Say You Love Me (11 page)

Jean-Paul zeroed in on the small scars on Swain's hand. They were burns. Some old, some new.

“How'd you get those?” he asked.

“I burn candles and incense at night. It helps me relax when I'm trying to write.”

Jean-Paul frowned while Carson cut in. “Where were you last night, say around midnight?” Carson asked.

Swain tapped his temple as if trying to remember. Or formulate a lie.

“Working. I cut off from the band to write alone around eleven.”

“So no one can account for your whereabouts then?”

Swain shrugged. “No one I want to tell you about.”

“Being an ass won't help your case,” Jean-Paul growled. “Did you make any phone calls?”

Swain worked his mouth side to side. “No.”

Easy enough to check, but Jean-Paul had to push the guy harder. “And you don't have an alibi the night the Erickson woman was murdered?”

“If I knew I was going to need one, I would have made sure I had one,” Swain shot back.

Jean-Paul slapped his palms on the table with a thud and glared into the young man's eyes. “You don't have an alibi, asshole, you're going to wind up in jail.”

Swain shifted restlessly. “What the hell kind of motive would I have for murder? I don't know this chick that was killed.”

“She was an exotic dancer,” Jean-Paul said through gritted teeth. “You've been in the clubs while you were here?”

“So. Don't tell me you haven't?”

“This is not a game,” Jean-Paul barked.

Swain's face paled. “Okay, so this girl that was killed, she was a hooker?”

Jean-Paul nodded. “Maybe you know her from the House of Love.”

“Is that where you met her?” Carson cut in.

The corner of Swain's mouth lifted into a cocky grin. “I don't have to pay for sex. Since this record aired, women are throwing themselves at my feet.”

“So much for their taste,” Jean-Paul tossed back. “And that doesn't mean that you didn't hook up with a prostitute. Maybe she was a fan. It started out wild and a little kinky, but something she did pissed you off, reminded you of the woman you sing about in that song and you took out your anger on her.”

Swain knotted his hands on the table. “That's crazy. I'm not violent, I write about love.”

Carson cleared his throat. “Really? That's not the way the chorus to ‘Heartache Blues' calls it:

Jean-Paul folded his arms. “Sound like a threat to me.”

“Even better, sweet revenge,” Carson added. “She dumped you so you killed her and left your CD at the scene to hype your sales.”

“That's ridiculous!”

Jean-Paul shoved a copy of
Naked Desires
toward Swain. “Really? Do you know anything about this magazine?”

Swain gulped. “It's an erotica publication.”

“Yeah. And you placed a full page ad for your CD in the magazine,” Jean-Paul said matter-of-factly.

“My publicist did that,” Swain said in a panicked voice.

Jean-Paul rapped his knuckles on the table. “Do you know Britta Berger, the editor of the Secret Confessions column?”

He shifted, chewing on the side of his lip. “What's she got to do with all this?”

“You tell me,” Jean-Paul said.

Swain leaned his head onto his hands. “I'm through talking to you guys. I want a lawyer.”

* * *

T
HE SMELL OF BURNING
rubber and exhaust assaulted Britta as she scrambled away from the car. The sedan swerved and barreled into a lamppost while she crawled to the sidewalk on hands and knees. Screams and shouts erupted around her. Someone's hands reached out to help her and a claustrophobic feeling engulfed her. Memories resurfaced…men clawing at her.

“Are you all right, miss?” a voice asked.

“Are you crazy! You jumped right in front of that car!”

The driver, a man in a black suit, jumped from the sedan and stalked toward her. “I tried to stop, lady. Why'd you dive in front of me like that?”

The cameraman pushed through the crowd. A camera light exploded in her face, nearly blinding her.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered raggedly. “It was an accident.”

“You got insurance, mister?” someone asked.

He mumbled “yes” and his eyes pierced Britta accusingly.

The menagerie of faces watching her jelled into a blur, like the mob from the clan. Memories bombarded her. She was running through the bayou trying to escape the men hunting her down like an animal. They swept the darkness with their crude lanterns and vile language. Bugs bit her legs and branches scraped her hands and face. Snakes hissed and alligators stalked her with hungry eyes. Eyes like the swamp devil's.

Panic rippled through her. She had to run. Save herself.

She turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. She had escaped that past once. She wouldn't let it catch up with her and destroy the life she was building now.

* * *

R
EVEREND
E
ZRA
C
ORTAIN SHOUTED
a prayer at his followers as they chased Britta Berger. She'd either dove in front of that car out of guilt or—through God's hands—someone had pushed her. Either way, it was time for her to repent, or die and burn in hell for her contributions to the debauchery on Bourbon Street.

As he had done for his own sins so many times.

The past two years with the deadly hurricanes had forced him to expand his mission attempts. He'd collected lost souls from Mississippi, the Louisiana border and all along the gulf coast. He went where he was needed. Was simply a vessel to carry out the word of God. But sin ran rampant here and the devil fought him every inch of the way.

Fingers of anxiety scraped his spine, though, as images of his past flickered back. Britta Berger—she had crossed his path before. Had been lost then.

Had been a temptress. Had Satan's eyes.

Memories plucked at the recesses of his brain, triggering fear and guilt. The bayou. A ceremony. Virginal girls in white.

His brother-in-law's blood.

Then the others.

Dead bodies everywhere. Mothers moaning. Babies crying.

The details materialized in vivid clarity, painful and debilitating. The shock. Grief. The lost, helpless feeling. The cries of emptiness. Their leader had been destroyed.

They needed another. Just as they'd needed to quench their thirst for revenge. But they had been denied.

Because they thought she'd died that night. That the crocodile gods had served their own brand of justice.

But today, when she'd exited that magazine office, he'd seen the evil lurking in her eyes. The blackness from the swamp creatures had overtaken her body, sent her to Sin City to gather her own followers.

And he had to stop her….

* * *

S
OMEONE WAS STILL
following her.

Britta ducked into a gift shop to lose whoever was behind her, then into the restroom to clean her bloody knees and hands. Minutes later, she sneaked out the back door and headed toward Jackson Square, this time slowing her pace so as not to call attention to herself.

The stench of the night's celebrations flooded the streets, while heat sent a pool of sweat to her neck. She passed a few morning joggers and a man walking his dog. Two winos dug through the trash for breakfast and several shop owners were sweeping up the garbage from the night before, preparing for a new day.

Exhaustion weighed her muscles, but she turned the corner and collapsed into a chair at the café. A latte and beignet with strawberry jam helped to settle her nerves. Around her, tourists talked of the upcoming parade while she watched the local artisans set up their booths. An artist who painted abstracts hung a collection of colorful finished pieces, a voodoo and black magic display came next, then the dollmaker she'd seen for months settled into his usual spot. One by one he displayed his finely painted porcelain dolls, each one different and so beautiful they looked like real babies or children. In contrast, next to him a guy offered dark, ghoulish wooden carvings of demons and monsters along with Mardi Gras masks that portrayed the dark side of the city. She'd bought some of them when he'd first set up. The way he painted the monster's eyes was unnerving, but she'd been drawn to them anyway.

Jean-Paul Dubois's sister Catherine approached the dollmaker, her hand twined with her little girl's. Chrissy picked up a baby doll and hugged it. A baseball cap shaded the dollmaker's face and he kept his head bowed as if he felt uncomfortable discussing his art. But Chrissy oohed and aahed over the doll until Catherine purchased it. Britta's heart squeezed at the natural affection the woman and her little girl shared.

She'd long ago banished any hopes for a family of her own, but suddenly the longing swelled within her. The realization followed that she and Catherine would never be friends, that they didn't belong in the same circle. Catherine and her daughter would wear the pearl combs Britta kept hidden away.

Britta would look ridiculous in them.

Mother and daughter left, hand in hand, the little girl singing and smiling. Loneliness tugged at Britta's chest but she fought off the feeling.

Still, on a whim, she ventured over to the dollmaker's table. “You do nice work. The eyes, they look so real.”

“Th…ank y…ou,” he stuttered.

Sympathy for him warmed her smile. “You're welcome. You're very talented.”

A sheepish grin crossed his face. “Th…anks.”

She studied the different faces of the dolls, then purchased a miniature doll in a pink-and-white gingham dress and had him wrap it. She put it in her bag.

He mumbled his appreciation, then began to etch tiny lines into the eyeballs of another doll while other admirers crowded around. Feeling silly for buying the doll, she rushed toward the police precinct, determined to share the letters with Jean-Paul and escape from him as soon as possible.

Hopefully, he had a lead on the woman the killer had told her about the night before, and he wouldn't need her any longer.

* * *

A
FROWN YANKED
at Debra Schmale's face. She wanted Teddy for herself.

But she'd seen Teddy watch the woman stop by his table. Britta Berger—Debra recognized her from the magazine photo. Except she was even more beautiful in person than the picture.

The bitch.

She
had been flirting with Teddy for weeks now and had barely gotten him to even glance her way. He sure as heck hadn't grinned at
her
like an idiot like he had that Berger babe. And she'd bought half a dozen of his miniature dolls.

Of course, she wasn't a looker like Britta Berger.

No, she had knobby knees, wore an A-cup and needed extra cover-up to mask the zits that plagued her when she got nervous.

What was she going to have to do to get Teddy's attention? Dance naked in the streets?

She licked her fingers and tried to comb down her mousy brown hair. The stupid stuff reacted to this god-awful heat by exploding into a frizzy mop. Finally she applied lip gloss that tasted like wild berries and yanked her jeans lower on her hips to showcase her flat belly and new bellybutton ring, a small blue and yellow butterfly.

All twisted inside from fear that Teddy would ignore her again almost made her nauseous. Even though she wasn't sophisticated or trendy like Britta Berger, she'd show Teddy she could be fun. She fingered the bright silver bracelets she'd bought, ones similar to Britta Berger's. She liked the way they clanged on her arm when she moved. Maybe she could even buy a push-up bra and jam her boobs up high so she'd have cleavage.

Heck, why was she worried about Britta Berger? She was too old and sophisticated to go for a guy like Teddy anyway; she could have half the men in town.

But what if she decided to play with Teddy just because she enjoyed the attention? She might tease him. Lead him on. Keep him from falling for
her.

Just like the sorority girls at school had when she'd wanted that boy Danny. Damn bimbettes.

Once she'd tried to be their friends. Tried to fit in and join them. But they'd laughed at her and blackballed her.

They didn't bother her anymore, though. Not since she'd pulled that switchblade and threatened to carve out their eyes.

No one was ever going to keep her from getting what she wanted again.

And if the Berger woman got in the way, she'd take care of her, too, just like she had the others.

A
NOTHER HOUR TICKED
by. Another hour the killer had to toy with his victim.

Another hour and no answers.

Frustration nagged at Jean-Paul. They still hadn't located or identified a second victim, and the police department had pooled as much manpower as they could spare to search the bayou. Carson was checking out Swain's alibi and his place.

The need to be out there looking himself made Jean-Paul antsy, but when he'd informed the lieutenant that Britta Berger was not who she claimed to be, Phelps had ordered him to stick with the woman. So far, she was their only connection to the swamp devil.

Banning her from his mind until he could confront her, he thumbed through the preliminary information they'd gathered so far on Elvira Erickson. According to the detectives who'd canvassed her apartment complex, victim one had been a loner. Had not had a steady boyfriend or brought anyone home. Her phone records indicated only a few local calls, one to a man named Shack, who he was almost certain was her pimp.

Jean-Paul had already talked to his brother Antwaun. He was beating the streets now in search of the guy.

A knock sounded at the door and he braced himself as Britta entered his office. She looked disheveled. Her glasses were slightly crooked, a sunhat dangled from one hand and a shoulder bag had been slung over her arm.

His temper teetered on the surface. It was time she talked.

But he zeroed in on her elbow and noted fresh scrapes and the fact that her right eye looked swollen. His question died on his lips.

“What happened to you?” Alarmed, he strode toward her, took the bag and sunhat and placed them on the desk, then gently took her arms and examined them. Her other elbow was bruised as well as her hands, and faint scratches marked her chin.

She shrugged. “I fell off the curb this morning.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Try again.”

“It's the truth.”

“Really? Just like your real name is Britta Berger?”

Her face blanched. “What makes you think that it's not?”

“Because I visited the real woman's grave this morning.”

She turned away but he caught her hand. “Tell me the truth, damnit.”

“About my name or this morning?”

“Both.”

She glanced down at where their hands were joined. “Ezra Cortain and his crew staged a protest at the magazine.”

“Do they know about the killer's note to you?”

“No. And I certainly didn't share the information with them.”

Jean-Paul's pulse hammered. “Then what happened?”

“They chased me. I tried to blend into the crowd but when I went to cross the street, someone pushed me.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“No, I was too busy trying to scramble away from the car flying toward me.”

“
Bon Dieu.
Do you need to see a doctor?”

Her chin quivered as she gazed into his eyes, emotions glittering before she drew a curtain down over them. “No, I'm fine now. But whoever pushed me, tried to grab my shoulder bag. I don't know if they wanted money or the letters.”

Alarm bells clamored in Jean-Paul's head. “The letters from your column?”

She nodded. “Why would someone want them?”

“Because they might lead us to the killer.”

* * *

B
RITTA GLANCED AWAY
from Jean-Paul's probing eyes and the questions.

Desperate, she focused on the map on his wall, then a smaller one which highlighted the bayou. Various pushpins protruded from different areas, which she assumed were ones where they had targeted search parties. Black Bayou was one of them.

Just the thought of the area made her shudder.

“You should have called me.” He jerked up the phone. “Listen, send a team to check out the protest at Naked Desires. Miss Berger was accosted there this morning. Charge them with violating a peaceful protest if you have to but disband them.”

Her gaze flew back to his. “That will probably cause even more trouble.”

“Reverend Cortain
is
trouble. He gives religion a bad name.” Jean-Paul rapped his knuckles on his desk and she noticed the open folders spread before him.

“Speaking of names,” he said, his thick eyebrows pulling together in a frown. “Why don't you tell me your real one and why you faked your identity.”

A surge of panic raced through her. “I can't believe you checked into me.”

Temper flared in his brown eyes and Britta took a step backward. He looked mad as hell, as if he wanted to shake her.

“Come on, Britta, I'm a detective. You knew I was going to check you out. You're part of a homicide investigation.”

Hurt swelled inside her, although she hated herself for the emotion. For hoping that there might be one decent man alive. One who'd take her at face value. Trust her. Not hurt her.

Not question her past. Not care that she'd been living a lie.

But it was obvious Jean-Paul Dubois was not that man. He'd do whatever it took to solve his case. Even expose her and put her in danger. Or jail….

“I thought the investigation was about finding this killer, not me. So why should it matter to you who I am?” Tears pricked at her eyelids, although she blinked them away. She would not cry in front of him. Not in front of any man, ever again.

“It is.” He stalked toward her. “But if you lied to me about one thing, maybe you're lying about the note. Maybe you know this killer and you came here to play some lurid cat and mouse game to distract me.”

Her heart pounded. “That's ridiculous. I called you because I wanted to help that woman. Now I realize my mistake.”

“If you really want to help, then be honest, Britta.”

“I told you the truth about how I found that note and picture. I wish he hadn't sent it to me, but he did.”

“If that's true, the killer is connecting with you, not me or anyone else. That means he knows you—or knew you from the past.”

She closed her eyes, vying for composure. She couldn't look into his and see her lies reflected or the truth of his words. Doing so meant shedding the armor that protected her. Admitting that she'd never escaped at all.

That the people who'd chased her into the bayou had not given up their thirst for revenge. That she'd never be free of them.

And that she might be the reason this man was murdering innocent women.

That kind of guilt would be unbearable.

Her heart racing, she turned to run. By the time her hand closed around the doorknob, Jean-Paul was on her, his chest pressed against hers. His breath brushed her neck.

“You can't run forever, Britta.” His voice reverberated in her ear. The killer's words. Jean-Paul's. “Now, tell me who you are.”

His grip tightened on her arm and the world slipped into a black fog. Men chasing her. The swampland sucking at her feet. The alligators spitting and announcing their attack. The vile stench of a hand closing over her mouth….

A cold clamminess pervaded her and she began to shake with fear and anger. “Let me go.”

“Talk to me,” he growled.

“I was in foster care,” she admitted raggedly. “My foster parents and sister died in an accident. I took their daughter's name because I liked it, because I missed them.” Her voice broke. “Because I wanted to be part of their family.”

His breath bathed her neck, hot and husky. “Then why run? Is someone after you now? An old boyfriend or lover?”

“No…I told you there's no one,” she said in an anguished whisper.

She was running because she had to.

Time swept her back as if it was yesterday.

She had to escape, had to get out of the bayou. The snakes slithered toward her. The darkness engulfed her. The stench of blood and death. Of them closing in like hound dogs on a blood hunt.

Weeds and bugs clawed at her arms and legs. Vines trapped her, their tendrils wrapping around her legs like snakes. Darkness blinded her. She had to keep moving or she would die.

Panic gave her strength. She swung her elbow up as hard as she could and jammed it into the man's chest. A grunt followed and he released her, but his icy hands touched her and she tore herself from his clutches.

The room swirled around her. Lights suddenly flashed, shimmering through the leafy trees. No, they weren't trees. She was in a room. Brightly lit. The murky darkness lifted slightly, and strangers' faces broke through the fog. A tall man. Another in a cop's uniform.

They'd found her and were going to arrest her.

No! She had to keep running.

Her feet felt heavy, and the room spun. She needed water. A reprieve from the heat. She stumbled forward,
clutching at the walls to guide her. A voice called out her name, telling her to stop. But she couldn't. Finally, a hall. She leaned against the wall, confused. Where was she? Not in the bayou? A building somewhere. Bright lights glared in her eyes like a white tunnel.

The man called her name again and she scrambled away from the wall, feeling her way again until she fell through an opening….

Seconds later, reality slowly returned. She'd stumbled into a bathroom. Heaving for air, she fumbled for the sink and turned on the water. The cold spray felt heavenly against her face. She cupped her hand, let the water fill it, then sucked it down her parched throat. Again and again, until the dizziness passed.

Her hands shook as she felt for a paper towel. Suddenly one was thrust into her hand. She opened her eyes and the room came into focus. Her reflection taunted her from the mirror.

Her eyes looked puffy and red, one was swollen, black and blue. Her hair was disheveled and a crazy wildness lit her eyes.

She wasn't alone.

Behind her, standing with his arms folded, his expression stony and silent, stood Jean-Paul Dubois.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL'S PULSE
raced.

Post-traumatic stress syndrome. Britta had been traumatized and was terrified of something. He'd witnessed similar reactions—some from war veterans, others after Katrina.

What exactly had happened to her?

Something to do with her past. His demands obviously triggered her reaction.

His physical touch made it worse.

The thought of a man violating her twisted his insides. How young had she been? Was that the reason she'd been in foster care? The reason she'd changed her name?

God, what a mess.

His brain continued to search for answers, for a way to understand. But he couldn't push her now. And if she'd changed her name to escape an abusive boyfriend, husband or stalker, she'd taken a chance on exposing her identity by calling him. In fact, she'd been courageous.

But if the killer was the man after her, then he'd found her anyway. So why wouldn't she confide in him? She couldn't possibly want to protect the son of a bitch.

Unless the man she was running from had been a cop.

The truth could be anywhere in between.

Tears stained her eyes and the black eye he'd thought he'd detected looked stark without her makeup in the bright fluorescent light. He inhaled sharply, struggling to control his emotions. He hated himself for pushing her into this.

And if his touch had done it…hell, he felt like a bastard.

He cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Britta. Are you okay now?”

She swallowed, although her body betrayed her by trembling.

He jerked off his jacket and eased it around her shoulders, careful not to alarm her or crowd her space. Her head still bowed, she tugged it around her as if she wanted to crawl inside the garment and disappear forever.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered in a ragged voice. “I don't know what came over me.”

“You mean you're not going to tell me,” he said, forcing himself to remain in place instead of reaching for her.

Her pain-filled eyes rose to meet his, a silent plea in the depths. “Please,” she said softly. “It's not important. I…came to help you. I brought the letters. That's all I can give you.”

The anguish in her voice nagged at him. He had to let the matter drop.

For now.

But he would find out what had happened to her. Why one minute she was strong and defiant, and the next—she looked as if she'd gone through hell and barely lived to tell about it.

He had to earn her trust. But doing so would be a monumental job, especially since she didn't trust anyone.

Maybe she never had.