Leopard's Prey (6 page)

“It’s nothin’, Remy,” Bijou said. “I told you.”

“Just a little matter of death threats,” Remy explained to Saria. “You know, nothin’ serious at all.”

“I don’ appreciate the sarcasm,” Bijou said, her eyes widening. “I don’ recall you bein’ so sarcastic.”

“That’s because you hero-worshipped him when he didn’ deserve it,” Saria pointed out, laughing all over again. “He has a bossy attitude and never lets you forget he’s the one runnin’ the show.”

Color crept up Bijou’s neck into her face. “I did
not
hero-worship him,” she denied. “He was bossy back then too.”

“There’s a difference between bein’ bossy, which I wasn’t, and bein’ the boss, which I am,” Remy said, in his mild voice. “In any case, worshippin’ me is a good idea. I’m all for it.”

Saria rolled her eyes and laughed, the sound joyful. Remy hadn’t seen Saria for a couple of weeks and he forgot how he felt in her company. She seemed relaxed and happy, her home always open and her smile ready. When had his sister become so different than the wild child he remembered? Sure, she still went her own way, but she was confident, not defiant. He liked being in her company. Her happiness radiated from her, surrounding everyone close to her. Her joy lifted those around her. She was definitely a woman, all grown up, married to a man closer to his age than hers. And she was happy.

“You know you’ll have to stay with me.” Saria turned to Bijou, all serious, her mercurial nature showing. “At least until Remy checks everythin’ out and we know you’re safe. It will be fun,” she added. “I’ve missed you.”

“That’s a good idea,” Remy said. “Make certain I get all of the threats, Blue, anything you have, paper, recordin’s – all of it.”

Bijou shook her head. “I feel like I’m being railroaded. I don’ recall anyone ever bein’ able to do that to me, not since I turned thirteen.”

“Someone needs to look after you,” Remy said. “Especially if you’re goin’ to run wild with my sister.”

Saria kicked him under the table. “I don’ run wild anymore, Remy. I’m a workin’ girl these days. I spend so much time takin’ pictures I barely have time to run this place properly or do guidin’.”

“Guidin’?” Bijou echoed. “You take tourists out in the swamp and bayous?”

“That’s how I met Drake,” Saria said. “I was his guide. Maybe you should take over my business. You could meet…”

Remy slammed his coffee mug onto the table. “Okay, that’s it. I’m drownin’ you in the bayou, Saria. I should have done it when you were born. I knew you were goin’ to be giving me trouble. Blue is
not
takin’ strangers into the swamp. I’d be shootin’ someone before nightfall.”

Saria leaned across the table and mouthed
Bossy
at Bijou.

“Clearly you don’ have enough to do, Remy,” Bijou observed. “Or you’ve been deprived of shootin’ someone for a long while now.”

“A little of both,” Remy said. “But now that I’ve got your sassy ass back in New Orleans no doubt I’ll have my hands full.”

“No doubt.”

“You’re really goin’ to make your home here?” Remy asked. “For good?”

Bijou nodded, her vivid blue eyes meeting his. “I’m tired of fightin’, Remy. I’ve made so many mistakes trying to be someone I’m not. I just plain don’ like the life, traveling, living in hotels, the bodyguards and constant paparazzi and crowds. I think for a while there, I felt as if I had to compete with Bodrie, which, of course, was impossible.”

“You have a beautiful voice,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. Once more that restless, dangerous feeling was building. He could feel his muscles coiling, his body going still, as if at any moment he would leap on his prey. He was very aware of Saria sending him an uneasy glance. She was leopard and her senses would pick up the shift in his body instantly, going on alert herself.

“Thank you. The thing is, I have to sing. I have to write music. It’s there in me and I have to get it out. I don’ expect anyone to understand. I just have this personal need. I’m done with the big tours and singing rock and roll all the time. I’m not Bodrie, nor do I want to be. I love the blues, and jazz. I play the piano, not a guitar. I love the saxophone. I can rock with the best of them, but that’s not my real dream. Everyone says if I switch from rock and roll to what I prefer, I can’t make it. My fan base won’t follow me, but this is something I have to do. My manager said I didn’t have the talent for blues and jazz, but I love it so much and I want to try.”

“That’s bullshit, Blue, you’ve got talent.” Remy felt the clawing at his gut. His cat needed to run, and he’d better get out of there soon. He had no idea why he was so reluctant to leave. Saria just made the place too comfortable.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” Bijou flashed one of her small smiles. “I’m singin’ occasionally in my own club, so we’ll see if I can draw anyone in.”

Saria shot him a look that clearly said, “What the hell is wrong with you?” He couldn’t very well tell his baby sister that
everything
about Bijou Breaux set his leopard off.

“Oh, no doubt you’ll do fine,” Remy said, meaning it. Her voice was special, sultry and filled with sex and sin. She’d have all the local single men flocking to her club. Every male tourist in town wanting to get laid would be there as well. Just the thought made him want to grind his teeth. His leopard flexed his claws and raked at him, adding to his deteriorating mood.

His skin itched. Every joint ached. His jaw hurt. Every sense heightened. Lavender drifted through the room into his lungs, and he took the scent deep. He could find Bijou Breaux on the darkest night, no matter how faint the trail.

“Did you know, Remy, when the light hits your eyes a certain way, they change color?” Bijou observed. “You have the darkest blue eyes and they suddenly go green or sometimes, they glow, like a cat in the dark. I remember a couple of times when I was a little girl, I fixated on your eyes. I used to dream about them.”

Saria’s frown deepened. “Did his eyes scare you?”

“I suppose they should have, but no. I found the change sort of comforting.” Bijou gave Remy another tentative smile that sent another hot surge of blood rushing through his body, straight to his groin. “For all his bossy ways, your brother can be rather comfortin’.”

Remy eased the painful ache by stretching out his legs, taking a moment to breathe, rather pleased that she wasn’t afraid of his cat. She didn’t know the glowing eyes signaled his cat was close, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t want her afraid of him – well, maybe that wasn’t altogether true. One of them had to have good sense, and clearly his leopard was reaching for supremacy.

He gathered up the photographs and the two sealed statements. “Gage will be askin’ you questions later so expect him. Tell him I have the pictures you took and your written statements. He’s asked me to consult on this one so I might be back askin’ questions as well.” He stood up and pinned his sister with cool eyes. “Stay the hell out of the swamp until this nutcase is caught. He’s dangerous.” He waited. Still. His leopard coiled and ready.

Saria sighed. “I’m not quite the idiot you think I am, Remy. I have no intention of runnin’ around in the swamp while a vicious serial killer is out there.”

“I’ve never considered you to be an idiot, just very adventurous,” he corrected.

Now that he had his sister’s agreement he allowed himself to focus on Bijou. The moment he centered his attention on her, he knew it was a mistake. She looked up at him with her impossibly blue eyes and all those long lashes, the cloud of silky hair tumbling around her face and that mouth that needed to be outlawed and he knew he was lost. It wasn’t going to matter that she was his sister’s age. Hell, nothing was going to matter. Bijou Breaux was going to be seeing a lot of him.

“I want
everythin’
you have on those death threats, Bijou. Bring them by my office tomorrow around noon. And don’ give me any trouble over it.”

She sent him a faint smile and gave a small salute. He didn’t wait for sass. He turned abruptly on his heel and got the hell out of there before he – or his leopard – did something disgraceful.

3

Remy stared down at the photographs Saria took of the crime scene. The forensic photographer’s photos were scattered across his desk along with those of his sister. He kept frowning at them, because they damn well didn’t add up. Saria was a pro. She didn’t make mistakes. She’d used her zoom lens to record each section of the crime scene. She’d been methodical, so much so that if he’d put the pictures together, they would form a very accurate and detailed replica of the crime scene. And that was the trouble.

He sighed and ran both hands through his hair for the tenth time. Evidence bags lay on top of each of the pictures of an object that had been on the altar. A bag corresponded with each of the forensic photographs, but not with Saria’s. The difference was put down to Saria being an amateur at a crime scene, but he knew better. Nothing rattled Saria for long, and she was surrounded by her brothers and Drake, who were all methodical when it came to solving crimes. Her work was impeccable – which meant someone had added an object between the time Saria took the pictures and the forensic photographer had taken them.

He studied the pictures of the altar as a whole. Rocks formed a rectangle on the ground. Not just any rocks. Each rock was somewhat flat, oval in shape, and had been placed precisely one inch from the next. He knew because he’d measured the distance several times. How could a killer be so absolutely precise? Did he carry a damned ruler along to the murder? Was he just that good that his measurements weren’t off at all, not by so much as a hair?

The macabre hand of the dead man was soaked in oil and set upright in the exact middle of the altar, but in the front. Remy was certain, if the same held true from the last murders, they would find out the oil was baby oil. He even knew the brand. Trying to track that down had been a dead end. The murderer had chosen the most popular brand of baby oil. A black candle was tied to each of the fingers of the hand and had been burned.

Three inches directly behind the hand and in the exact center of the altar was a bowl of the victim’s blood. The bowl was plastic – again, untraceable, although of course they’d try. Unfortunately, anyone could buy that particular brand of picnic supply at any store. The bowl was always filled with precisely one pint of blood. How did the killer get the amount so exact? Another big question.

Behind the bowl, again three inches exactly, was the victim’s heart, offered up like some damned sacrifice. Scattered around the altar were objects clearly taken from the swamp. Spanish moss, a leaf from the hanged man’s tree, a shell, three different types of feathers as well as leaves from various plants, all objects found right there at the crime scene. None of it had been carried in by the killer and not one thing on the altar held a print.

But there was the length of the candles in Saria’s picture. They had burned an inch, if he judged it correctly, and there was only the bowl of blood. In the forensic photographer’s photograph, the candles appeared to have burned a little longer, not that precise inch, although it was difficult to tell. A knotted string lying half in, half out of the bowl of blood was not in Saria’s picture. Not in the ones of the entire altar and not in the ones of just the bowl of blood that she had taken. There were close-ups. Perfectly clear pictures. Nowhere was that small seven-knotted string until the forensic photographer took the pictures several hours after her.

How long had it taken Saria and Bijou to make their way back to the Inn and tell Drake? Drake had brought a generator and lights to the crime scene. He’d had to retrieve those items and make his way back. Had the killer been there all along? Had he watched Saria taking pictures of the crime scene and then finished his ceremony? Bijou had been there as well. How close to both women had he been?

Saria and Bijou had to have interrupted the ritual ceremony the killer was compelled to conduct after each murder. The compulsion was so strong that he’d stayed concealed in the swamp and then, after the women left, he’d finished his ritual. That was the only answer to the discrepancy between the photographs.

His heart reacted to his conclusions, going a little crazy at the thought of either Saria or Bijou so close to a vicious serial killer. He wiped his hand over his suddenly dry mouth. He was going to have to try to talk to Saria whether she liked it or not and try to point out that not only had her life been in danger, but her friend had been in jeopardy as well.

The killer had balls. He’d proved that enough times. He murdered his victim, taking his time harvesting the bones and then conducting his bizarre ritual where others could come up on him at any time. The fact that he could be discovered didn’t seem to faze the killer at all.

Remy picked up Saria’s photograph of the entire altar, comparing it with the forensic photographer’s picture. The most interesting thing of all was the altar contained no blood spatter whatsoever. Not on any of the objects, so Remy was certain the altar was constructed after the murder and harvesting of bones took place. But… Remy studied the pictures. There wasn’t a single drop of blood on the ground inside the altar. The scene was messy, all around the altar and beyond it, but not the ground where the altar had been constructed.

“He covered it,” he said aloud. “He had to have covered the ground where he was going to make his altar. He didn’t want any blood spatter on his precious altar.”

Remy sighed again. He wasn’t getting any closer to understanding the killer. Even the photos and the files that the FBI had sent from the previous murders weren’t helping. He had no idea if anything on the altar was significant. It appeared to be a voodoo ritual, but if it was, it was like none he’d come across in all his years there in the bayous. Voodoo was a part of his community and he respected it and those who practiced it. Whatever the killer was doing had nothing to do with the voodoo he knew.

He smelled lavender and almost before the scent could compute he heard the low murmur sweeping through the bull pen. A low wolf whistle had him turning his head, his heart giving a quick leap and his cock jerking at that now familiar scent.