Mahieu gave her his cocky grin. "Not a chance, Bijou. Remy doesn't want you goin' anywhere without an escort right now. He's gotten all paranoid between the murders, you getttin' harassed last night at the club and Robert actin' like an idiot. You're goin' to have to be a little patient with Remy until he figures things out. He's got a protective streak a mile wide when it comes to you."
"I'd love to feel very special, Mahieu, but the truth is, Remy feels protective over everyone. That's why he's a cop."
She went inside and stepped back to allow him to lead the way. The truth was, everyone was going to stare at her, and she didn't mind Mahieu running interference. He was a big man, much like his brother, all muscle with that smooth, fluid way of walking. He exuded confidence, just like all the Boudreaux brothers and Saria. She wanted to be like that and was determined that she would be, given a few months. For too long she'd tried to be someone she wasn't and in the end she just couldn't sustain it.
Following Mahieu through the bull pen, she rounded a corner to find the homicide division. Remy's office was in the corner, with several desks out on the floor. Mahieu waved her to a chair, but there were several policemen looking at her, staring, some sporting grins. She didn't feel like sitting there on display for them all. Mahieu went over to talk with someone he knew, and she wandered around the room, trying to get a feel for Remy's work.
Set up in the middle of the largest wall was a huge whiteboard with pictures of Pete Morgan and the altar. Alongside that were pictures of Ryan Cooper and the altar. The pictures were in horrible, gruesome detail, and although it was one of those situations where one could almost not stop looking at the train wreck, she managed to shift her gaze.
In a line down either side of the grisly murder pictures were photographs of men. Her manager, Rob Butterfield, and his friend Jason Durang were among them. Bob Carson was up on the wall as well. She recognized a few other faces from the men who had been in her club and had harassed her. She couldn't imagine why any of them had been singled out and would be considered suspects.
Above the pictures, a map caught her eye. It was of both the United States and Europe. There were red pins in various cities. She moved closer and studied the map. It took a moment or two for the significance to sink in. She stood there, staring, biting her lip, suddenly very much afraid.
"Come away from there," Remy said.
She whirled around to face him, one hand going defensively to her throat. She felt the color drain out of her face. "What is this, Remy?"
"Don' be lookin' at that, Blue," he cautioned. "Come into my office. You shouldn't see that. There's no reason." He took her hand and tugged.
"No, I need to know. What is this?"
He sighed, his fingers stroking the back of her hand in a caress. "It's a murder board. It helps me keep all the facts straight. Putting everything up, I can work the pieces like a puzzle until eventually it all comes together."
"You have Rob Butterfield up there. You even have Bob."
"I'm not calling them suspects, but they are persons of interest. All of them were here four years ago when the first series of murders happened here in New Orleans. All of these men were. I have to rule people out and so far, I haven't quite gotten there with them, but I'm certain I will. Among others, I'm talkin' with them now. Of course not together. I like to keep my persons of interest separated so they can't come up with the same story."
"Why would they even be suspects?" She wasn't buying his "persons of interest" story for a moment.
"They were in the wrong place at the wrong time with no real alibi." He gave a careful, casual shrug. "Come away from here now."
Bijou resisted the tug on her hand. "Why are all those cities flagged with red pins?"
Remy went very still, her actions suddenly really catching his attention. "Do you really want to know?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't," she replied. Her heart pounded hard. Her mouth went dry. She felt the rise of her leopard coming close to the surface as if offering to take her place.
"These are his kills over the last four years. The first that we found with the same pattern was in New York City."
Bijou closed her eyes briefly. "And the days, months and year written above each pin are when he killed?"
Remy nodded grimly. "Four kills in each city. Even in Europe, but we know of only three sites there."
She had to tell him. She felt sick to her stomach. "I need to sit down, Remy. Maybe a glass of water?"
Remy regarded her carefully, his piercing eyes sharp with intelligence. She knew she'd gone pale and that her skin had suddenly become clammy. There was no way to hide it from him since he was holding her hand. His thumb slid innocently over her pulse. He was well aware something was radically wrong. She wasn't a wilting flower. Her distress had nothing to do with the detailed pictures of the two men she knew who had been brutally murdered.
He didn't question her further, simply led her into his office, put her into a chair and went to get her a glass of water. She leaned her head into her hand. Nothing made sense anymore.
Remy returned and carefully closed the door. "Drink this, chere, and then tell me what's wrong."
Bijou took a long, cool sip, hoping it would help. Her mind raced with possibilities. "Remy, those cities on your murder map, I played shows in every single one of them. Includin' the places in Europe."
He went very still, his hip on the desk, his eyes locked on hers. She couldn't have looked away if she wanted to.
"The same days, the same months. Every time I was in a city playin' a concert, the killer was there too. That can't be a coincidence."
She twisted her fingers together to keep her hands from trembling. "And the first set of murders, I was here in New Orleans for Bodrie's funeral." She looked up at him. "What do you think that means?"
"It means your manager, his mysterious friend and your stalker just moved to the head of the list." Remy toed a chair around and straddled it, sitting close, facing her so he could watch her every expression. "Were you at any time aware of the murders before Pete was killed?"
"After I left town, which I did fast after Bodrie's funeral, I read about a serial killer in the Garden District. It was in the news on the television as well. But I didn't know about any of the other killings. When I'm on tour, it's exhaustin'. I spend most of my time goin' from city to city, so when I have the chance, I spend my time relaxin'."
Bijou looked down at her hands, her fingers twisted together. She hated confessing to him, making herself look like a loser. Those years had taken their toll on her. She didn't believe in herself, or people anymore. She'd lost who she was. "I don' trust easily, Remy. I saw the people who surrounded Bodrie. They weren't his friends. They were usin' him."
Remy leaned toward her, reaching out to cover her hands with one of his. "Chere, they weren't real. You know the difference."
"I spent most of the time alone in hotel rooms, readin' books. I love to read. I guess that's my form of escape. Not drugs or alcohol, but books. I disappear into them, and durin' that time of my life, I needed them. I wasn't watchin' television or readin' magazines because I was afraid I'd see or hear something about me. I know that sounds vain, but I just don' have the personality to be in the spotlight. I realized I'd chosen the wrong profession, but I didn't know how to get off the merry-go-round."
"Being a public figure doesn't necessarily mean you have to give up your privacy."
"That's naive, Remy, and I think you know it. Anyone chosin' to be in the public eye is free game. Being Bodrie's daughter I was already there from the time I was born. Like an idiot, tryin' to prove something to myself and to others . . ."
"What, Bijou? What did you ever need to prove to anyone, let alone yourself?" Remy asked, his thumb sliding gently back and forth across the backs of her hands.
She ducked her head. "That I was good enough. Everyone wanted me to be him and when I first started singin', people were saying things like, 'What does she think she's doin'. She has
no talent.' They always compared me to him, and of course I came off second best."
"Are you crazy? You're a total success in your own right. Half the planet is in love with you and your voice."
She shrugged. "It didn't start out that way, but by the time I'd made a name for myself I realized that wasn't my world--that I didn't even want it. Can you imagine how that made me feel? I was a success and people loved my music. I felt like the ungrateful brat the tabloids and all of Bodrie's fans thought me. Here I had everything I'd wanted and dreamt of and I still wasn't happy." She looked him in the eye, wanting him to understand. "I was so miserable I could barely drag myself out of my room, but I performed nearly every night. I found myself exhausted and so unhappy I couldn't look at myself in the mirror."
She took a deep breath. "I guess I'm just tryin' to explain to you why I wasn't up on the news. I hid from everyone while I was on tour and then when I made the decision to quit, I hid from my manager because he was so angry with me. I needed time to figure out what I really wanted to do."
Quite frankly she was ashamed of having to tell him she didn't have her life together, not even when she was young. She wanted him to see only her good side, not all the floundering and angst she'd gone through before she realized what she needed--and wanted in her life. For all the crazy things going on around her now, she knew she was right to have come home. She loved her club. She loved the intimacy of it and the fact that she could control when she performed and how often. She was certain she would fit into the community given time, and the paparazzi would lose interest and eventually leave her alone.
She didn't want him to think she was a loser sitting in her hotel room, feeling sorry for herself and not even watching the news when other people were suffering, being murdered and he was trying hard to put a stop to it.
"I'm glad you've come home. Butterfield's upset because he's losing his money ticket."
"He says I'm letting my fans down," she said. "And I suppose he's right."
"If they're fans, Blue, they'll love what you love. Just because you aren't singin' rock and roll like your father, that doesn't take away your voice."