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 shook his head. “Not so far.”
“Where are her clothes?”
“We didn’t find them, either,” the CSI tech replied. “No clothes. No condom. Nothing personal. Not a toothbrush, comb or even a pair of underwear.”
“This guy knows what he’s doing,” Jean-Paul said. “He’s meticulous. He cleaned up. Didn’t leave any trace evidence.”
“There’s usually something—a hair fiber, an errant button, thread off a jacket,” the female crime scene investigator said. “If there is, we’ll find it.”
Jean-Paul nodded and studied the victim’s face again. Woman? Hell, she looked so damn young. Like someone’s daughter or little sister. Except for the grotesque makeup.
Had she been a hooker or had the killer only painted her to resemble the girls in the red-light district?
His cell phone trilled and he checked the number. His superior, Lieutenant Phelps. He connected the call, his gaze catching sight of his partner combing the wooden dock.
“Lieutenant, what is it?” Jean-Paul asked.
“We just got a call I need you to check out.”
“Do we have a lead already?”
“Maybe. You know that erotica magazine, Naked Desires?”
He grimaced. His sisters had mentioned it at one of their family gatherings. Apparently they thought some of the letters were titillating. “I don’t exactly subscribe to it.”
Phelps chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect my pride-and-joy officer to.”
Jean-Paul grimaced. He hated all the hype he’d received after the hurricane. Just because he’d stuck to his post, done his job and saved a few people, he’d received a damn commendation. Big deal. He’d lost his wife….
“So what is it?” he asked.
“Britta Berger, the editor of the Secret Confessions column called and said she had something we needed to see.”
“Now?” Jean-Paul tapped his boot impatiently. “What is it, some letter that freaked her out?”
“Apparently it’s a photograph, not a letter,” Phelps said in a serious tone.
“But doesn’t this case take priority?” Jean-Paul asked.
“It is about this case,” Phelps said, deadpan. “According to her description, she received a photograph of a crime.”
“What crime?”
“A murder,” Phelps said. “One that sounds suspiciously like the one you’re investigating.”
HE STOOD OUTSIDE the door to Naked Desires, the urge to go in making him shake with need. The moment he’d seen her photograph in that magazine, he’d recognized her.
His Adrianna.
How ironic to finally have found her here in the city. So close to where he had first met her. So close to where everything had gone wrong.
What was she doing now? Studying the photograph he’d sent her? Staring in horror at the woman’s vile, bloodless eyes? Wondering why he had sent her the message?
Adrenaline churned through his blood, heating his body.
He had to see her. Touch her. Watch the realization dawn in her eyes….
No. Not yet.
He’d waited years for this moment. Had searched in every face and town he’d visited. Had combed the edges of the bayou—hunting, hoping, yearning, praying she had survived.
So he could kill her.
Laughter bubbled in his chest. And now the moment was so near, his vengeance almost within reach. Yet he had to draw it out. Earn his redemption. Save the other sinners. Make them pay.
And make Adrianna watch them suffer.
With each one, she would feel him breathing down her neck. Coming closer. Know the pain of having death upon her conscience.
Just as he lived with his father’s death upon his.
God made the world in seven days and nights. Seven days and nights he had been tortured after she took his father’s life.
Seven more days until Mardi Gras.
Each day until then, a celebration.
Each day until then, a time to torture.
And on the seventh day, when Mardi Gras reached its grand finale, he would find salvation. He couldn’t wait to see the shock in her eyes when she realized that she had never escaped at all. That she had to pay for her sins.
And that she had to die because he loved her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE DEAD WOMAN’S eyes haunted Britta.
She tried to tamp her nerves as the publisher of Naked Desires, R. J. Justice, paced his office. He’d been cursing ever since she’d shown him the photo. Of course her insides were knotted. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to the cops.
In fact, she had held on to the picture all day hoping to convince herself the note and picture had been a joke, but finally her conscience had worn her down. She hadn’t been able to justify not showing R.J. the photograph.
Not even to save her own skin.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t come down to that. This was an isolated incident. The police would investigate.
And she wouldn’t have to be involved or divulge her secrets.
“I know you’re shaken, Britta,” R.J. muttered.
“I’ll be fine. After all, this is probably a false alarm. We aren’t positive the woman is really dead. The photographer could have staged the scene to look like a murder. For shock value.”
“True. But he had to know we’d check it out before we printed it.”
Britta
