Leopard's Prey (43 page)

The two leopards held their prey in unbreakable grips, waiting for the life force to leave the bodies. The moment the brothers were dead, the humans took back control, forcing their cats away from their prey. As they did, Lojos and Drake broke through the brush in human form. Both of them carried weapons.

Remy shifted, catching the pair of jeans Drake tossed him. Gage shifted and pulled on a pair of jeans his brother Lojos provided.

“We have to get rid of the bodies quickly, before anyone comes along,” Remy said. “Take them to that monster of an alligator’s hole. No one ever disturbs him and he’ll hide the evidence of leopard’s bites better than anything else. Break the gun down and toss it in his hole as well. If we’re very lucky, no one in our lifetime will find it.”

“Consider it done,” Lojos said. “We’ll take care of it.”

“We didn’t find the brothers, obviously,” Drake added. “But we did find another body.” He paused with a small sigh. “Unfortunately, both you and Bijou know him.”

18

Remy crouched down as close as he could to the bloody mess that was Bob Carson and looked him over carefully, pushing aside the fact that the body, stripped of life and dignity, so brutally tortured, had once been a man. He was nothing more than a carcass hung in the tree, like a deer carved for its meat. Only Carson had been carved for his bones.

Remy didn’t like the man. Carson had stalked Bijou for years – had probably entertained the idea of getting rid of her when she was an eight-year-old child so that he had a chance of inheriting Bodrie Breaux’s fortune. He’d tormented Bijou by keeping her in the tabloids, by feeding them so many misleading stories and headlines to photographs he manipulated into the worst possible lies in order to get money – and embarrass her.

Still, no one should die like this. Hard. Mean. Screaming for mercy with no one but alligators to hear. Carson had been at the gallery a few hours earlier and Remy had helped to throw him out.

“He always has his camera with him,” Remy said. “Find it. And where’s his car? How did he get out here? I can’t see him walking out here by himself at night in those dress shoes he’s still wearing. He didn’t change his suit either, so he didn’t go back to his hotel and change before he was killed.”

Carson wasn’t local. He wouldn’t just be fishing or hunting nutria for his family. He had no reason to be in the swamp. Even if he’d tried to work his way around to the back of the Inn, he’d go in by the lake. This particular spot was a place not far from Bodrie’s camp. Had Carson been going there when the killer ambushed him?

Drake and Remy’s brothers had known better than to mess up a crime scene and they’d stayed away from the body. Mahieu had stayed behind to guard it and keep any alligators away while Drake and Lojos returned to the Inn to get Remy and Gage. Nothing had been touched, but still, something was off-kilter, just a little wrong.

He paced around the outer edges of the crime scene, looking at it from all angles. The blood spatter was worse than usual, which meant Carson was alive a very long time, but some of the other victims had also lasted longer than one would expect under the circumstances. The altar was perfect as usual, without one drop of blood other than the pint in the bowl and the heart sitting behind it. The dead man’s left hand was oiled and had a candle tied to it. The rocks were arranged in the familiar rectangle with meticulous care.

He stood a distance away, frowning, surveying the scene. Gage joined him. Forensics hadn’t arrived yet and the swamp seemed peaceful enough, but as always, living by its own laws. The continual drone was steady, insects buzzing around the body and feasting on what was left.

“The Rousseau brothers could have done this, Gage. They were in the swamp for certain, and not far from here.”

“Yep. They could have.” Gage watched his brother’s face. Every expression. Every nuance. The sharp intelligence in his eyes.

“Carson, though? That doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t have been in the swamp at night alone, not dressed in his fancy gallery-showing clothes. He had to have been brought here. He’s not a target of opportunity for them.”

“And they have a lot of others to choose from, people they were really angry with,” Gage agreed. He waited for more. Remy puzzled things out, a master at it, and learning from him would only make him better at his own job.

Remy kept looking at the body. The altar was perfect. The discarded plastic suit was in the exact position it should have been, but there was something off and he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“If the Rousseau brothers did this, and I wish they had, it makes no sense at all to choose Carson.” Remy carefully moved closer to the body, wanting to examine the neck to the see if the killer had done the same thing to Carson as he had to Cooper.

“Carson could have accidentally filmed something the Rousseaus didn’t want him to see,” Gage ventured.

“We’ve got to find the camera,” Remy said over his shoulder.

“Got it!” Drake triumphantly held up the very expensive camera still inside its case. “It was near the road, where the killer must have parked his car. He walked in. There are depressions in the grass. He carried Carson, so he’s very strong. I couldn’t find a decent print of a shoe, but he definitely walked in and it’s a long way to carry a grown man.”

“Two people?” Remy asked.

Drake shook his head. “I don’t think so, Remy. You can take a look yourself, but it looks like one man carrying a very heavy load. If Carson had been knocked out, he’d be even heavier. If he wasn’t, he would have been fighting and the steps wouldn’t have been so precise and steady.”

“He’d have to carry his bag of equipment as well,” Remy mused. “I doubt if he’d make two trips. His car would be on the road for any passerby to notice and if he left his victim, anything could have happened, from a poacher huntin’ alligators at night to Carson coming to and getting away. He’s strong. Like a leopard strong.”

“Robert was in custody,” Drake said, his tone neutral.

“Jason Durang was in prison,” Gage said. “He worked out like most prisoners and he’s an extremely strong – and dangerous – man. He could easily have overpowered Carson. Carson’s not exceptionally big.”

Remy kept looking at the body while Gage examined the photographs on the camera.

“We do have an excellent timeline, Remy,” Gage pronounced. “Carson took a whole hell of a lot of photographs last night.”

In the distance, they could hear the sheriff’s boat making its way toward the spot, coming in from the water with the forensic team. Word would be spreading up and down the bayou that another murder had taken place in their backyard.

Remy continued to look at the body. Carson had taken a while to die, mostly because the killer hadn’t severed any arteries when he began carving him up. But still, there were no marks on the throat indicating multiple chokings. He sighed and ran a hand down the back of his neck. It was right there in front of him, but he wasn’t getting it.

“Remy, you have to take a look at these pictures Carson took,” Gage said again. He walked the camera over to his brother. “Start here. There’s an entire series, startin’ at the gallery, inside, before we tossed him out. The first few pictures were of the sculptures in the gallery and then the more famous and wealthy jet-setters who came to fight for the right to purchase one of Lefevre’s latest creations. There are many photographs of Arnaud and Bijou. He’s definitely fixated on her.”

“That’s not news.”

“He took more photos with a zoom lens from across the street after we tossed him out, but the windows are glass and the place was lit up like a Christmas tree. Between those pictures and his scribbles for the headlines and article idea, we’ve at least got a timeline of his whereabouts right before his murder.”

“Did we get lucky enough to get his murderer caught in the act?” Remy asked, half serious. Of course, had the murderer been on the camera, he would have ditched it in the swamp or canals. No one was that stupid.

“Take a look, Remy,” Gage encouraged. “There’s a hell of a lot of photographs and some are very unexpected. I’d rather not jump to conclusions or influence you in any way. See for yourself.”

Remy took the camera with a gloved hand, studying the photograph Gage had brought up. Bijou, looking beautiful and far too elegant, was laughing, looking into Arnaud’s eyes over his drink. The next picture was of the two of them, studying his latest creation, a look of rapt attention on her face. Arnaud seemed enthralled with Bijou, his gaze only on her. If one just looked at the series of photographs and knew nothing of Bijou and Arnaud’s relationship, they would believe the two were lovers.

He moved on to the next few shots. They were taken from outside the gallery, Bijou and Arnaud dancing and then many more of Arnaud staring at Remy’s face. The artist looked enraptured. Even enamored. Definitely fixated on Remy now, not Bijou.

“It’s interestin’ what interpretation one can put on a photograph,” he murmured. “I can imagine what spin Carson was going to put on these.”

There were more photographs of Remy and Bijou dancing together and they definitely looked like lovers, dancing so close their bodies were practically entwined. There was one of Bijou looking up at him and his heart clenched hard. There was love stamped on her face. She looked beautiful, so beautiful. The moment should have been private between them, but Carson had planned on spreading it out in a tabloid, with photos of Lefevre as well and calling it “love triangle with a twist.”

Remy went still when the next set of photographs appeared. He could feel Gage watching him. Rob Butterfield was hunched over the trunk of his car, one hand on the latch as he talked to Jason Durang. The two looked furtive, which had probably been the reason they drew Carson’s attention.

Durang’s vehicle, a four-wheel-drive Jeep, was parked very close to Butterfield’s Mercedes. The next shots showed the Mercedes trunk open and Butterfield reaching in to extract a large plastic tarp and more plastic sheets folded. Remy’s mouth went dry. He glanced at his brother, who looked grim.

“Keep goin’,” Gage suggested.

The next shot showed Butterfield spreading a leather-type case open on the hood of his car. Both men peered down at it. Carson used a zoom lens to focus on the set of surgical tools.

Remy’s pulse leapt. His leopard snarled. They had planned a murder, but whose? Bijou’s? Had they planned to kill her and make it look as if the bone harvester had done it? He’d been worried about that for a while. Had Carson caught them in the act and then been caught himself?

“Get a warrant, Gage. Let’s search both vehicles. We should have enough with these photographs for that.”

Remy continued to examine the pictures Carson had taken that night. After he left the parking lot, he’d gone to the small studio Lefevre rented to work in. The room was surrounded on three sides by mostly glass for the light. Again there was a series of photographs, all capturing the Frenchmen engrossed in his work, busy sketching. At times the artist almost looked frantic, driven by his relentless need to create. There were dozens of sketches of Remy’s eyes. Of his face. Some just of his mouth.

Remy could see how Carson could twist the photographs into something altogether different than an artist’s captivated interest in facial structure and features. He could definitely piece together photographs and make them look like a love triangle with Arnaud interested in Remy. Carson’s plan was to accuse Bijou of a threesome. The headline he’d chosen was “Bijou’s two lovers in love.”

Arnaud clearly was totally absorbed in his work. Remy doubted, if Carson had actually been in the room with him, that the artist would have even noticed him taking photographs. Carson had zoomed in on the sketches just as he had the surgical instruments earlier in the parking lot. Remy’s eyes had been drawn over and over, but Arnaud had discarded the sketches in frustration, compelled to capture the exact look he had seen in Remy’s eyes and clearly failing.

The next set of photographs was of two men in the shadows who seemed to be watching Arnaud through his studio windows. They were back in the alley and Carson must have caught them by accident. The second photo showed the two men appearing to argue.

Remy realized Arnaud looked as wealthy as he was. He sat alone in a well-lit room where anyone hard up for money and willing to rob him would see. He probably appeared to be the perfect victim, a man who was so focused on his work he wouldn’t notice intruders until it was too late.

“He didn’t get their faces,” Remy complained. “But they look as if they could be Jean and Juste Rousseau. What do you think?” He handed the camera back to his brother and turned to look at the body one more time.

The forensic team had arrived, and the photographer was busy getting shots of Carson from every angle. The sunlight came in through the cypress trees and spilled over them. Remy crouched low, angling from one side to the next to better see the body. It was right there. Right in front of him. Frustration had him rumbling low, under his breath.

“Make certain you get some good shots of the altar for comparison,” he snapped.

The photographer scowled at him, but refrained from speaking. He knew his job and was irritated that Remy might not think he did.

Remy wasn’t even looking at him, instead he was staring at the body. He stood up slowly, light dawning, the pieces falling into place. He knew
exactly
what was different.

“Gage.” He waited until his brother turned to face him. “It’s wrong. This is all wrong.”

“What is?” Gage moved closer, frowning, trying to see whatever it was his brother saw.

LeBrun, the ME, stopped what he was doing. Even the photographer paused. Remy was good at his job and usually spotted discrepancies before anyone else. He had an eye for murder and an uncanny knack of solving them.

“He doesn’t do this.”

“This is exactly what he does,” Gage argued, frowning at Remy.

Remy shook his head. “No, Gage.” He indicated the torn chest with a sweep of his hand. “This is wrong. He has a pattern, and he’s broken that pattern.”