The Dollmaker (2 page)

“Do you like to party?” she asked.

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“My place is just back there.” She nodded toward a narrow alley that ran between two buildings. “Got a nice little courtyard where we can sit and watch the rain. Come on,” she said, and started walking. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

Her smile might not do anything for him, but the way she walked sure as hell did. Travis followed her into the alley. He didn’t know if she was a hooker or just some bitch out for a good time, but at the moment, he didn’t really give a shit. The money he’d made from the doll was burning a hole in his pocket.

She was a few steps ahead of him, humming something under her breath.

“What’s that you’re singing?”

“It’s an old song. Something my mother used to sing to me at bedtime.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” He hurried to catch up with her. “My mama didn’t believe in music. Or dancing.”

“How sad for you.” She paused to adjust the strap on her sandal, and when she lost her balance, she grabbed Travis’s arm to right herself.

He stared down at her in the darkness. She laughed softly, and the next thing Travis knew, he had her backed up against the brick wall.

She laughed again, a breathy sound that spiked his heartbeat. But when he tried to kiss her, she turned her head so that his lips only grazed her pale cheek. He moved to her ear, then nuzzled her neck as he put a hand on her narrow waist, letting his thumb slide up beneath her breast. She was small there, too, but he didn’t mind. “What’s your name?”

After a slight hesitation, she said in a husky whisper, “Madeline.”

“That’s a nice name.” Travis figured she’d made it up on the spur of the moment, but he didn’t care if she had. After tonight, they’d never see each other again, anyway. “You smell good, Madeline.”

He again tried to kiss her, but she gave him a playful shove. “Take it easy, okay? We’ve got all night. Don’t you want that drink first?”

He rubbed up against her, grinding his hips against hers. “You know what I want.”

“Sure I do, baby.” Her hand slid between them and she ran it up and down his fly. “But it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“A hundred and fifty.” Her hand squeezed him. “You got that much?”

He fished in his pocket for the money and handed it to her in the dark. “For that kind of dough, you better be something special.”

“Oh, I am.” She slipped the folded bills into her bra. “I’m very special. You’ve never been with anyone like me before, honey.”

Reversing their positions, she pushed him up against the wall, then wet a finger in her mouth and traced his lips. “You want it fast or slow?”

“Right now, I want you on your knees,” he said, and unzipped his pants.

“Patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait.” Her fingers closed around him as she slid her other hand over his shoulder.

Travis let his head fall back against the brick wall, his breath quickening as he swelled in her hand. An instant later, he felt a sharp sting in the side of his neck, and pushed her away. “What the hell was that?”

She smiled in the dark. “You’re going to need something for the pain.”

“Pain?” His voice rose in fury as he lifted a hand to his neck. “What did you do to me, you fucking bitch?” Light from an apartment overhead filtered into the alley, and he could see her eyes staring back at him. He hadn’t noticed before how blue they were. And then in a flash, it came to him where he’d seen that face before.

Fear and revulsion rose in his throat a split second before his muscles collapsed. He tried to stay on his feet, tried to grab her around the throat, but he had no control over his limbs. He fell to his knees, his gaze locked on hers. His mouth gaped open, but no sound came out.

“You took something of mine and now I’m going to have to do some very bad things to get her back.”

With a foot on his chest, she shoved him backward. Paralyzed, he fell to the dirty pavement, his gaze fixed on those blue eyes.

She removed a scalpel from her bag and knelt beside him. “This is going to be a little crude and messy, I’m afraid, but I can’t have the police tracing you or the doll back to me.”

A fresh wave of terror washed over Travis. He wanted to get up and run. He wanted to scream for help. He wanted to fight for his life.

But he could only lie there helplessly as she lowered the blade and began to cut off his fingers.

T
wilight always fell anxiously over the Big Easy, especially when it rained. That’s when the ghosts came out. A wisp of steam rising from the wet pavement. The murmur of voices from a hidden courtyard. Something dark and stealthy moving in the shadows, and suddenly you were reminded of a past that wouldn’t stay buried.

New Orleans was like that. A city of memories, Dave Creasy always called it. A city of secrets and whispers and the kind of regret that could eat a man up inside. Like the wrong woman, she’d get in a man’s blood, destroy his soul, make him feel alive and dead at the same time. And on a hot, rainy night—when the ghosts came out—it could be the loneliest place on earth.

Welcome back,
a voice whispered in Dave’s head as he lifted his face, eyes closed, and listened to the rustle of rain through the white oleanders that drooped over a crumbling brick wall along St. Peters.

It was strange how the city could still seduce him. He’d been born and raised in New Orleans, and like everyone else he knew, there’d been a time when he couldn’t wait to get out. Now he couldn’t seem to stay away. The ghosts wouldn’t let him.

A car slowed on the street in front of him, and a child stared out at him from a rain-streaked window. She looked a little like Ruby, and Dave watched her until the car was out of sight, the pain in his chest as familiar now as his heartbeat. Then he started walking.

Around the next corner, a neon half-moon sputtered in the gathering darkness. He wanted to think of the light as a beacon, but he knew better. The Crescent City Bar could never in a million years be considered a haven. Not for him, at least.

As he entered the room, an infinitesimal chill slid over him.
Welcome back,
that taunting voice whispered again.

The bar was nearly empty. A handful of zombielike patrons sat with heads bowed over drinks, the only acknowledgment of their coexistence a mingling of cigarette smoke that drifted up from the tables. The old wood blades of the ceiling fans rotated overhead, barely stirring warm air that reeked of sweat, booze and despair.

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

Dave took a seat at the end of the bar, where he could watch the door. He hadn’t been a cop for nearly seven years, but old habits died hard.

From the other end, the hulk of a bartender watched him with open suspicion. He was tall and tough, with skin the texture of leather. Jubal Roach had to be at least sixty, but the forearms underneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves bulged with muscle, and his sullen expression reflected, as Dave knew only too well, a still-murderous disposition.

Dave’s old partner had once warned him about Jubal’s temper. They’d stopped in for a beer after their watch one night and the surly bartender had copped an attitude from the get-go. Back in the day, Dave hadn’t been one to turn the other cheek.

“Man, let it go,” Titus had said in a nervous whisper. “You don’t want to tangle with that S.O.B. Once he start in whaling on you, he like a big ’ol loggerhead. He ain’t gonna let you go till it thunders. Or till you dead.”

It was good advice. Too bad Dave hadn’t had the sense to heed it.

He and Jubal played the staring game for several more seconds, then, with a hardening of his features, the older man ambled down to Dave’s end of the bar.

“Jubal.” Dave greeted him warily, mindful of the nightstick and brass knuckles the bartender kept under the counter. “How’s it going?”

“Dave Creasy. Been a while since I saw your ugly mug in here. Kinda thought you might be dead.”

Kinda
hoped
was the inference. “I bought a place in St. Mary Parish awhile back.”

“Same difference, you ask me.” Jubal got down a glass and a bottle of whiskey. “The usual?”

“Nah, I’m on the wagon these days.”

“Since when?”

Eight months, four days, nine hours and counting.
“Since the last time I got thrown in jail for disorderly conduct.”

Jubal’s gold tooth flashed in the light from the Abita Purple Haze sign over the bar.

Dave touched the area over his left eye. His memories of that night had faded, but the scar hadn’t. It had taken him two days to get out of the drunk tank, another five before he’d stumbled into the nearest emergency room with a raging fever. The infection had laid him flat for nearly two weeks, and by the time he got out of the hospital, fifteen pounds lighter, a jagged scar was the least of his worries.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your eye,” the young intern had scolded him. “However, at the moment, I’m more concerned about your liver. You have what is known as alcohol hepatitis, which can be treated but only if alcohol consumption is stopped. Otherwise, this condition is likely to cause cirrhosis, Mr. Creasy,” he’d stated bluntly. “If you don’t stop drinking, there’s a good chance you won’t make it to your fortieth birthday.”

Dave wasn’t particularly worried about dying, but he would prefer not to go out the way his old man had. So he’d stopped drinking…again, started going back to AA, and he’d moved down to Morgan City to work part-time for his uncle while reopening Creasy Investigations. Marsilius had found him a little house on the bayou where he could live and set up shop until he was able to afford office space in town. The only problem with that arrangement was that his uncle now considered it his moral duty to keep Dave on the straight and narrow.

As if testing Dave’s resolve, Jubal poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s and slid the tumbler across the bar. “First one’s on the house. For old times’ sake.”

“No thanks, but I’ll take a cup of that coffee I smell brewing.”

“Suit yourself.” Jubal filled a cup and passed it to Dave. “If you’re not drinking, what brings you in here?”

“I’m meeting someone.” Dave lifted the cup and took a sip of the strong chicory blend. The coffee was hot. It scalded his tongue and he swore as the front door swung open. And in walked Angelette Lapierre.

She stood in the doorway taking stock of the room just as she always did. That was Dave’s first memory of her, the way she’d planted herself on the threshold of the captain’s office, her gaze sweeping the room as the group of homicide detectives huddled over a map had looked up with a collective indrawn breath.

Dave had been married back then and in love with his wife, but he couldn’t help noticing Angelette. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, she’d had that dog-in-heat quality that drew men to her side and made any woman unfortunate enough to be in the same room dislike her on sight.

Dave had tried to ignore her, but later in the crowded squad room, he’d glanced up to find her watching him, and her slow smile had sent a shiver down his backbone. Something that might have been a warning glinted in her sultry eyes that day, and Dave would later wish that he’d taken heed of it.

But instead, he’d told himself there was no harm in looking. What Claire didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Claire.

Dave winced at the memory. He didn’t want to think about her at that moment. He didn’t want to think about her ever. She was a part of his past. One of the ghosts that came out to haunt him on rainy summer nights.

But he couldn’t help himself. He closed his eyes briefly as an image of his ex-wife appeared in his head. She wasn’t as curvy or as beautiful as Angelette, but her appeal was far more dangerous because she was the kind of woman you could never get out of your system. No matter how much you drank.

As if she was reading his mind, Angelette’s expression hardened. Her gaze seemed to pierce right through him, and then she blinked and the daggers were gone. The familiar smile flashed, dazzled, even as her chin lifted in defiance.

Same old Angelette.

She wore a blue dress, transparent from where she stood in the doorway. Jubal leaned an elbow on the bar and swore under his breath. Together he and Dave watched her walk with fluid grace to the stool next to Dave’s, a whiff of something seductive preceding her.

Still smiling, she placed her purse on the bar and crossed her legs, letting that blue dress skate up her slender thighs.

“I don’t want no trouble,” Jubal warned.

She tossed back her dark hair and laughed. “I don’t want any trouble, either.”

“You start throwing beer bottles like you did last time, I’m calling the law on both of you.”

“I am the law, remember?” She laughed again, but her amusement didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just relax, okay? Dave and I kissed and made up a long time ago. Didn’t we, Dave?”

“If you say so.” He was all for letting bygones be bygones, but when Angelette leaned over to brush her lips against his, he couldn’t help tensing.

Her gaze lit on the scar above his eye. “Wow. Did I do that?”

“Better than a tattoo.”

“Speaking of tattoos…I got myself a new one. Remind me to show it to you sometime.”

Dave let that one go. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, as Marsilius frequently pointed out, but he’d learned his lesson with Angelette.

Not getting the response she wanted, she turned to Jubal. “Double whiskey.”

There was something about Angelette that Dave hadn’t remembered from before. She’d always had an edge. Had always been able to give as good as she got. An ambitious female detective had to know how to handle herself in a man’s world. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t her years as a cop that had given her face a brittle veneer. It was selling out. Being on the take for too long had chipped away at her sensuality and left in its wake something hard and unpleasant and faintly decadent.

Dave cradled his cup, gratified to note that his hands no longer trembled. He hadn’t felt this steady in years. “So how did the anger management classes go?” He knew the question was likely to set her off. Angelette didn’t like being called on her bullshit—by him or by the judge who’d ordered her into the classes—but Dave couldn’t resist goading her a little.

She surprised him. Instead of rising to the bait, she gave an airy wave with one hand as she lifted her drink with the other. “Oh, I finished up months ago. You’re looking at the new and improved Angelette. What do you think?”

“Not bad.”

One brow lifted as her eyes seemed to challenge him.
Not bad? There was a time when you couldn’t keep your hands off me, you bastard.
“You’re not faring too badly yourself. You’ve put on a little weight, but it suits you. I was never all that partial to scrawny guys. A girl has to have something to hang on to, right, Jubal?” She gave the bartender a wink.

The older man glared at her with open suspicion. “You want another drink?”

“Oui, bien sûr.”
She waited for him to pour the whiskey, then picked up her glass. “Let’s move over to a booth.” She slid off the stool, and as she turned, her full breasts brushed up against Dave’s arm for a split second before she moved away.

He got up and, taking his coffee with him, followed her to a back booth. By the time he sat down, she’d already finished her second drink.

“Maybe you ought to ease up on the hooch.”

“What is that? A friendly piece of advice from one drunk to another?” Her face was flushed and her voice sounded strained as she folded her arms on the table.

Something was wrong. Dave could feel it. Her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. Instead, she watched the steam rising from his cup that drifted up between them.

“What did you want to see me about?”

Her gaze darted to the front door, and Dave noticed that she’d chosen a booth where they both had a view of the entrance. He’d taught her that. The things she’d taught him didn’t come in so handy these days.

“I’m seeing someone. I wanted you to hear it from me first.” She ran a fingernail around the rim of her empty glass and Dave could tell she wanted another drink. He knew that feeling, that hunger. It was like a needy old friend you could never get rid of.

He waited for a moment, thinking he might feel a twinge of regret at her news, but no. Not even a flicker of relief. He just didn’t care anymore. “Is it serious?”

“Who knows?” Angelette shook out a cigarette and lit up. The smoke mingled with the steam from his coffee, softening her features and making her face seem almost vulnerable, but Dave knew better than to believe in a mirage. “We’re taking things slow for now. Something you and I should have done, I guess.” She propped an elbow on the table, letting the Camel smolder between her fingers. “Never was anything slow about you, Dave.”

“Most men wouldn’t take that as a compliment.”

“But you’re not most men, now are you?” She gave him a dark smile. “We both liked it fast, didn’t we? And often.”

Her lowered voice conjured images best left in the past. Seedy motel rooms. The hood of his car. A deserted road with the smell of the river drifting in through the open windows.

“We were good for a while, baby. You can’t deny that.” She reached for his hand, but Dave pulled his away.

“Tell me about your new guy. Anyone I know?”

“It’s Lee Elliot.”

Dave was caught off guard by the name. The conservative Orleans Parish district attorney hardly seemed suited to Angelette’s free spirit, but then Elliot came from old money and that would most definitely appeal to her.

“Are you impressed?”

“Have to say that I am. Does he know about the payoffs?”

“I’m clean these days, Dave. I swear. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just keep your mouth shut about the past. I kind of like the idea of a stable relationship for a change and I don’t want you ruining this for me.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Besides, I don’t exactly operate in Elliot’s circle.”

“No, but Claire’s sister does.”

“I don’t talk to Claire’s family. You know that.”

“I thought things might be different now.”

“You mean because I’m not seeing you anymore?”

Angelette took a quick drag on her cigarette. “I did wonder.”

“Claire and I are over,” Dave said slowly. “We’ve been over for a long time. You know she’s remarried.” And wasn’t it pretty damn remarkable how he was able to say it without punching a wall or shattering a window?