Shiver. Cynthia Cooke

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СКАЧАТЬ one is, uh…different.” Parker looked down, fidgeting.

      Riley frowned. “You obviously need some time off, ’cause you’re not making any sense. All homicides are handled downtown. You know that. It doesn’t matter if it’s related to the night stalker case or not.” He patted Parker’s shoulder, then strode off, annoyed that his routine crime-scene approach had been thwarted. He liked to walk a scene to get a sense of the perimeter—the sounds, sights, smells—before approaching the victim. Sometimes the brutality of murder deadened his perceptions. Then all was lost, his case compromised.

      He tried once again to recapture the scene, absorbing the music, the scent of onions and garlic and simmering jambalaya, a constant yet comforting smell in the French Quarter. As he approached the building, a roach popped out of a broken stone tile in the sidewalk, then scurried into a cracked grate.

      In the crevice between the structure’s brick wall and the steep cement steps leading into a doorway, a body leaned haphazardly, the face hidden beneath a thick mass of blond curls. Blue-jean-clad long legs stretched out on the sidewalk. His gaze lingered over turquoise spiked heels adorning perfectly shaped feet. His gut twisted; sweat dampened his palms.

      He took a step closer, though for the first time in his career something urged him to turn away—some gut instinct that was his strongest, most prized possession as a detective in the New Orleans Police Department. He looked back at Parker, who was still watching him, shifting from one foot to the other.

      Something wasn’t right.

      He took another step. Tony Tortorici, his friend and partner, stood from his examination of the victim. Suddenly, Riley could see her clearly—her deep purple shirt, loops of bright beads hanging from her neck. Pulse racing, he saw how two strands of gold-and-green plastic dice were entwined tightly around her neck, pushing into her delicate skin.

      His breathing went shallow as he took in the ugly purple-red bruises beneath the beads and the gold locket lying snug between her breasts. Tony walked toward him, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his eyes filled with sympathy. Riley couldn’t move, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t draw enough of the thick, foul air into his lungs.

      He focused on the thick mass of blond hair, hair that he remembered could look like silk billowing in the wind. A sharp twinge shot through him. In her lap, her hands, crossed one over the other, rested against the light blue fabric of her shirt, her pinkies interlaced. The position was strange, but before he could think on it further, his eyes locked on the contrasting colors between the top and the bottom of her shirt.

      Pain surged through him, slicing his heart as surely as the killer had sliced her throat, turning the blue fabric dark purple with her blood. Blood that had pumped from a heart he’d known since childhood.

      “I’m so sorry, man,” Tony said as he reached him.

      The compassion on Tony’s face hit Riley like a blow to the stomach. Anguish loosened his neck muscles and his head rolled back. He stared into the night sky. Drops of rain pelted his face as agony welled up inside him and broke free in a heart-wrenching roar.

      Michelle.

      DEVRA MORGAN dreamed of death again—another blue-eyed blonde. She sat up with a start, her heart beating against her chest, her breath coming fast and hard. She brought two shaking fingers to the soft skin of her throat almost expecting to feel a deep gash and the sticky warmth of blood.

      Her cat, Felix, meowed in protest as she threw the covers over him and stumbled to the bathroom. Cold sweat chilled her. The distinct scent of the Quarter, with its heavy air and heady taste of the Mississippi, still lingered in her mind. She stood under the hot spray of the shower, scrubbing until her skin ached.

      Why now?

      Pulling on a plush white robe, she trudged to the kitchen, put the teakettle on to boil and closed her eyes as an onslaught of chills shook her. She couldn’t go through this again. Not now. Not after she’d actually convinced herself they were over—the horrible dreams that had destroyed so much of her life.

      She picked up Felix and squeezed him against her chest, burying her chin in his soft fur. “Why is this happening now?” She set him down and opened a can of cat food. “I’ll have to move again,” she muttered. If she didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before the police came calling and her world came crashing down around her. Again.

      She sighed, added a spoonful of honey to her tea and strode toward her office. The quicker she got down on paper what she’d seen in her dream, the sooner she could purge it from her mind. Her writing had become an amazing catharsis over the years. Her only means of escape from her nightmarish reality had turned into her salvation and allowed her the freedom and the anonymity she needed to survive. She sat behind the large white desk, turned on her computer and began to type.

      “Hey, lady, looking good tonight. Want me to read your fortune?”

      The woman glanced at the tarot card readers and threw the cute one a wave. “No, thanks. Tonight I make my own fortune.”

      Devra’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she slipped into her “zone” where each story overcame her. She typed steadily reliving her dream careful to get down every detail, hoping somehow, some way, her dream would help. Not that they ever had before. Town after town, she had to watch women die and yet was never able to stop it from happening or help find their killers. The dreams always came too late.

      He took something gold and shiny and slipped it around her neck. A gold heart with a rose etched across the front dangled between her breasts, nestling amidst the rivulets of blood seeping from her throat.

      Devra stopped typing and stared at the words on her screen, her heart pounding anew. She closed her eyes and pictured the locket in her mind. Her locket? Her stomach muscles clenched with fear. The one she’d lost last week, the one her parents had given her on her thirteenth birthday. The one with her name inscribed on the back.

      Her vision swam as she stared at the screen. How had this monster gotten her locket? And why had he left it on that poor girl? Was it a message for her? The realization hit her hard. He stole her locket!

      He knew who she was.

      THE NEXT MORNING, Riley and his partner sat parked outside a well-kept, small yellow house in the Garden District. Through the plastic bag, he read the word etched on the back of the locket. Devra. He turned to his closest friend and partner, Tony Tortorici. “I can’t believe you found her so fast.”

      “Hey, with a name like Devra, tracking her was as easy as slicing into one of Mama’s homemade pecan pies.”

      “What do we know about Miss Morgan?” Riley asked, letting his gaze wander over the manicured lawn and abundant flowers. There was nothing unusual or even rundown about the house, and yet a prickle of anxiety ate away at him.

      “Not much. She’s clean.” Tony inspected her file. “Just moves around a lot.”

      “For her sake, she’d better be clean.” Riley tried to squeeze a character type from the place she lived, but it was nondescript, a typical modest home in the lush Garden District a few blocks down from the opulent mansions that saw a steady stream of tourist traffic.

      Concern filled Tony’s large Italian eyes. “You shouldn’t go in there. You shouldn’t even be here now. Go home and be with your family. With Mac.”

      Riley fought the guilt and weariness that СКАЧАТЬ