He nodded, allowing a small grin to escape. "It's not happenin', bro. I'm not takin' on the lair for you."
"I took on your sister for you," Drake pointed out.
Remy shook his head and turned his attention to the crime scene. They were all waiting for him and he needed to get on with it, but even after all the years on the force, he had to steel himself if it was the same serial killer from before.
The body hung from the limb of a cypress tree, and just like the others he'd found in the courtyards of New Orleans four years earlier, death had been both gruesome and brutal. Blood ran in rivers, pooled in dark, dank puddles. Insects clung to every inch of the body. Sprays of blood soaked the nearby trees and brush, indicating the victim was alive when the killer had cut into him. The body had been hacked open, and the killer had harvested the rib and chest bones. The left hand had been hacked off.
He closed his eyes for a moment. It was impossible not to recognize the victim, even with the swarm of insects clouding his face and body. The face was distorted in death and covered in bugs, but everyone in the bayou had seen that particular red plaid shirt many times on a shrimper named Pete Morgan.
Pete was as good as they came. Fiercely loyal to his wife, family and friends. He'd been in the bayous all of his life. Born and raised. That red plaid shirt had been his trademark. He owned several of them and didn't wear anything else unless it was Sunday. Remy had gone to school with him, fished with him, stood for him when he got married. Got drunk with him when his firstborn had died a week after birth. Rejoiced with him when a healthy son was born two years later.
Remy made the sign of the cross, uncaring that anyone saw him. It was always difficult to see a gruesome murder, but to know the victim made it ten times tougher. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look around the crime scene, giving himself time to assimilate that his friend was dead and his end had been brutal.
He knew why Gage hadn't said a word to him. Of course he'd recognized Pete. So had Saria. It was even possible that Bijou had. Gage needed a fresh pair of eyes, completely absorbing the crime scene. Gage believed in Remy and his abilities so he'd allowed him to be just as shocked as the rest of them.
"He isn't shy, this killer." Remy tested his voice, found it professional and steady. "Any boat comin' through the swamp could have seen him, but he still took his time." He turned and looked at Drake. "The vic hasn't been dead that long." Which meant Saria and Bijou just missed the killer. He might even have heard them coming.
Drake nodded as cool as ever. "Saria was very aware of that."
Remy didn't care if Saria was aware of it or not. He wanted Drake to be aware of it. He had no doubt this was the same killer. The signatures were all there. The killer didn't bother to try to hide them--or maybe he wasn't aware he signed his work. The first kill site Remy had seen of this man's work had been in the vaunted Garden District in a historic bed-and-breakfast, with the victim hanging in the middle of the courtyard right beside the fountain. Just as this one was gruesome and messy, that scene had been horrendously nightmarish.
Arterial blood had sprayed everywhere. The body swung grotesquely from the hangman's noose, and the left hand had been cut off, dipped in oil with candles tied around the fingers and displayed obscenely on a very precise and clean altar. The altar had been in sharp contrast to the messy scene.
Remy turned to survey the altar erected there in the swamp a few feet from the body, precisely, he knew, four and a half feet to the inch, just as it was in the last four murders, four years earlier. There was no doubt this was the same killer. If he repeated the same pattern as he'd followed four years ago, there would be at least three more bodies before he was done. Each body would have different bones removed from it, all while the victim was alive and hanging. Sometimes they died of shock and blood loss first, other times of asphyxiation.
The killer was bold and always prepared. He took his time, and often the crime was committed in an area where anyone could happen upon him. Still, he never seemed to hurry. The altar, so meticulous and precise, was at such odds with the haphazard kill site. If Remy hadn't known better, he would think there were two perpetrators at the scene, but he'd studied the photographs and committed the scenes to memory. There was one murderer, and he cared nothing for the victim.
Clearly, the murder victim wasn't human to him. The only thing he wanted was the bones; the rest was a personal ritual of some sort. He just got the job done of harvesting the bones as quickly as possible, hacking up the victim without seemingly noticing the mess, or the fact that the donor was still alive. Only then did he slow down and take his time over the preparation of the altar. Whatever he was doing seemed to catch him up in some kind of weird enthrallment--unless there were two of them--which Remy had considered more than once.
"Voodoo?" Gage asked.
Remy frowned and shrugged. He didn't believe it was a voodoo altar, although certainly it appeared to be one. There were objects found in voodoo practice, but when he'd consulted Eulalie Chachere, a legitimate voodoo priestess, she had told him that the altar wasn't right even for a black magic practitioner. Still, he would consult her again. She was an expert and if anyone could figure out what that altar meant, it would probably be her. Remy knew her and trusted her. "You'll have to consult Eulalie. She worked with me before so she's familiar with the crime scenes. She won't disclose details. She can be trusted."
"I was hoping you'd work this case with me, Remy," Gage admitted. "You're the murder expert, not me. He's not finished."
No, he wasn't. Remy had an extra sense for such things even if he hadn't seen the murderer's work before. He would kill again and soon.
Remy nodded. "I'll talk to Eulalie. She'll help us. I'll need to talk to Saria and Bijou as well." He sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Bijou about anything unpleasant. It had taken years to forgive himself for the way he'd handled her ugly childhood, and he'd hoped that if they crossed paths as adults they could both put it behind them.
He forced himself to look at the body of his childhood friend. As long as he'd been the "vic" Remy could push the reality away for a time so he could get the job done, but grief was pushing close. "Have you notified next of kin?"
"I'm going to do that now," Gage said.
Remy inhaled. He should be the one to do it. He'd been best man. When he opened his mouth to suggest it, Gage shook his head.
"I was friends with him as well," Gage said. "And I went to school with his wife. You have enough to do. You always get the short end of the stick, and I'm askin' you to take lead on this. The least I can do is spare you talkin' to Amy."
"Thanks, Gage," Remy said. "Tell her I'll stop by later."
"The photographer has already taken pictures and forensics is waiting. I wanted you to see everything first before anything could be disturbed. Saria took photographs as well. She documented everything she saw and had Bijou do the same. Saria has an eye for detail. I told her you'd want a word with her. They're both waiting at the Inn."
Remy nodded as he skirted the crime scene. Somewhere close would be the stash of a bloodstained, hooded plastic suit, homemade, stitched together with meticulous, even stitches, plastic gloves and coverings for boots. He found what he was looking for the required four and a half feet from the body on the opposite side of the altar. This time, the discarded, bloody suit was half in the mud, as the killer had chosen a cypress tree near the water's edge, not giving himself enough room to put the clothing in a safer place. A mistake?
Remy frowned. That was unlike the killer. He didn't make mistakes, but the ritual of the altar and discarding of the kill suit was part of his rigid routine. He had never deviated. The plastic clothing should have been set safely away from the water, which meant the tree chosen should have been over by several feet. Remy turned back, and studied the grove of cypress trees. There were plenty of others trees the killer could have hung the body on.
He studied the grasses and the directions they were bent. Trails
led around various trees and always back to the one the killer had used to hang Pete. "Are you certain the integrity of the crime scene was preserved? Saria and Bijou didn't walk around? None of you did?"
Drake shook his head. "We know better."
Remy nodded and made his way carefully around the area to the back of the tree where Pete's body hung. The old cypress had several letters carved into it, obviously over several years. The letters P and M had a fresh line drawn through them. His leopard gave a leap of recognition. This particular spot had been a favorite of those living up and down the bayous or close to the marshes and swamps, to meet and party. He remembered it from his youth. His initials were carved into the trunk, along with his brothers' and even Saria's.
"He didn't choose this location randomly," Remy said. "He wanted to use this specific tree. Gage, take a look at this. Have the photographer photograph the entire trunk."
He studied the old carvings. The spot was easy to access from two different canals and a good place to meet where parents weren't going to find you. Lovers had carved their initials into the trunk surrounded by hearts. Others had simply put their initials in. S and B definitely stood for his sister, Saria. He wondered if the bold B and B were Bijou's initials, although he couldn't imagine her ever coming to the swamp to party. He wanted a list of all initials and a confirmation of just who those initials belonged to and said as much to Gage. If the killer was choosing victims by those who had partied here, had this gone from random killings to actual targeted prey? Or had it been that all along?
2
REMY stood outside of the Lafont Inn staring up at the grand Victorian-inspired chateau. The Inn was old-style elegance, an era long gone by, but well loved. The chateau was a hidden jewel set back from the edge of the lake where cypress trees had given way to groves of white pine and oak. Marsh, swamp and lazy bayous all were within easy reach. Visitors could lie in the hammocks set in the shade of the trees a few feet from the water, staying cool in the trees while the breeze off the lake fanned them.
White with pale blue trim helped to veil the house when the fog poured in from the lake and bayous. A wraparound porch and large balconies on the second story invited guests to view all kinds of birds and wildlife in the comfort of intricately carved and spacious rocking chairs.
The Lafont Inn had been in the Lafont family for over a hundred years. Miss Pauline Lafont had inherited the house from her grandmother, who had married a Dubois. The name of the estate had changed at that time, but Pauline had returned the original name to the family property when she decided to modernize the house and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast some years earlier. On Saria and Drake's wedding day, she'd given the Inn to Saria as she had no children and considered Remy's little sister the daughter she'd never had. Pauline had then married the man of her dreams, the one man she'd loved always--Amos Jeanmard.
Remy rubbed his aching eyes. He didn't want to be like Amos, sacrificing his personal happiness in order to preserve the leopard species. Amos had married the wrong woman, a leopard, and stayed with her for years. Only after she died did he marry Pauline, the woman he truly loved. A part of him understood, but he was tired of being alone. He wanted a family, a woman to come home to. He'd traveled the world looking in the rain forests in the hopes of meeting someone who not only attracted him physically, but who could live with a man like him. He had all but given up hope of finding a female that not only suited him, but who he could love.
Leopards were lethal cats, wild and savage and wanting a mate as well. A man couldn't just bring home anyone, because if their cat became edgy and dangerous, so did the man. Sex could get rough and his temper could be short. He had great control, but lately his leopard had been displaying every negative trait a leopard had.
He sighed and forced himself to move through the trees toward the chateau. He'd been on for nearly seventy-two hours gathering evidence for a murder in the French Quarter and had been on his way home when Gage had called him.
He was edgy. Restless. His body hard and hurting. His mind a little chaotic. Not a good sign in the middle of a murder investigation and never good when he was going to see his wild sister. He didn't need to say a word to her about going to the swamp at night, she'd know what he thought and she'd be on the defensive. If he was honest with himself, he couldn't blame her.
His leopard needed to run. Leopards didn't do well cooped up. If they weren't let out every now and then, the human side became every bit as dangerous as the animal side and he'd never felt so edgy in all his life, not even when he was in the jungle.
"Saria," Remy raised his voice. "Where are you, honey?" He walked farther into the darkened entryway. As always, his heightened animal senses took over. He could see easily even with the lack of lighting. He inhaled, taking scents into his lungs.
It always smelled good at the Inn. There was always a seemingly endless supply of fresh coffee and he could count on his sister to have a large pot of stew or meatballs and gravy simmering on the stove. Saria and Drake managed to give the old place a welcome feel of home from the fireplaces to the fresh-baked bread and home-style cooking. Besides the rich aroma of coffee and spices, he smelled the faint scent of lavender. Without thought, he followed that drifting, inviting scent through the hallway toward the kitchen.
"Saria? I'm lookin' for a cup of coffee. Where the hell are you?" he called out again. She should have known he'd be coming no matter how late it was, if for no other reason than just to make certain she was all right.
"Saria is in her darkroom developin' her photographs. I can get you a cup of coffee if you like." The voice came from the kitchen. Smoky. Suggesting dark nights and silken sheets. Sex and Sin. Velvet like a neat whiskey so smooth, yet burning all the way down.
Remy closed his eyes. His body tightened, a savage, urgent reaction to that amazing voice. No woman should be allowed to sound like that. That candlelight and "come take me to bed" tone gave her unfair advantages over a man.
He turned slowly. No one could possibly live up to that sultry, southern drawl so erotic and sensual, an invitation to wild nights and temptation. She stood draped against the wall, one hand on her hip, her enormous eyes on his face. He would never forget those eyes. Before, they'd taken up her face, a wild cornflower blue fringed with impossibly long, thick feathery lashes, as dark as the cloud of hair tumbling around her face. Now, her eyes drew attention to her remarkable skin and the perfection of her bone structure.
As if her inviting skin and the wealth of thick black hair cascading down her back weren't enough to bring a man to his knees, her body was all soft inviting curves, and firm defined muscle. Her legs were long and slender and she had a small waist, emphasizing her breasts and hips. Her generous mouth had full, curved lips, bringing on enough fantasies to last a lifetime. His breath caught in his throat and need slammed low and mean into his body.
His reaction to her shocked him. His leopard raked and clawed for supremacy. His body hurt, a deep savage ache, every muscle tense, his cock thick and hard, demanding to be sated now. He'd never had such a visceral, intense sexual reaction to a woman in his life. He wasn't a gentle man, his cat was too aggressive, but he'd learned control and kept a tight grip on both the man and the leopard. What the hell was it about Bijou Breaux that sent him spinning out of control?
Remy was grateful for his ability to keep his features expressionless. Bijou was sixteen years younger than him--a damned baby--and his body had no business reacting to hers no matter how sexy she was. It was wrong in every way.
She pressed her lips together, the tiniest movement. Her lashes fluttered, veiling her eyes, but not before he caught a glimmer of hurt. "You probably don' remember me. I went to school with Saria."
She stepped forward--into his space. His leopard ripped at him. His body tightened until he almost felt sick with need. He actually flexed his fingers, his palms itching to run over all that glorious skin. Lavender engulfed him, nearly drove him out of his mind. She extended her hand.
/> "Bijou Breaux."
Self-preservation or white knight? He detested hurting her. She'd been hurt by enough people. Silently he cursed. He couldn't stand seeing that small flash of hurt, not associated with him. He was going to race to the rescue and let her know he hadn't forgotten her.
"I don' forget faces, Bijou," he admitted. Or eyes like hers. What the hell had happened to her in the growing phase? Her mouth should be outlawed. "Of course I remember you." He took her outstretched hand and knew instantly it was a mistake to make physical contact. "It's nice to see you again." Damn. How absolutely mundane was that? He couldn't take a step, his body hurting like hell, his leopard roaring at him.
Her hand was small, fingers slender, slightly trembling as she shook his hand--or attempted to. He placed his other hand over hers, holding her still, locking her to him while his eyes searched hers. Her lashes came down immediately, hiding her thoughts from him. She definitely had trust issues.
"Are you visitin', or back with us?" He didn't let go of her hand, waiting for her answer. His body went still, watchful, his cat coiled, every muscle locked and ready.
"I bought a club in the French Quarter. I'm home for good." She smiled at him, a brief flash of perfect white teeth. "It's difficult to stay away. I think the bayou gets in our blood and just doesn't let go."
Her voice stroked his body with caressing fingers. He felt her touch right through his veins so that his blood surged hotly and his cock jerked hard. He let her go to keep from pressing her palm on that throbbing, burning hard-on that wasn't going away anytime soon.
"But you're not stayin' at the Breaux estate?" Hell. He had to keep the conversation going because he couldn't move. He was grateful there were no lights on.
"I'd rather burn that place down then ever set foot in it again."