Say You Love Me. Rita Herron

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СКАЧАТЬ depths of her darkest hours to haunt her. Like quicksand the muddy soil tried to suck her underground. Alligators and snakes nibbled at her heels, begging for dinner. Bones crunched where one had found his feast.

      She closed her eyes. Banished the images and sounds. Visualized herself escaping. Slowly, her breathing steadied and the panic eased in her chest. She was overreacting.

      The picture was probably fake.

      But the yellowish-blue tint to the woman’s skin and the blood looked real. And Britta’s gut instincts told her that the woman had been murdered.

      DUSK DARKENED THE SKY around the backwoods, blurring the lines between day and night as the murky Mississippi churned and slapped against the dilapidated shanty.

      Detective Jean-Paul Dubois stared at the crime scene in disgust. The woman had been viciously murdered. Blood covered her bare chest and had dried onto the stained sheets of the bed. A scarlet teddy lay at her feet, which were bound to the footboard with thick ropes, and her hands were tied to the headboard. Whoever had killed her had defiled her body—left her naked, bound, posed, her heart literally ripped apart with some kind of ancient spear.

      His gaze fell to the serpent necklace and he recognized the symbolic meaning. Good fighting evil.

      Apparently the evil had won this time.

      The CSI team arrived but he held up his hand for them to wait, then bowed his head for a moment, silently offering a prayer of reverence before he allowed them to move forward. With two sisters of his own and the never-ending guilt of his wife’s death on his conscience, seeing any female hurt and stripped of her dignity grated on his soul. At least Lucinda had not suffered rape or this humiliation. But still her death had cut him to the bone.

      He had to put her out of his mind. Had to work, keep busy, pay penance for his mistakes by saving others.

      The Dubois men were cut from Cajun cloth. Had shady characters in their own ancestry. But today’s Dubois men spelled law. All three of them. Himself, Damon and Antwaun. He’d do his job and find out who had made this woman suffer.

      He mentally cataloged the crime scene while his partner Detective Carson Graves searched the exterior. The room reeked of raunchy sex. Her face was painted with makeup in a grotesque style. Especially her eyes.

      Then her heart had been brutally slashed. The killer had intentionally left her vulnerable and exposed as if to shame her. Worse, he’d left her deep in the bayou where the vermin might eat her before her body could be discovered.

      It appeared ritualistic. Had he murdered before?

      Or had this sicko just come to New Orleans?

      Bourbon Street, Mardi Gras…as much as Jean-Paul loved his home in the bayou, something untamed in the land and climate drew the crazies like flies to sweet maple syrup. And with the pre-Mardi Gras celebrations, crime would only escalate.

      Still, he did things by the book. No man was above the law. He had to make sure the investigators did everything right.

      Flies and mosquitoes swarmed inside. The sounds of the woods croaked and buzzed around him while the muddy river carried vines, broken tree limbs and God knows what else upstream. Shadows hugged every corner, offering a hiding place for predators.

      The stench of death from the victim assaulted him, along with another strange odor that he didn’t quite recognize. The female CSI officer paused, stepped outside for air, then returned a few seconds later, looking pale but determined.

      Judging from rigor and her body’s decay, she had been here at least a couple of days. In fact they might never have found her had a local fisherman not noticed a faint light from an old bulb shining in the darkness and decided to check it out.

      “At least he left her inside the cabin,” Skeeter Jones, the head CSI officer, murmured.

      Yeah, or the gators would have fed on her already. Then no one would ever have found her.

      The medical examiner, Dr. Leland Charles, leaned over to examine the body. “The chest wound looks bad. A wide blade, lots of bruising. Looks as if he twisted it. He wanted her to suffer. Her coloring is pale with a yellowish tint.”

      “We’ll check and track down where he got the lancet.” Jean-Paul stooped to study the spear. “They sell them in the gift shops in town.”

      “Hell, a man could have his pick of murder weapons from the street vendors,” Charles muttered.

      “So, what was the cause of death?” Jean-Paul asked.

      “There are no ligature marks on her neck so I’d rule out asphyxiation. She might have bled out from the chest wound, but I want to check the tox screens.” Charles noted more bruises on her body—her ribs, abdomen, thighs. “She did fight back,” he murmured, “as much as she could in her position.”

      Jean-Paul wondered if she had agreed to the bondage, then changed her mind later. Or she could have been unconscious when the perp tied her up. “I want the cause of death as soon as you finish with her. And make sure to send me the result of the full tox screen and rape kit. We need to determine if the sex was consensual.”

      Charles nodded, then dabbed a Q-tip across the woman’s abdomen and bagged it. “It looks like he rubbed some kind of oil on her body. Maybe one of those love potions or sensual oils they sell in the market.”

      Jean-Paul scanned the room for a bottle. “So our guy uses massage oil as if he wants the woman to enjoy sex, then kills her? I don’t get it. Maybe he was conflicted?”

      Charles muttered a curse. “Figure out what makes this one tick and you’ll catch him.”

      “Maybe the night started out with romance, then things got rough.”

      “And something she said or did triggered the man to snap and he killed her,” Charles added.

      Jean-Paul shook his head, not buying it. The scene seemed too posed. Too planned. “No. The serpent necklace and lancet indicate he came prepared.” And what the hell did the mask of that crocodile head mean?

      A tech motioned toward the medical examiner and Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes. “Did you find something?”

      She shrugged. “Boombox is still warm. Found a CD in it called ‘Heartache Blues.’”

      “Symbolic or what?” Dr. Charles commented.

      “She ripped out his heart, so he did the same to her.” Jean-Paul made a sound with his mouth. “Could be his motivation.”

      “Check out the artist,” the tech said. “Some newbie named Randy Swain. I saw a write-up about him in the paper. He’s here for the music festival.”

      Along with a thousand others. All strangers, which made their investigation more difficult. “Of course.” Jean-Paul made a note to question the singer Randy Swain. And to question a couple of guys who made masks and sold them in the market.

      The woman bagged the CD, dusted the boombox, then tagged both items for evidence.

      “Anyone find the girl’s identification?” he asked.

      One of the CSI techs СКАЧАТЬ