Blood Memory. Greg Iles

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СКАЧАТЬ being his lover for eighteen months, I half expect a lilting Irish brogue to emerge when Sean opens his mouth. But it’s the familiar New Orleans accent instead, the Brooklynesque drawl with a hint of crawfish.

      “You doin’ okay?” he asks.

      “Changed your mind?”

      He shrugs. “I felt bad.”

      “Bullshit. You wanted to see for yourself if I was sober.”

      I see the truth of it in his face. He gives me a penetrating survey with his eyes and makes no apology for it.

      “Go on,” I tell him.

      “What?”

      “You were about to say something. Go ahead.”

      He sighs. “You look rough, Cat.”

      “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

      “Sorry. Are you drunk?”

      Anger tightens my jaw muscles. “I’m stone sober for the first time in more years than I can count.”

      I see skepticism in his face. Then, as he studies me, belief comes into his eyes. “Jesus. Maybe a drink is what you need.”

      “Worse than you know. But I’m not going to.”

      “Why not?”

      “Come on. Let’s do this.”

      “I still need to go in ahead of you.” He looks embarrassed.

      Exasperation makes me look away. “How long? Five minutes?”

      “Not that long.”

      I wave him off and get back into my car. He steps toward my door, then changes his mind and walks down the block.

      My hands are shaking. Were they shaking when I woke up? I grip the steering wheel and force myself to breathe deeply. As my pulse steadies and my heart finds its rhythm, I pull down the vanity mirror and check my face. I’m not usually compulsive about my appearance, but Sean has made me nervous. And when I get nervous, crazy thoughts flood into my head. Disembodied voices, old nightmares, ancient slights and mistakes, things therapists have said …

      I consider putting on some eyeliner to strengthen my gaze in case I have to stare somebody down inside. I don’t really need it. Men often tell me I’m beautiful, but men will tell any woman that. My face is actually masculine in structure, a vertical series of V’s, simple and to the point. The V of my chin slants up into a strong jaw. My mouth, too, curves upward. Then comes the angular bottom of my nose; my prominent, upward-slanting cheekbones; my tilted brown eyes and sloping eyebrows; and finally the dark widow’s peak of my hairline. I see my father in all of this, twenty years dead now but alive in every angle of my face. I keep a picture of him in my wallet. Luke Ferry, 1969. Smiling in his army uniform, somewhere in Vietnam. I don’t like the uniform—not after what the war did to him—but I like his eyes in the picture. Still compassionate, still human. It’s how I like to remember him. A little girl’s idea of a father. He once told me that I almost got his face, but at the last minute an angel swooped down and put enough softness in mine to make me pretty.

      Sean sees the hardness in my face. He’s told me I look like a predator myself, a hawk or an eagle. Tonight I’m glad for that hardness. Because as I get out of the Audi and shoulder my cases and tripod, something tells me that maybe Sean is right to be worried about my nerves. I’m going in naked tonight, without benefit of anesthesia. And without the familiar chemical barrier that shields me from the sharp edges of reality, I feel more vulnerable to whatever it was that panicked me last time.

      Walking down the dusky street lined with wrought-iron fences and second-floor galleries, I sense a human gaze on my skin. I stop and turn but see no one. Only a dog lifting its leg beside a lamppost. I scan the galleries overhead, but the heat has driven their owners inside. Christ. I feel as if I’ve been waiting all my thirty-one years to see the corpse in the house ahead of me. Or maybe it’s been waiting for me. Something is waiting for me, that’s for sure.

      A crystal image rises into my mind as I resume walking, a sweating blue Dasani bottle with three inches of Grey Goose sloshing in its bottom, like meltwater from a divine glacier. If I had that, I could brazen my way through anything.

      “You’ve done this a hundred times,” I tell myself. “You did Bosnia when you were twenty-five and didn’t know shit.”

      “Hey! You Dr. Ferry?”

      A cop in uniform is calling to me from a high porch on my right. The victim’s house. Arthur LeGendre lived in a large Victorian typical of the Garden District, but the vehicles parked in the cross street around the corner are more commonly found in the Desire and St. Thomas housing projects—the coroner’s wagon, an ambulance, NOPD squad cars, and the FBI Suburban that carries the Bureau’s forensic team. I see a couple of unmarked NOPD cars, too, one of them Sean’s. Climbing the steps, I think I’m fine.

      Ten feet inside, I know I’m in trouble.

       TWO

      A brittle air of expectancy fills the broad central hallway of the victim’s house, and curious eyes track my movements. A forensic tech moves through with an alternate-light source, searching for latent fingerprints. I don’t know where the body is, but before I have to ask the patrolman standing inside the door, Sean steps into the rear of the hall and beckons me toward him.

      I go, taking care to keep myself balanced with my cases. I wish Sean would squeeze my arm as I reach him, but I know he can’t. And then he does. And I remember why I fell in love with him. Sean always knows what I need, sometimes even before I do.

      “How you doin’?” he murmurs.

      “A little shaky.”

      “Body’s in the kitchen.” He takes the heavy case from my right hand. “This one’s a little bloodier than the last, but it’s just another stiff. The Bureau forensic team has done its thing, all but the bite marks. Kaiser says those are your show. That ought to make you feel pretty good.”

      “Kaiser” is John Kaiser, a former FBI profiler who helped solve New Orleans’s biggest serial murder case, in which eleven women disappeared while paintings of their corpses turned up in art galleries around the world. Kaiser is the Bureau’s point man on the NOMURS task force.

      “The scene’s more crowded than it should be,” Sean says softly. “Piazza’s in there. Plenty of tension, if you’re looking. But that’s not your problem. You’re a consultant. That’s it.”

      “I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

      He opens the door to a gleaming world of granite, travertine, shining enamel, and pickled wood. Kitchens like this always feel like operating rooms to me, and this one actually has a patient in it somewhere. A dead one. I sweep my eyes over a blur of faces and nod a greeting. Captain Carmen Piazza nods back. Then I look down and see a blood trail on the floor. Someone has crawled or been dragged across the marble floor to a spot behind the island at the center of the kitchen. Dragged, I decide.

      “Behind СКАЧАТЬ