Say You Love Me. Rita Herron
Читать онлайн книгу.
his gut instinct hinted there was more. And that Justice was holding back. Maybe he was the one fixated on her. Maybe he’d killed a replica of her to frighten her into his arms.
“How long have you known Miss Berger?” Jean-Paul asked.
Justice’s hands tightened by his side. A telltale sign that the question stirred his anxiety. “A few months.”
“And your relationship is…?”
“Strictly business,” Justice said with a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes.
“Has she been involved with anyone recently? Someone who might want to hurt her?”
“Not that I know of,” Justice said in a curt tone.
“You haven’t noticed any strange men hanging around? Maybe outside?”
“No.” Justice cleared his throat. “Well, except for that Reverend Cortain and his religious group. They’re harassing us.”
“By protesting the publication of Naked Desires?”
Justice heaved a sigh. “Yes. That idiot reverend is leading the madness. If you ask me, he’s a psycho himself. Maybe you should check into him.”
Jean-Paul made a note to do so. “Has he threatened you or Miss Berger?”
“He sent fliers to Britta about his protest rallies, touting some religious bunk about us leading others into sin,” Justice admitted with a scowl. “And if this murder gets out, he’ll probably accuse our magazine of triggering sexually related crimes.”
“Where were you two nights ago, say around midnight?”
Justice snapped his head up, his eyes seething. “You can’t possibly think that I had something to do with this. For God’s sake, I encouraged Britta to report the incident. And like I just said, this crime will only be fodder for Cortain’s nonsense.”
“I have to ask so I can eliminate you as a suspect.”
Justice shuffled his day planner. “I…was with a woman. I can give you her name if you want. She’ll vouch for me.”
Jean-Paul indicated a pad on the desk. “I’d appreciate that.”
Justice’s lips thinned into a straight line, but he tore off the sheet of paper and shoved it toward Jean-Paul.
A knock rapped on the door and a skinny, blond kid appeared. “Mr. Justice? You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Ralphie. Come in. Detective Dubois from the New Orleans Police Department needs to ask you a question.”
Jean-Paul gave him a once-over. Young. Naive. Khakis and a designer shirt with Italian loafers. Green under the collar.
Not a murderer.
The boy paled. “Did I do something wrong?”
Jean-Paul explained about the photo and Ralphie collapsed into a chair. “I…I thought Miss Berger seemed upset when she asked me about the mail earlier, but she didn’t tell me about the picture.”
“What did she say?” Jean-Paul asked.
“She wanted to know if I’d seen the person who’d delivered the envelope.”
“And did you?”
“No.” He crossed his feet at his ankles, rocking sideways. “It was under the door this morning when I arrived.”
Jean-Paul nodded. “So you put it on her desk? But you didn’t open it first?”
“No. It was addressed to her.” Embarrassment colored his face. “Miss Berger doesn’t like me to read the mail. Says I’m too young.”
“How did you get those scratches on your hand?”
“My dog.” He stared at his knuckles. “I just got a boxer puppy. I’m trying to train him but, man, he chews on everything in sight.”
Jean-Paul frowned. The kid obviously knew nothing. “Have you noticed anyone lurking around, maybe watching Miss Berger?”
“No one specifically. Although men always look at her.”
Yes, they would. Although Britta could probably take care of herself, a sliver of worry tickled his spine, arousing protective instincts born of years on the job.
His reaction certainly couldn’t be personal. Britta Berger was definitely not his type.
But the killer had chosen her for a reason.
Jean-Paul intended to find out exactly what it was.
And why his victim had resembled her, as well.
A GUST OF WIND from the impending storm rattled the trees and sent leaves swirling around Britta’s feet as she rushed through the mob on Bourbon Street to her apartment. The storm clouds grew darker; the sounds of feet pounding the pavement became more ominous as the night swelled with the hordes of tourists. She glanced over her shoulder, repeatedly searching for the photographer, but a fog of drunken tourists obliterated any individual from standing out.
Still, someone was out there.
She sensed him watching her, felt his beady eyes on her skin. Studying her. Waiting.
Was it the photographer she’d spotted during dinner? The killer who’d sent her the photo?
Were they the same man?
She considered calling the cops but what could she tell them? She had an odd feeling? They’d think she was crazy.
A beer can rolled across the pavement, clanging into a metal garbage can and she shrieked, pausing as a beefy hand reached down to grab it. “Sorry about that, ma’am.”
She tensed at the lascivious look in his liquor-glazed eyes, and pushed past him, shouldering her way around more groping hands until she reached Naked Desires. Neon lights dotted the street with color, highlighting the painted print and logo on the door window. Several lurid males drooled, their faces pressed against the fog-coated glass as they tried to peek inside.
Ignoring their pleas for a sneak preview of the upcoming magazine and offers to share their fantasies with her, she maneuvered her way inside, slammed the door shut and locked it. But she froze at the sight of the darkened stairwell leading to the upstairs apartment. She tried the light, but it didn’t work. Had someone messed with it or had the bulb simply burned out?
You’re being paranoid. How many times last month had it done the same thing and she hadn’t thought it suspicious?
Choking back fear, she clenched her keys, ready to use them as a weapon. Outside, the wind howled like an animal. She unlocked the door and hurried inside. With only three rooms to the tiny apartment, she raced through them all, finally muttering a silent thank-you to find them empty.
Still, she paused in her bedroom, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling. The top bureau drawer which held her underwear was open slightly. Hadn’t she shut it this morning when she’d left for work? Normally, she kept her garments neat, her bras on the left side, her favorite frilly underwear on the right. In the drawer below, she stored her teddies. Now, her underwear was jumbled as if someone had pawed through it. Frantic, she jerked the second drawer open and gasped. Her teddies had also been moved around as if someone had touched them.
Then she saw it—a red crotchless teddy lay in the center of her bed.
A low sob caught in her throat. It was just like the one the dead woman had worn in the photograph. She glanced up in horror and noticed the note stuck to the mirror.
“I always have one eye on you. You can’t run forever.”
Shaking with fear and disgust, she rushed to the bathroom and splashed water on her face to stem the nausea. What should she do? Could that photographer somehow have gotten into her place? Or the killer who’d sent her the photograph of the murdered woman?