Say You Love Me. Rita Herron
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craned her neck to see more clearly and he lowered the camera. Shadows from the silvery Spanish moss shrouded his face as if he’d been cocooned in a giant spiderweb. Then he lifted his right hand and waved. Her breath caught in her chest.
A series of flashes flickered like fireflies against the growing darkness. Once. Twice. A dozen times. She blinked and threw her hand over her forehead, spots dancing before her eyes.
He was watching her. Taking pictures….
For what reason?
Panic and anger mushroomed inside her and she stepped forward to go confront him, but the waiter appeared with her check and blocked her path.
“Chere? You pay before you leave us? Qui?”
She sighed, removed her wallet and paid. But when she glanced across the street, the man had completely disappeared, lost in the darkness and the sins waging the city.
HOWARD KEITH STOOD nursing a Jax, a locally brewed beer, across the street, shielded by the exuberance of the Mardi Gras festivities. Britta Berger had actually noticed him.
Of course he was at a distance and she couldn’t see his face.
Howard’s right hand went to his prosthetic eyeball and he blinked, feeling it slip out of place. He popped it out, dusted it off, then slipped it back inside his eye pocket, blinking to create enough moisture to force the fake eye to settle.
Of course, he tried not to handle the ocular prosthetic in public, at least not in front of women. They tended to balk at the empty eye socket.
Although even with his eye in place, they were put off by his appearance. They never knew quite where to look, where to focus, so they averted their gazes and studied his feet, his stomach, his hands, anything but his face. And within seconds they rushed away, dismissing him as if he was a freak.
He would show them. Prove them wrong.
His fingers tightened on the camera. Even his interest in photography had garnered laughter and disbelief. How could he truly be an artist when he had no peripheral vision? No depth perception?
The camera compensated. Its powerful lens enabled him to capture the planes and angles, the light and shadows, the depth he wanted, and record it in vivid detail. And New Orleans certainly provided enough colorful characters, scenery and entertainment to feed his camera-frenzied mind.
Then he could do with it as he wished. Create masterpieces with his sketches, mold the faces into sculptures if he chose. Give the subjects life forever. Paint the eyes.
The eyes were the windows to the soul.
Did Britta Berger have any idea that he had seen into hers? That he had been watching her for months? That he knew her schedule. The food she chose for breakfast. The way she liked her coffee. The fact that she enjoyed a glass of wine on her patio at night before she retired. That she brushed her short red hair at least a hundred times before she crawled beneath the sheets.
That she slept without underwear.
That he’d seen her naked in the shower, her own hands stroking over sensitive private places that he ached to touch.
Yet, the seductress that he saw thrived on privacy. She was an enigma. He’d discovered that in his research. In her own way, she was hiding from life itself.
The vulnerability in her eyes had drawn him. She wanted someone to reach out and make the pain of her past dissipate. But she was afraid. After all, underneath her physical beauty lay lies, weaknesses, false promises. Evil.
Yes, a bad girl lurked inside Britta Berger and he would show the world her true self, just as he would with his other subjects. If it hurt them, then so be it.
His own pain had brought him to this point. He used it. Thrived upon it. It had inspired the theme for his work, which would hopefully gain him acclaim.
Then the beautifuls would be erased, their ugliness exposed forever.
IRRITATION KNOTTED Jean-Paul Dubois’s shoulders as he drummed his knuckles on R.J. Justice’s desk. Dammit. Time was critical. He had a murder to investigate and the magazine owner had kept him waiting for half an hour.
Long enough for him to decide he didn’t like the man. That he was weird. His office collections indicated an interest in S and M, witchcraft, bestiality and photographs that bordered on porn.
Justice finally loped in, tugging at his tie. “Sorry about that. My meeting ran over.”
Jean-Paul ignored the feigned apology and studied the man’s features, sizing him up. The women might call him handsome but a cold hardness that Jean-Paul had detected in other suspects hinted that he was ruthless and calculating. He would do whatever he had to do to protect Naked Desires. And to get what he wanted in his personal life.
“You met with Britta already?” Justice asked as he settled into his desk chair.
Jean-Paul nodded. “She was very helpful.” Britta had claimed she and Justice were simply business partners. Just how did Justice feel about her?
“She was upset,” Justice said. “Were her fears justified?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Justice ran a hand over his sleek desk. “Damn. So the crime scene was real?”
Jean-Paul nodded. “We found the woman in the photo murdered earlier.” He leaned forward, his gaze penetrating. “You don’t seem surprised.”
Justice shrugged. “I realize our magazine caters to the…adventuresome side, so we get some odd mail. But we certainly don’t condone murder.”
Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes. “I asked Miss Berger to bring all the mail she’s received in the past month to the station. It’s possible this guy wrote in before.”
Justice hesitated. “I suppose that sounds fair, although I would like to keep our magazine out of the investigation when you talk to the press.”
“You don’t want the publicity?”
Justice shrugged. “I can stand it, but I was thinking about Britta’s safety.”
“Of course.” Jean-Paul cleared his throat, not certain he believed the man. What if Justice had killed the woman, then sent the photo to Britta anonymously to stir publicity?
“Do you keep a record of the submissions with the sender’s name and address?”
“Yes. In a secure file.”
“Who sent this photo?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Justice said matter-of-factly. “I checked and the envelope wasn’t logged in. Ralphie must have found it in the overnight-mail slot and put it on Britta’s desk.”
“Then I need to speak to him.”
Justice punched a button on the intercom and ordered the boy to come to his office.
Jean-Paul stood. “Mr. Justice, can you tell me anything that might help us find the killer? Did you know the victim? Had you ever seen her before?”
Justice steepled his fingers as if in thought. “No. Should I know her?”
“Not necessarily, but I have to ask.”
“What was her name?”
“We haven’t identified her yet.” Jean-Paul paused. “How about the cabin? Did you recognize it?”
Justice scoffed. “That shanty could be any one of a hundred tucked in the bayou.”
Jean-Paul pushed on, “Have you received any calls or letters yourself that might be related?”
“I would have reported it if I had, Detective.”
“Can you think of any reason the killer targeted Miss Berger with the photograph?”
Justice