Chapter Twelve
By the time Sullivan came downstairs empty-handed, I’d regained my composure.
“When did you find Klingman?” I asked. “Where?”
His dark brown eyes contemplated me with curiosity. “I thought you didn’t know the man.”
“I don’t. But—” I glanced around for. King, and when I didn’t see him anywhere, leaned in to whisper.
“You hired me to look into the disappearances. Shouldn’t I know all there is to know about the latest one?”
“He didn’t disappear,” Sullivan reiterated.
“Just tell me, Conner.”
His brows lifted at my use of his first name, then he shrugged. “He was found in Lake Pontchartrain.”
“I thought he was on fire.”
“Maybe that’s why he wound up in the lake—either trying to put himself out or it could be whoever lit him up didn’t want to attract too much attention.”
” When was he found?”
“This afternoon. Although he could have been floating a while. We don’t know yet.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of that bit of info. What had I been hoping he’d say?
If Harvey had been found dead last night, would that have let Rodolfo off the hook for killing him? Not even close, since he’d shown up beat to hell and gone. For all I knew, my boss had been struggling with Harvey instead of muggers.
The thought caused me to frown. I truly doubted a blind man could kill a healthy, sighted one, start him on fire, or vice versa, then dump him in the lake. Besides, I’d seen Klingman walking around after the sun came up. A fact that I should relate immediately to Detective Sullivan.
But I wasn’t going to.
At least not until I’d talked to Rodolfo.
That proved harder to accomplish than I’d imagined. Rodolfo didn’t show up that night, or the next, or the next. I started to get worried, and when King didn’t share my concern, I got mad.
“If he turns up dead somewhere, I guess that’ll let him off the hook with Sullivan,” I snapped.
“He won’t turn up dead.” The big man’s lips twitched, which only made me madder. “This isn’t the first time he’s gone AWOL.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just what I said. Every so often Johnny needs to get away, so he does. He always comes back.”
“Unless he’s at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain,” I muttered.
“He isn’t.”
King seemed certain, and since he knew Rodolfo better than I did, I figured he was right. I also figured I knew why Johnny had needed some alone time. He’d wanted to get away from me.
So despite my unease, I didn’t look for him. I didn’t even check the third-floor room. If he ever came back, he knew exactly where to find me.
Still, I didn’t sleep well. Each night I stared out my window as the moon shrank to gibbous, then a crescent, and finally disappeared altogether, leaving the sky dark but for the stars.
Downstairs, something went thud. Since King had left hours ago, the sound drew me away from my contemplation of the navy blue night. I’d taken one step toward my door when a squeal from outside made me return just in time to see a squat, somewhat roly-poly shadow dart away.
“There are no pigs in New Orleans,” I murmured, though I didn’t know if that was true.
I peered down the alley, but nothing, no one, was there. I decided to head to the tavern for a bottle of water. It was something to do.
I’d had no luck finding anyone who recognized Katie, though with the Mardi Gras festivities increasing daily, the crowds had also improved. I’d stay until Lent began, and tourism understandably fell off, then I’d return home.
According to the New Orleans Times-Picayune there’d been no more disappearances or murders—at least none without an explanation. I’d spoken to Sullivan a few times, and he confirmed the same. If there was a serial killer, perhaps he was waiting for the full moon, unless he’d skipped town, or been the victim of an untimely death himself.
I frowned, thinking of Harvey Klingman.
That thought flew right out of my head, as I let myself out of my room and immediately caught the scent of smoke. The same door was aj ar as before, and when I opened it I discovered the altar had reappeared.
This time I knew better than to walk away and let the thing disappear. Instead, I strode in and scooped the tiny wooden animals into my hand. The candle went out as if blown by an invisible breath.
A chill trickled over me as complete darkness descended. My eyes were wide open, yet I could see nothing. How did Rodolfo stand it?
Another thud from downstairs had me slipping the icons into the pocket of my paj ama bottoms and hurrying down the steps, silent on bare feet.
The tavern was also dark. I sensed movement in the room, though I wasn’t sure where. My shin whacked into a chair; I stumbled over a table. Maybe all the movement was my own.
Still, I could have sworn I heard heavy breathing, so close my hair stirred. I paused, sweeping my arms in a circle, expecting to hit someone, maybe something, but there was nothing.
A footfall behind me, a tiny sigh ahead of me, the air swirled all around. I was disoriented, frightened, and I wished I’d stayed in my room.
The back door banged open suddenly, spilling in just enough light from the distant street lamp so I could see that no one was here but me. Except how had the door come to be open?
Most likely when the altar maker left.