark said.

“The couch?” Jon demanded.

“We’re here,” Mark said.

“Yes, and I’m going up alone,” Ann said.

“The hell you are,” Mark said.

“Not on your life,” Jon told her.

Ann let out a furious cry of frustration, and started up the stairs to her apartment. They were right behind her.

The two of them.

All the way.

M
ARK WATCHED AS ANN
slammed her way into the kitchen, poured a glass of wine, and disappeared into her bedroom—then slamming her shattered door the best she could.

It closed. It just wasn’t going to lock.

Of course, that probably didn’t matter much. Not with both him and Jon Marcel in the house.

“Maybe we should have some wine, too,” Jon muttered. He walked on into the kitchen area, getting glasses. “Are you off or on duty? Do you mind me helping myself in the kitchen? Just how far has this gone? Tell me, did you get Annie while you were on or off the first time?”

“Marcel,” Mark said irritably, “it’s none of your damned business, but if you must know, it all came about when I went after her in the swamps while she was risking her own fool neck to try to prove someone else a murderer.”

Marcel didn’t respond to that. “Wine? You are officially off duty, right?”

“What else does she have?” Mark asked. “Bourbon on ice would be damned good right now.”

Marcel grinned. “Bourbon on ice coming up.”

He poured the drink, handed it to Mark, then noted Ann’s easel. He walked to it, throwing up the sheet that covered the sketch she’d been working on.

He whistled softly. “Nobody, nobody, does faces like my Annie.” He looked up at Mark. “Come see.”

Mark walked over to where Jon stood and studied the sketch on the easel.

There were three faces in the sketch, drawn together, like a family portrait.

His face, his son’s face, Brit’s face.

All the similarities were shown in the sketch, all of the differences. All the dreams in Brit’s eyes, steadiness in Michael’s, wisdom in his own. The sketch was far from complete; it was wonderful, telling, and more. The emotion was striking; the affection between the three of them was quite obvious. Somehow, that drawing promised beautiful things for the future, while being a tribute to the present.

“Okay, so maybe you’re not such a casual lover,” Marcel commented.

He looked at the pad Ann had set aside. He picked it up, setting it on another easel.

“Cindy. She was doing a good job with her, too. Going for the same thing, the beauty in movement, the sadness of what it can all fall to...” He paused, looking at Mark. “I didn’t kill Gina. I swear it; I didn’t do it. Tell me honestly—did Jacques kill her?”

“Honestly—I don’t know. We’ll spend most of tomorrow questioning him regarding every step of what happened. The same way we did with you. I won’t be able to hold him long unless I get something else. You had blood all over you and I didn’t hold you, if you’ll recall.”

“Yeah. But if Jacques didn’t kill her, who the hell did?”

“There’s still Harry Duval.”

“Or your partner,” Jon pointed out.

“My partner?” Mark demanded, startled.

Jon offered him a wry grin. “I just found out about that one myself. Duval told me tonight. Jimmy Deveaux found out about those meetings in the cemetery. Apparently, he was bribing Gina.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why? Because he’s a cop?”

“Because—he’s a good man.”

“I’m a good man, whether you want to believe it or not. That didn’t keep me from wanting Gina.”

“You’re talking about blackmail and things much uglier than wanting someone.”

“Oh, man, LaCrosse! Hell, I wanted to marry Gina, but I knew the truth about her. She was a prostitute. Cops are human. They pay prostitutes, too. Okay, you didn’t. It was a relationship you formed. The first time with me—I paid her. Our relationship developed from there. Maybe your partner just paid her.”

Mark swallowed down his bourbon. His head ached. God damn Jimmy. Why the hell hadn’t he ever said anything?

“Jimmy—Jimmy didn’t kill her,” Mark said.

“You know, LaCrosse, to me, you make just as good a suspect as anyone else.”

“Do I now? I remind you—I wasn’t the one wearing the blood.”

Jon Marcel lifted a hand, wincing. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t think that you’re guilty. I...I don’t know. I just know that there’s something I saw that should help, but I can’t remember what!”

“Are you willing for me to arrange for a hypnotist to maybe help you find out what it is?”

“A hypnotist?” Jon queried.

Mark nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen hypnotism work. People can recall things under hypnosis that their conscious minds have closed off.”

“I’m willing to try anything that might help,” Jon assured him.

“Fine. We’ll get someone tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“If I’m gone in the morning, don’t leave here until I get back.”

“All right,” Jon said, quirking a brow.

Mark didn’t owe him an explanation. He decided to give him one anyway.

“I want to talk to Jimmy before he goes in tomorrow.”

“Ah. Well, I won’t go anywhere, and I won’t leave Ann. Good night then.” He grimaced, pointing to the door down the hall from Ann’s. “Katie’s room.”