Submission Read online

  Of course, Molly knew now that was the way her mother dealt with tragedy. You turned your head the other way, pretended you knew what was coming all along and kept on walking until you didn’t feel anything anymore.

  And that was what Molly had done for the better part of today. She’d walked. While she hadn’t been able to turn away emotionally from the impact of everything that had happened lately, she had been successful in physically exhausting herself. Her feet and legs ached, at least matching the pain in her chest at the thought of Alan out there dealing with the death of his ex-wife alone.

  She pulled a pillow to her chest anyway, imagining she could smell him. Only he wasn’t really alone, was he? He had his sisters. And it was that thought that had brought her some comfort. And had also inspired her to look into his third sister’s absence on her own. While she held out little hope that she’d be successful in finding Zoe, she knew that now, especially today, Alan and the rest of his family didn’t need the added worry of their sister’s absence.

  She only hoped that circumstances were as Alan suspected and that the youngest Chevalier sibling was indeed missing by choice rather than by the hand of another.

  Should something have happened to her, as well…

  She refused to think about that possibility. Refused to consider what that might do to Alan.

  She recalled seeing him yesterday at the Gas Lantern. How different he’d looked. The way he’d refused the bourbon. And how she’d sensed—and later verified—that he’d undergone some very important changes. How would those changes be affected by the death of his ex? By news of something bad having befallen Zoe?

  She forced herself off the bed and moved to stand at the large window, staring at the historic French Quarter below. Dusk was just beginning to fall and lights were being turned on. Tourists and locals alike walked the narrow streets, some in costume, others not. She wondered where Alan was right that minute.

  And wondered if they’d ever be able to make their way back to where they’d been that morning while they’d lain in bed together.

  I WAS WORKING ON AUTOPILOT. After a day spent in a blur questioning Val’s neighbors and friends and coworkers, I’d had to face the fact that I needed to tell my sisters about my ex-wife’s death before they found out via an outside source. I couldn’t stand the thought of them hearing about it that way. So at just after noon I’d headed uptown to the old house in the Garden District. Emilie had been home alone, feeding lunch to a fussy Henri. I’d asked her to call Laure and have her come from work, unable to face the task of telling them both separately. I hadn’t considered that they’d both think the news I had to share involved Zoe. So I’d been a little surprised by their immediate looks of relief, followed quickly by grief at the death of someone they’d come to see as an important member of the family, the closest thing to a mother they’d had since the loss of their stepmother.

  I’d stayed as long as I could. But I couldn’t be around the tears without wanting to succumb to some of my own. So I’d left them with the task of contacting Val’s family members and seeing to funeral plans.

  Funeral plans.

  Christ.

  Now, long after the sun had set, the smell of stale pizza filling the room, I sat at my desk, going through the pile of paperwork there, searching for something—anything—that would help me find the bastard who had done this and nail him to the wall by his balls.

  “I didn’t find anything in here,” John said, placing on the corner of my desk a neat pile of files I’d given him to go through.

  “Look again,” I said without glancing up.

  He checked his watch. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  Time was no longer of importance to me. All that mattered was finding the person responsible for killing Molly’s sister and my ex-wife.

  As I thought it, I moved a forensics report, and the picture Molly had given me during our first lunch stared up at me. I picked it up, looking down at the two college grads beaming into the camera lens. I remembered her story of how they had played hooky on a golf course only a short time before then. I rubbed my eyes.

  “It’s just after two in the morning,” John said.

  I blinked at that. If pressed to guess, I would have said somewhere around nine.

  “Whatever might be in any of this can wait a couple of hours.”

  I snapped my gaze to his tired face. “Wait for what, Roche? For the killer to strike again? What, if anything, do you know about serial killers?”

  John looked ready to fall over with exhaustion. He sat down instead and pulled the folders back into his lap. “That the time between killings shortens after each incident.”

  “So there were three weeks between the time of Claire Laraway’s murder and Val’s. Which means…”

  “Which means odds are the time span will be significantly less between now and the next murder.”

  I slapped the report in my hands to the desk. “So get back to work.”

  I opened a desk drawer, the familiar clinking of a bottle inside catching my attention as John wandered back to his desk on the other side of the quiet room. I sat staring down at the bourbon, swallowing the saliva that flooded my mouth at the sight of it. Just one drink. What would it hurt? It would take the edge off and help me think.

  I slammed the drawer shut against the bourbon and my weak thoughts, clenching my jaw. No, liquor would only dull my senses. Slow me up.

  But one thing would help me. Rather one person. Molly.

  I grabbed my coat and my hat and made for the door. Stopping just inside, I said over my shoulder, “You’re right, Roche. We’re both operating on fumes now. Go home. Get some rest. But I want to see you back in here on the ass of dawn, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Molly had what she’d longed for: the scent of Alan on her pillow. But rather than bringing her peace, it was a source for sadness. Because while Alan had been there physically, he hadn’t been there emotionally.

  She felt a sob well up in her throat and fought it back. There had been no soft caresses, no lingering kisses. Even when she’d cuddled up alongside him, he’d seemed cold, detached. As if all the walls that had come tumbling down over the past few days had been built back up, but this time with material she couldn’t hope to break through or scale.

  As she lay there alone now watching the morning sun climb in the sky outside her hotel room window, she felt used. As if she’d been only a means to an end for him. A replacement for the bourbon he’d cast aside.

  When she’d awakened earlier this morning, alone, no note in his wake, she’d barely remembered how relieved she’d been when he’d knocked at her door at two-thirty. And how surprised she’d been by his voiceless, passionless demand for sex.

  She’d tried to inject warmth into their kisses, but every time, he’d pulled away from her and focused on a body part. Making what should have been more intimate instead more alienating.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Molly lifted her head to look at the clock. Just after nine.

  Alan?

  She wasn’t sure if her heart clenched in hope or pain.

  Then again, it was probably maid service.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Yesterday they’d asked if she still planned to leave. When she’d originally checked in, she’d told them she’d be staying a week and would let them know if she needed the room for longer. Only she’d forgotten to extend the checkout date, and now they already had her room booked, revelers coming into town for Halloween quickly snatching it up.

  So now she had to find another hotel.

  “I’ll be checking out at noon,” she shouted.

  “Ma’am, I have a delivery here for you.”

  Delivery?

  She finally climbed from the too-large bed, pulled on the white hotel robe, then opened the door.

  A hotel clerk stood holding a package stamped with an overnight-delivery sticker.

  Claire’s lockbo
x.

  THE FACE I SAW IN THE lab mirror was familiar to me. A lot more familiar than the clean-shaven one I’d glimpsed a couple of days ago. And the inside of me reflected the outside. While I still hadn’t had a drink, lack of sleep and plenty of self-loathing made me feel like I’d done considerable damage to a fifth last night.

  The problem was, the only one I’d done damage to was Molly.

  I winced and turned away from the mirror.

  Near dawn I could have sworn I’d heard her crying. Only she was deep asleep. Rather than wake her and try to comfort her, I’d climbed from the bed and left her lying there alone.

  This morning had been the first time I’d had a chance to stop and think about anything but the case. And it had occurred to me to put out an APB on my little sister, Zoe—something I’d done first thing.

  Steven came in from a room off the main one carrying a tray of test tubes.

  “It’s about damn time, Chan. I’ve been waiting here for a half hour.”

  “You’ve been waiting five minutes,” he said, appearing my exact opposite, looking rested and alert in his cleanly pressed lab coat.

  He sat down at a table filled with instruments, and I moved to stand alongside him.

  “What do you got for me?”

  “Definitely the same killer as in the Laraway case.” He opened a file and made an additional notation before handing it to me. “It appears the same knife was used, particles a perfect match. Same MO, except in the Chevalier case—” he slanted me a look “—in the second case, there’s no sign of intercourse.” He lifted a finger. “However, interestingly enough, there were traces of semen in the victim’s vagina.”

  I stared at him. “How can there be a presence of sperm with no penetration?”

  “Premature ejaculation maybe?”

  “Jesus.” I didn’t really want to be discussing items of this nature about my ex. Especially since I had information that not even Jackson did. That Val had taken a gay lover about a year ago and during lunch the other day she’d indicated they were still going strong. Another woman, incapable of producing sperm.

  “There was also a hair placed in this victim’s wound, as well. Perfect match to the hair found in the first victim’s.”

  “Like it was purposely placed there.”

  “Right. Root and all.”

  I stared at him. “So where does that leave us?”

  “It leaves us with two victims murdered by the same killer.”

  “No additional evidence? No footprints found on the scene? Trace evidence not linked to the first crime? Fingerprints?”

  “Oh. Interesting you should mention that.”

  I perked up. “You got something.”

  “Not in the way you think.” He stood, walked to a filing cabinet, then took out a bag that held a familiar item: Claire Laraway’s diary.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been wasting your time on that.”

  Steven smiled at me. “At the time, I didn’t have anything else to do. I was going to call you with the information first thing yesterday morning, but I got sidetracked.”

  By Val’s murder. He didn’t have to say it.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I found several sets of prints on the journal and ran them through the computer.”

  “And?”

  “And you’ll never believe what I came up with.”

  If all this was leading to some sort of joke, I was going to coldcock him.

  “See here,” he said, obviously enjoying drawing this out. “I lifted a partial thumbprint from the upper left-hand corner of the cover.”

  I kept staring at him instead of looking at the diary.

  “You know how all homicide and forensics personnel, past and present, have their prints on file for elimination purposes? Well, this print belongs to none other than your dear friend and mine, Captain Seymour Hodge.”

  20

  MOLLY PACED THE WALKWAY in front of the coffee shop, waiting for Claude Lafitte. Immediately upon receiving the lockbox, she’d called Akela to get access to the key Molly had given her. Unfortunately the FBI agent was in Quantico for some sort of daylong seminar, but she’d arranged to have Claude bring Molly the key at the coffee shop.

  She looked at her watch. He was already ten minutes late.

  She turned to pace the other way and spotted him walking in her direction. “Thank God. I thought you’d gotten held up somewhere.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said in that rumbling voice of his. “Do you want to go in here?”

  She nodded and he opened the door for her. She grabbed the first table she came to, although Claude was eyeing a table at the back.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” she said. “Do you have the key?”

  He produced it from his front pocket. Once she’d accepted it, she briefly closed her eyes and said a silent prayer before trying it in the lock.

  It fit perfectly.

  The lid sprang up to reveal a series of photographs and some money.

  Molly looked up at Claude. He shrugged.

  After pushing a series of hundred-dollar bills aside, she picked up the photos. Claude moved closer to her to see them, as well.

  They all seemed to have been taken on the same day, judging by the purple blouse Claire wore. Molly’s heart gave a gentle squeeze, recognizing it as her sister’s favorite. In the pictures with her was a man. Older. Molly flipped to the next one. At least it appeared so. She couldn’t really tell because in each of the pictures he was blocking a full-on shot in some way. Either he’d lifted an arm or had turned away, and in one he’d lifted a pillow to hide behind.

  Claire’s married man, “C”? It seemed likely.

  “Do you recognize him?” Molly asked Claude.

  He shook his head. “Non. Not that there’s much to recognize. Obviously the man was determined not to have his picture taken.”

  And just as obviously Claire had seemed determined to take it.

  Claude took the photos and leafed through them. Then he handed them back to her.

  “Nothing.”

  Molly looked through them more slowly, this time focusing on her sister. Her sister was obviously the one holding the camera. Sometimes fully behind it, other times holding it out to snap a shot of the couple together.

  Claire had never looked happier.

  Molly swallowed thickly.

  “You okay, chère?”

  Molly nodded, placed the photos in the box, then closed it again, thinking it not a good idea to count the cash in public. “I guess I’ll keep the key, then.” Claude got up and waited for her to do the same. They exited the coffee shop without ordering anything. “Tell Akela I’ll bring the box by when she gets back.”

  “That would be tomorrow.”

  “Very well, then.” She forced a smile, trying to hide her disappointment that the box hadn’t held something more definitive. “Thanks, Claude.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I’D LEARNED LONG AGO that there was no such thing as coincidence. Hodge’s print was on that diary; he was connected to the murder.

  “Detective Chevalier! Wait! You can’t just walk in there!”

  I’d also learned that the surest way past a secretary was never to stop.

  I opened the door to Captain Hodge’s office, then closed it after myself. He looked up from where he was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone.

  I crossed the room and tossed the bag with the diary in it on his desktop. “What in the hell are your fingerprints doing all over this?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Honey, I’ve got to go. No, I’m not trying to get rid of you.” Seymour glared at me, then turned his chair away. “I promise. Something urgent just came up. Yes, sweetcakes, I’ll call you back the minute I’m done.”

  Listening to him talk to Astrid robbed a bit of the wind from my sails. But not much.

  “What in the hell do you mean barging in like this, Chevalier?” he asked, getting up from his chair.

  There weren�
��t very many men who intimated me. But Seymour Hodge was one of them. It was more than just his height and hefty build. There was something dangerous about him. It’s what had made him a top homicide detective when he was younger. And what made him an effective captain now.

  It was also what landed him the number one spot on my previously nonexistent list of suspects.

  “What are your fingerprints doing on this?” I held up the diary.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the object. “I’m sure I don’t know. What is it?”

  “It’s an item belonging to the Quarter Killer’s first victim.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “That’s impossible.”

  “No, it’s reality. What I want to know is how in the hell one of your prints got there.”

  He rounded his desk and came to stand in front of me. “You aren’t actually accusing me of a crime, are you, Detective Chevalier?”

  “I’m accusing you of having touched an item of evidence that the chain of custody never puts in your immediate vicinity.”

  He took the bag, looked at the diary through it, then handed it back to me. “Is this part of the victim’s personal belongings that Agent Brooks was in possession of?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Because if it is, I believe she brought a box of such items by here when she was trying to prove her lover innocent.”

  I snatched the bag from his hand, then pointed at him. “If you had anything—and I mean anything—to do with this, Seymour, I swear on my father’s grave that I’ll nail your sorry ass to the wall behind you. Do you hear me?”

  “Fair enough. And when you discover that I have absolutely no connection to the murders, I’m going to enjoy firing your sorry ass. Do I make myself clear?”