“I want everything you get as quickly as you get it,” Jagger said.
“I have two shooting deaths, a motorcycle accident, a possible vehicular homicide—not to mention that the D.A.’s determined to harass an octogenarian over her husband’s death, even though he’s been suffering from cancer for years—” Dewey broke off, seeing the set expression on Jagger’s face. “Sure, Lafarge. I’ll put a rush on it. This is the kind of thing you’ve got to get a handle on quickly, God knows. We get enough sensationalist media coverage around here. I don’t want to see a frenzy start.”
“Thanks,” Jagger told him.
He looked around the Grigsby family tomb one more time. It was what he didn’t see that he noted. No fingerprints in the dust. No footprints. No sign whatsoever of how the girl had come to lie, bloodless and beautiful, upon the dusty tomb of a long dead patriarch.
He wanted the CSUs, Tony and the uniforms all busy here. He had some investigating to do that he needed to tackle on his own.
He lowered his sunglasses from the top of his head to his eyes and walked back out into the brilliant light of the early fall morning.
The sky was cloudless and brilliantly blue. The air was pleasant, without the dead heat of summer.
It seemed to be a day when the world was vibrant. Positively pulsing with life.
“Hey, Detective DeFarge!”
It was Celia Larson, forty, scrubbed, the no-nonsense head of the crime-scene unit that had been assigned. “Can we go on in? I’ve had my folks working the area, around the entry, around the tomb … but, hey, with the cemeteries around here being such tourist hangouts, folks had been tramping around for an hour before we got the call. We’ve collected every possible sample we could, but we really need to get inside.”
“It’s all yours, Celia. And good luck.”
She leaned into the mausoleum and said accusingly, “You and Dewey have tramped all over the footprints.”
“There were no footprints.”
“There had to be footprints,” she said flatly, as if he was the worst kind of fool.
He shrugged and smiled.
“None, but, hey, you’re the expert. You’ll see what we missed, right?” he asked pleasantly. Celia wasn’t his favorite civil servant with whom to work. She considered every police officer, from beat cop right on up to detective, to be an oaf with nothing better to do than mess up her crime scene. She didn’t seem to understand the concept of teamwork—or that she was the technician, and the detectives used her information to put the pieces together, find the suspect and make the arrest. Celia had seen way too many CSI-type shows and had it in her head that she was going to be the detective who solved every case. Still, he did his best to be level-tempered and professional, if not pleasant. He did have to work with the woman.
“Get me a good picture of the face, Celia. We’ll get her image out to the media.”
She waved a hand dismissively, and he walked on.
This wasn’t going to be an ordinary case. And he wasn’t going to be able to investigate in any of the customary ways.
He made it as far as the sidewalk.
Then he saw real trouble.
He groaned inwardly. Of course she would show up. Of course—despite the fact that he’d only just seen the corpse himself, word had traveled.
She didn’t look like trouble. Oddly enough, she came with a smile that was pure charm, and she was, in fact, stunning. She was tall and slim and lithe, mercurial in her graceful movements.
Her eyes were blue. They could be almost as aqua as the sea, as light as a summer sky, as piercing as midnight.
Naturally she was a blonde. Not that brunettes couldn’t be just as beautiful, just as angelic looking—or just as manipulative.
She had long blond hair. Like her eyes, it seemed to change. It could appear golden in the sun, platinum in moonlight and always as smooth and soft as silk as it curled over her shoulders. She had a fringe of bangs that were both waiflike and the height of fashion.
And naturally she was here.
Sunglasses shaded her eyes, as they did his. The Southern Louisiana sun could be brutal. Most people walked around during the day with shades on.
“Well, hello, Miss MacDonald,” he said, heading for his car. Officers had blocked the entry to the cemetery and the borders of the scene itself with crime-scene tape. But the sidewalk was fair game. The news crews had arrived and staked it out, and the gawkers were lining up, as well.
Before Fiona MacDonald could reply, one of the local network news reporters saw him and charged over, calling, “Detective! Detective DeFarge!” It was Andrea “Andy” Larkin. She was a primped and proper young woman who had recently been transferred from her network’s Ohio affiliate. She was a fish out of water down here.
She was followed by her cameraman, and he was followed by a pack of other reporters. The local cable stations and newspapers were all present. And yes, there came the other network newscasters.
He stopped. Might as well handle the press now, he thought, though the department’s community rep really should be fielding the questions. But if he dodged the reporters, it would just make things worse.
He held his ground, aware that Fiona was watching him from a spot not far from the cemetery wall. He wasn’t going to escape the reporters, and he definitely wasn’t going to escape her.
“Detective DeFarge?” Andy Larkin had apparently assigned herself to be the spokeswoman for the media crew. “We’ve heard a young woman has been found—drained of blood. Who was she? Do you think we have some kind of cultists at work in the area? Was it a ritual sacrifice?”
He lifted a hand as a clamoring of questions arose, one voice indistinguishable from the next.
“Ladies, gentlemen, please! We’ve just begun our investigation into this case. Yes, we have discovered the body of a young woman in a mausoleum, but that’s all that I can really tell you at the moment. We’ll have the preliminary autopsy reports in a day or so, which will answer any questions about the state of the body. We don’t have an identity for the victim, and it’s far too early for me to speculate in any way on whether this is a singular incident or not. However, at this time I have no reason to suspect that we have a cult at work in the city. As soon as I have information, you’ll have information. That’s absolutely all that I am at liberty to say at the moment.”
“But—” Andy Larkin began.
“At any time that I can, without jeopardizing our investigation, I will be happy to see to it that the news media is advised.”
“Wait!” A man from one of the rags spoke up; he was probably in his early twenties, taking the best job available to a young journalism graduate. His hair was long and shaggy, and he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and carrying a notepad rather than an electronic device of any kind. “Shouldn’t you be warning the citizens of New Orleans to be careful? Shouldn’t you be giving them a profile of the killer?”
Jagger hoped his sunglasses fully covered his eyes as he inadvertently stared over at Fiona MacDonald.
She had a profile of the killer, he was certain.
“We don’t know anything yet. I repeat—we’ve just begun our investigation. I’m going to give young women in this city the same warning I give all the time: be smart, and be careful. Don’t go walking the streets alone in the dark. Let someone know where you’re going at all times, and if you go out to party, don’t go alone. People, use common sense. That’s my warning.”
“But