Private Passions Page 2

But he had vanished.

  As quickly and silently as smoke.

  2

  RETURNING HOME for the second time that evening, Roman went into his study, poured himself yet another drink, opened the French doors and went out onto the balcony. Drink in hand, he watched more patrol cars race to the cemetery. He knew the additional force wasn’t necessary. At this stage in the investigation, all that those extra cops could do was muck up the crime scene.

  But the sad truth was that beneath the blue uniforms and shiny badges, cops were human, too, possessing the same morbid interest in violence as civilians. That macabre curiosity responsible for the looky-loos at the cemetery tonight also explained the inevitable slowing of traffic at accident scenes.

  During his days as a district attorney, Roman had discovered that people were drawn to pain and suffering and death. The more grisly the better. Once he’d decided to write about murders and mayhem rather than prosecute the perpetrators, that knowledge of the human condition had made him a very wealthy man.

  In these days of political correctness, his novels had been criticized for their violence. Just last month, a Southern senator had read excerpts from Killing Her Softly into the Congressional Record, accusing him of glorifying rape and murder. From the press reports, the senator had practically accused Roman Falconer of single-handedly destroying America.

  Roman had always shrugged off such criticism. His stories were fiction. Nothing more.

  Never once had he felt the need to defend his work.

  Not once had he been tempted to apologize.

  Until recently. When the French Quarter rapes had begun.

  A blinding pain flashed behind his eyes as he looked out across the flat rooftops toward the bright white glow emanating from the cemetery grounds. Last year, when they’d made a movie of Jazzman’s Blues, the Hollywood studio had filmed some of the location scenes here in the Quarter.

  During the shoot, the production crew had lit the same cemetery in the same way, Roman recalled. But on that occasion, when the cameras stopped rolling, the murder victim had gotten up, wiped the fake blood off her face, lit a cigarette and headed off with the rest of the crew to Bourbon Street’s jazz clubs.

  Unfortunately, recovery would not be so quick, or so simple, for tonight’s victim.

  Grimacing, he polished off his drink and went back inside for a refill. As he poured the amber liquor into the gaily carved Christmas glass, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the undraped window.

  His face, which had always been angular, was drawn and gaunt. His jaw was darkened with several days’ worth of stubble.

  He looked, to put it charitably, like the devil.

  Which perhaps he was.

  His gaze drifted to the computer screen, to the scene he’d written earlier, depicting a teenager bound and gagged in a New Orleans cemetery. Her terrified eyes were wide in her ghostly white face as the man in black performed unspeakable acts upon her naked young body.

  Swearing ripely, Roman downed the refill in long thirsty swallows, turned off the damning glow of the computer, then took the bottle and the glass outside, where he spent the lonely hours before dawn looking out over the Quarter toward the cemetery, mired in dark and dangerous thoughts as he proceeded to get quietly and desperately drunk.

  * * *

  THE COFFEE POT WAS bustling. Desiree wove her way through the crowd to a table by the front window that looked out onto St. Peter Street.

  “You look exhausted,” she said, greeting the detective.

  “Believe it or not, I feel even worse than I look.”

  He stood up and pulled out a heavy oak chair for her. Such automatic masculine behavior was common in the South, and although she considered herself a modern woman, Desiree couldn’t deny that she’d missed such chivalry during her college days back East.

  He’d already ordered coffee. Steam rose invitingly from two thick white mugs. “Poor baby.” She smiled sympathetically and patted his jaw. “Things didn’t go well with the mayor?”

  His weary eyes narrowed. “How did you know about that?”

  “You know as well as I do that politicians’ offices leak like rusty faucets.”

  He took a long drink of coffee, then stared down into the black depths. Accustomed to his habit of choosing his words carefully, Desiree sat back, patiently sipped her own coffee and waited.

  “This has to be off the record,” he warned.

  It wasn’t what she’d wanted. But it was what she’d expected. She’d already decided she could deal with that. All she needed was for him to point her in the right direction.

  “Agreed.”

  His hands tightened around the mug handle, his white knuckles giving away his stress with the situation. “I’m serious, Desiree.” His expression was even more grim that it had been last night. “If it leaks out that I’ve been talking to you about this, it could cost me my shield.”

  “I won’t whisper a word. Cross my heart.” She made the childhood gesture in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  Her effort failed. He didn’t smile. “This latest victim’s name is Mary Bretton. She’s a sixteen-year-old runaway from Baton Rouge.”

  Desiree closed her eyes for a brief moment and said a silent prayer for the young girl who had only done what Desiree herself had wanted to do innumerable times growing up. “That’s so sad,” she said at last.

  “You won’t get any argument from me on that one.” He took another drink of coffee. “It’s the same guy.”

  “Who raped the three other girls?”

  The arrival of the waitress to take their orders forestalled his answer. Although Desiree was not normally much of a breakfast eater, this morning, after having worked most of the night, and eager to keep this conversation going as long as possible, she threw dietary caution to the winds. “I’ll have a large glass of orange juice, two eggs creole style and a side of biscuits, please. With honey.”

  Although he lifted a brow at her unusually large order, O’Malley didn’t comment. “Bring me tomato juice, a double order of Cajun hash and callas,” he told the woman, who’d been a fixture at the bustling café for nearly thirty years. After nodding her approval, the waitress refilled the mugs, then left to turn in their orders.

  Desiree blew on her reheated coffee to cool it. “If you know it’s the same guy, then she must have been able to give you some information.”

  “Not yet.” He dragged a hand down his face. “She went a little crazy during the exam, when the doctor tried to touch her. They’ve got her under sedation, but the doc said she’s blocked out the entire night.”

  “Then how do you know it’s the same man?”

  “The M.O.’s the same. He’s got a special little quirk.”

  “You going to tell me what it is?”

  “No.” At her frustrated look, he said, “It’s not that I don’t trust you. But I’ve got to play this one close to the vest.”

  She knew him well enough to know not to push. “I suppose you’ve got people out talking to the prostitutes in the Quarter, to see if any of them have had any weirder-than-usual encounters lately.”

  “Of course. But you know as well as I do that even if there’s a hooker out there who’s escaped from this sicko, she’d probably write him off as one of the hazards of the profession.”

  Their breakfasts arrived. He dug into his callas—traditional fried rice cakes served with grits and syrup—with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man eating his last meal.

  They ate in silence, each lost in thoughts that Desiree suspected were running along the same path. One of the reasons she and the detective had been drawn to each other in the first place was because of the uncanny way they had of often thinking alike.

  Except when it came to their individual careers. Michael Patrick O’Malley had not escaped unscathed from his dangerous occupation. Indeed, he’d been shot through the shoulder one night by a kid who was holding up the A&P grocery store on St. Peter’s Street as the detective droppe
d in to buy a pack of cigarettes.

  When Desiree had arrived at the emergency room, frantic, he’d shrugged off his injury, saying he’d decided to take the shooting as a sign that cigarettes were indeed hazardous to your health. With the steely strength of will she admired, he’d quit a ten-year habit cold turkey that very night.

  However, though he took his own risks in stride, he’d proven unwilling to allow her such freedom, unable to understand why a woman would want to waste her time covering crime stories.

  During one particularly memorable—and loud—argument, he’d asked why the hell she couldn’t be content to cover feature stories like the birth of a new lion cub at the zoo.

  To which she’d furiously countered that perhaps he’d like to turn in his detective’s shield and take a job as a meter maid, handing out tickets to people double parking outside the gates of Jackson Square.

  Later, they’d apologized. But the rift between them continued to grow, until one morning Desiree had discovered she and Michael O’Malley were standing on opposite sides of a crevasse as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon.

  “What time are you going to call the press conference?” she finally asked, breaking the long silence.

  “I’m not. Not yet, anyway.”

  “What?”

  “I said I’m not calling a press conference.”

  She pushed her plate aside, braced her elbows on the crowded wooden table and rested her chin on her linked fingers. “Let me make sure I understand,” she said, giving him the probing look that had caused more than one dirty governmental official to belatedly realize that crime-reporter Desiree Dupree was a great deal more than just a pretty face. “There is a serial rapist roaming the French Quarter, attacking young women, and the police department doesn’t see fit to warn the citizens?”

  He gave her a long, opaque look. “It’s not that easy.”

  “The hell it isn’t!” Her emotions, always close to the surface, broke free in a burst of hot temper. Realizing that she’d attracted the attention of a family of tourists seated at the next table, she lowered her voice and leaned toward him.

  Desiree couldn’t believe he could write off anyone’s safety this easily. “I realize the victims so far aren’t the most respected members of our society, Detective, but none of those girls deserved to be attacked that way. And the others deserve to know they’re in even more jeopardy than usual.”

  “On that we agree.” The only sign of his own aggravation was the tightening of the muscles on either side of his mouth, drawing his lips into a thin, harsh line.

  “So, why...?” Her voice trailed off as comprehension sunk in. “This is political, isn’t it?”

  He gave her a hard look. “This is still off the record.”

  “Of course.” She waved away his warning.

  “You already know I just left a long meeting with the mayor.

  “Well, the deputy mayor and the commissioner were also there. All three reminded me that the city is entering into our busiest tourist season.”

  Desiree Dupree was no longer the naive young idealist who had graduated cum laude from Harvard with double majors in journalism and criminal science. Her years working in television had taught her not to expect morality in government. But she couldn’t swallow this.

  “To put innocent lives in danger just to avoid risking Christmas sales and Mardi Gras revenues is criminal.”

  “Not the last time I checked the statutes.”

  “It is contemptible.”

  “Once again, we’re in complete agreement.”

  For a fleeting second his professional mask slipped and she caught a glimpse of the honorable man she knew him to be. “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s not exactly my call,” he reminded her. “The commissioner was quick to point out that we always increase our police force during Mardi Gras anyway. That being the case, there isn’t any reason to frighten people unnecessarily.”

  “Are you going to at least warn the girls on the street?”

  “I’ve been told to keep a low profile,” he answered.

  “That wasn’t exactly my question.”

  His lips quirked in a ghost of a smile. “Short of sending up flares, or having you announce it on the six o’clock news, I intend to do all I can—given the risks of their chosen profession—to ensure their safety. Which includes catching Mary Bretton’s rapist.”

  It was more what he wasn’t saying than what he was that gave Desiree her answer. Once again he was proving to be absolutely fearless. She knew that the political risk he took by bucking the order to keep the word off the street was nearly as dangerous as any bullet he might have to face. She also understood that to him, solving crimes was intensely personal.

  She tossed some bills down on the table and stood up. “Once again you’ve reaffirmed my faith in mankind, O’Malley.”

  This time the smile warmed. “Our motto is To Protect and Serve and instill faith in gorgeous TV reporters.”

  She kissed his cheek. “If it weren’t for the subject under discussion, I would have enjoyed this. We’ll have to do it again some day. For fun. And for old time’s sake.”

  A shadow crossed his rugged face, chasing away the smile. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Des.”

  He was, of course, right. They’d shared too much to ever be able to remain platonic friends. At least while they were both unattached. Nor could they be anything more.

  “I really do hate it when you’re right.” The sparkle momentarily faded from her eyes. “I’ve got to run. I have an interview to chase down.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “An old colleague of yours, actually. On the courtroom side of the law. Roman Falconer.”

  He looked at her with sharp interest. “I didn’t realize you ever stooped to doing celebrity profiles.”

  She wondered what he’d say if she told him that she intended to ask the former-district-attorney-turned-mystery-writer what he was doing hanging around a crime scene in the middle of the night.

  Competitive as always, and unwilling to give away a lead, she merely shrugged. “You never know when a story’s going to take an interesting twist.”

  He leaned back in his chair, tilting it recklessly. “Is there something going on between you and New Orleans’s most famous citizen?”

  “Actually, I’ve never met the man. He’d already given up public life when I moved back to town. And lately he seems to have become one of those stereotypical reclusive writers.”

  She flashed him her most innocent smile. “Perhaps you can give me some insight into Falconer. Something that will help me reveal him to my viewers.”

  “It’ll take more than a few anecdotes from me to do that. To tell you the truth, the guy’s layered like an onion. I don’t think anyone in the department, or even his own office, ever got close to figuring Falconer out. His nickname around the DA’s office was the Dark Prince.”

  When she suddenly remembered the strange, haunted look she’d witnessed in Roman Falconer’s midnight-dark eyes, Desiree decided the name definitely fit.

  Never one to miss a thing, the detective’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “Well, thanks for the warning,” she said with feigned brightness, wanting to escape before he realized that she was being less than forthright with him. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Of that I’ve not a single doubt.” He tossed some bills onto the table next to hers. “Remember, everything I told you is off the record.”

  “Of course.”

  They left the restaurant together, O’Malley stopping at his dented, unmarked police sedan parked outside, Desiree continuing down the street and around the corner, her mind already engaged in framing the questions she intended to ask Roman Falconer.

  * * *

  ROMAN’S FINGERS FLASHED across the keyboard, creating words that chased each other across the computer screen.

  His mind was in Exchange Alley, a narrow little passageway on Conti between Cha
rters and Royal streets. During the 1800s, the houses at the corner of Conti and Exchange had been home to renowned fencing masters who specialized in training their clients for that fine old New Orleans tradition of dueling.

  Not that they always succeeded. Indeed, several of the masters themselves died on the field of honor, while one of the more enterprising ones covered all bets by opening a cemetery and profiting from those who’d ended up choosing death before dishonor.

  The man in black had been known by many names over the ages—Vlad the Impaler, Jack the Ripper, Bluebeard, the Boston Strangler. Whatever name foolish mortals chose to give him, he was, and always would be, a predator. Born with an unquenchable blood lust, he stealthily prowled the back alleys of the Vieux Carre like a panther, stalking his unwitting prey.

  There was a roaring inside his head, a raging, cacophonous, mind-blinding storm that could only be silenced by one thing. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and touched the handle of the knife, garnering enough calm to focus on his quest.

  He was looking for that one special person. A special woman he would take to his special place. And then...

  Sweet anticipation surged through his blood to pool thickly in his groin. Anticipation hotter than hellfire. More seductive than sex.

  Soon.

  Roman was suddenly and painfully jerked from his deep writer’s trance by a flash of awareness. He walked over to the French doors and looked out. When he saw the woman coming up the narrow street, he cursed under his breath and realized, with a certain sense of fatalism, that he’d been expecting her.

  He returned to the computer, saved the new scene and turned the machine off.

  Then Roman sighed heavily and went downstairs to wait for Desiree Dupree to knock on his door.

  3

  THE SUDDEN OPENING of the door, just as she raised a hand toward the gothic, gargoyle-style knocker, caught Desiree by surprise. She drew in a quick breath that immediately caught in her throat.

  Those midnight blue eyes, which had seemed so bold in her erotic pirate dream and so strangely haunted last night when she’d seen him outside the cemetery gates, were deeply shadowed, revealing a recent lack of sleep.