Damian stood and went to her, putting his hands on her shoulders.
“Stay here, Jamie. There’s something you should know….”
Through her thin T-shirt, she felt his hands’ warmth. Jamie resisted the urge to collapse and absorb his strength. It had been so long since she’d leaned on anyone. The only person she could trust was herself.
But damn, just for once, it would be nice to have someone truly on her side.
“If you don’t know enough, then I have to find someone who does,” she muttered.
A loud buzz warned someone was at the front gate. Shrugging off his hands, Jamie trounced downstairs, Damian following close behind. A man in a rumpled black suit with a tired face stood outside. “I’m Detective Robert Ryan. Do you know the woman who lives two doors down, a Mrs. Renee St. Clair?"
“Renee’s a good friend.”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but … we believe Mrs. St. Clair has been killed.”
Her heart raced as she shrank back. “There’s some mistake.”
“Perhaps,” the detective said evenly. “Does she have any relatives living in the city?"
“She has a daughter in North Carolina, and her son was killed in a car wreck a while back.”
“Could you come with us and identify the body, Miss Walsh?”
I can’t, she thought with sickening dread. But she had to see for herself. Had to know … that the one woman she felt friendship with was gone. It simply couldn’t be real.
Jamie nodded. Damian took her elbow and gave the detective a hard look. “Just a minute. I’m going with her and we need to lock up.”
He pulled her inside the gate, out of earshot. “Renee was not here with you. Understand? Otherwise you’re a suspect.”
Her stomach twisted in knots. They left the house, following the detective. Police cars crammed the narrow street, blue and red lights bouncing off the buildings, yellow tape being unfurled and plastered across a perimeter of the sidewalk. All stuff she’d seen countless times on television crime shows.
Only this time it was real. Too real.
The familiar interior of the voodoo shop looked normal, though a horrid, coppery stench filled the air. Her instincts knew the smell. Blood and violence. Cops milled about, dusting the shelves with black fingerprint powder, taking photos.
“She’s back here.” The detective walked toward the back room.
She pulled free of Damian and went to a yellow plastic sheet covering something on the floor. Detective Ryan’s face remained expressionless.
“Ready?”
Jamie drew in a deep breath and nodded, barely feeling Damian’s strong hands on her shoulders. The cop pulled back the sheet to show a face.
A face she knew and didn’t. Lips pulled back into a silent scream, warm brown eyes dulled and glazed with horror.
A strangled moan arose in her throat. Jamie jerked her head forward. “It’s her, but how …” She had to know, even though she knew what she would find would be horrible.
Trembling fingers clutched the sheet’s edge, ripped it from the startled detective’s grip. Jamie pulled the sheet back with a vicious yank, exposing the body. Dark bruises ringed Renee’s neck. Blood splattered the pretty flowered dress and a ragged hole showed where … Her heart. Her big, generous heart. Gone.
Jamie gagged, clapped a hand over her mouth. Oh God, her friend … died in pain, horribly. A boulder the size of Louisiana compressed her chest. Her bottom lip wobbled precariously as the burning rose in her throat.
Her parents. Mark. Would the streak of deaths ever end? Maybe the Grim Reaper was only a happy camper when he kept slaughtering everyone in her life.
She ignored the tightness in her throat. No grief. She tried to speak past the cotton dryness in her mouth. Damian put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently. His fingers trailed over her nape, stroking in soothing motions as if he tried calming her.
“Wh-who could have done this?”
“Someone with a great deal of strength.” The cop swept her with an even gaze. She guessed his thoughts. Small, slender hands, barely enough strength to rip open a cereal-box top.
But who did possess such strength? Draicon did.
“When did you last see her, Miss Walsh?”
Menace and anger rolled from Damian in thick, violent waves. He gave the cop a look cool enough to freeze burning coal. “She’s not up to answering questions now.”
“It’s okay,” she told Damian, then looked at the detective. “This morning, we had tea, and then she got customers.”
Each question tossed at her she answered steadily, her mind sharpening, her emotions dulled. Her mind raced. Who could want Renee dead? The woman had no enemies, nothing much of value to steal … The laptop. Jamie’s gaze darted over to the side table where Renee had last placed it. Gone.
“May I go into the back rooms, Detective? She was a good friend and I can tell you if anything is missing.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ryan said.
In the kitchen, the shiny new blue notebook sat on the table with a wireless Internet card tucked into the slot. Black fingerprint powder covered the surface.
“Nice notebook.” Ryan gestured to it. “Odd the killer took only the cash from the register and not this. She used it to send an e-mail to her granddaughter today.”
A chill fell over Jamie. She glanced up at Damian’s stoic expression.
“Maybe the killer didn’t want it tracked back to him,” Jamie said softly. She glanced around.
“Where is Renee’s cat?”
Ryan frowned. “We found no cat.” Archimedes must have escaped. He was a survivor, and probably out roaming the streets. The least of her worries now.
“Detective, is her diamond pendant missing? She loved it and it should be in her jewelry box upstairs. I’ll stay here. I’m feeling faint.”
Jamie slipped into the chair before the laptop, burying her face in her hands. No lie, for she was feeling sick. She waited until he left the kitchen, then lifted her head.
Damian leaned over the table. “I need to get you out of here.”
“No, wait, I have to check this out.” She glanced around. “Make sure no one comes in here, ‘kay?"
She powered up the laptop, scanned the files. An e-mail to Renee’s grandchild, just as the detective had said. Jamie pulled up the browsing history. Erased, of course. No matter.
She went into DOS and typed a program
