Chapter Seventeen
“Why you need one of us?” King demanded. “You got your mind all made up.”
“Rodolfo needs a lawyer, but he won’t call one. Says he’s innocent. Insisted that his one phone call be made here, and since no one answered…” Sullivan spread his hands.
“Such service,” King murmured, eyes on me. “You’d think you had another reason for coming to Rising Moon altogether.”
The detective’s cheeks got a little red.
King gave a derisive laugh. “You go along, Anne. Talk some sense into Johnny while I finish up.”
I continued to stare at the empty office. I was starting to wonder if Rising Moon had secret passageways I wasn’t aware of.
“Sense?” I repeated. “How will I manage that?”
“Do your best.” King shrugged. “If you need bail money, call me.”
“There isn’t going to be bail on a murder case,” Sullivan stated.
King moved unbelievably fast for such a big man, crossing the short distance separating him from the detective in a fraction of time and pausing only centimeters away from bumping chests. “Johnny. Don’t.
Murder. People.”
Each word was low, intense, clipped. Sullivan’s fingers clenched, and I wondered what I’d do if they decided to go round and round. There was no way I’d be able to stop them. I doubted anyone could.
Then I’d have to bail King out of j ail, even if I couldn’t do the same for Rodolfo.
Luckily, once he’d made his point, King went back to work without saying another word.
“He seems pretty certain,” I said.
“He’s going to have to be a lot more than certain to get your boss out of this.”
I faced Sullivan. “You aren’t very obj ective on the subj ect of John Rodolfo.”
“I got a feeling.” He shrugged. “There’s something not right about the guy.”
Far be it from me to argue with a cop’s hunch. Besides, he’d need more than that to charge Rodolfo with murder and make it stick.
“Why did you call me?” At my puzzled look, he continued, “You said you left a message.”
“Oh!” Katie ’s bracelet. “I’ll be right back.”
I ran upstairs, retrieved the item, then returned, beckoning Sullivan outside, where I placed the package in his hand. “Someone left this on my nightstand today.”
He opened the white handkerchief, frowned and glanced up.
“It’s Katie’s,” I said.
His eyes widened, before he nodded and pocketed the thing. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Thanks.”
Sullivan had parked his car, a navy blue Crown Victoria, at the curb out front. We climbed in and buckled up. The car smelled almost new, not a whiff of old smoke or leftover food, not even spilled coffee. The floor mats were shiny, so was the console. I had a sneaking suspicion he’d recently used Windex on the rearview mirrors. Was the man human?
Frenchmen was a narrow two-way street trolled mostly by cabs. Sullivan glanced over his shoulder, then pulled a sharp U-turn and headed for the police station.
I still had hopes that the man in the cell would not be John. My hopes were dashed by the sound of a harmonica playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” even before I got close enough to recognize Rodolfo playing the thing.
A few other men were incarcerated nearby, but at this hour they were sleeping. Considering the city, and the imminence of Mardi Gras, maybe they were passed out.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Sullivan murmured, and the music stopped.
John’s chin went up. “Anne?”
He had a bruise on his forehead. “Who hit him?” I demanded, my fingers curling into fists.
Sullivan lifted his hands in surrender. “No one. He tripped when he was being booked.” He shot a frown Rodolfo’s way. “Smacked his head right into the camera and broke the lens. I’ll go see if they have another set up yet.”
Sullivan left, quietly closing the door behind him.
“You need to call a lawyer, John.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I never said you did.”
“So there’s no need for a lawyer.”
“Obviously you aren’t familiar with the U.S. legal system. There’s always need for a lawyer.”
He made his way carefully across the cement floor until he stood on the other side of the bars. “They’ll have to let me out sooner or later.”
“You really think so?”
He shrugged.
“Sullivan says you were found next to a dead woman.”
“That’s what they told me.”
“You weren’t?”
“I don’t know where I was, and I couldn’t exactly see what, or who, was next to me.”
“Oh, that’s right, you don’t remember how you got there. Where was there?”
“Storyville.”
My brow creased as I attempted to place the name. I’d heard it or read it somewhere.
Then it hit me. Up until about eighty years ago, Storyville had been the only legal red-light district in the country. To this day, the place retained the dangerous aura from times gone by—especially at night—though I doubted the area was referred to as Storyville anymore.
“Why on earth would you go there?” I demanded. “You want to die?”
He gave me that smile again, the one that could have meant anything—yes, no, have you even been listening?
“I don’t know why I was there,” he said patiently. “I didn’t mean to be.”
“Did you black out?”
“For want of a better word.”
“You’ve lost time before? Woken up somewhere else?”
“Only when the headaches are very bad.”
Which might account for the dead bodies turning up with disturbing regularity in the Crescent City. Until now I’d refused to believe John could be responsible for the killings; he didn’t seem capable of it. But the more I got to know him, the more capable he became. And now that he’d admitted losing time…
“We definitely need a lawyer,” I muttered.
“No you don’t.” Sullivan was back. He didn’t look happy.
“Why not?”
“The doctor at the morgue examined the body.” He broke off to glare at Rodolfo. John smirked as if he knew what Sullivan was about to say, except the detective didn’t say it. He continued to stare at John, fury seeming to roll off him in waves.
Eventually, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “What did the doctor say?”
Sullivan’s gaze turned to me. “The rookie at the scene got a little spooked by all the blood. Throat wounds bleed like a bitch.”
“I can imagine.” And I could; what I wished was that I’d stop.
“The dead woman, a river of blood, Rodolfo standing over her, hands covered with it—”
“Perhaps I was trying to resuscitate her,” Rodolfo interrupted.
“With a mortal throat wound, I doubt resuscitation would work,” Sullivan pointed out.
“I didn’t know she had a mortal throat wound.”
“Do you know how to resuscitate anyone?” Sullivan pressed.
“No.”
Triumph spread over the detective’s face, but I put an end to it. “What did the doctor say that suddenly made you think John doesn’t need a lawyer?”
Sullivan’s expression faded. “The throat was torn, not cut.” His eyes met mine. “By an animal, not a knife.”
“Another mysterious animal attack,” I murmured.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of animal?”
“Too soon to say.”
I was starting to wonder about that werewolf; however, last night there had been a crescent moon and
not a full one.
“You’re free to go,” Sullivan continued. “But don’t leave town.”
“He’s still a suspect?” I asked.
“Not in this murder.”
But there were so many others.
A uniformed officer escorted John away to be processed for release. I followed, but when we reached the main area, Sullivan put a hand to my elbow. “I dropped the bracelet off at the lab.” His face was concerned. “I still wish you wouldn’t stay at Rising Moon.”
I glanced at John, who stood with the other officer near the front of the station. “I’ll be fine. King’s going to have the locks changed.”
“There’s something between you and Rodolfo,” Sullivan said.
“Not really.”
The only thing between us was sex, and really, that was nothing.
“I doubt you’re going to catch him in the act,” Sullivan continued. “He’s pretty slick.”
“Maybe he didn’t do anything.”
“He did something. I know it.”
I shook my head and said, “You’re obsessed by this, by him.”
“I don’t think I’m the one who’s obsessed.”
I didn’t want to go there.
I knew Sullivan liked me, that he wanted more from me than friendship. I knew I should tell him I didn’t feel the same way, but I wasn’t sure how. I’d never once had to let someone down easy. And I didn’t want to piss him off before I figured out what was going on around here. I needed his help and his goodwill.
“There’s a connection between Rodolfo and the murderers,” Sullivan continued, “and I will find it. I
just wish I hadn’t put you in danger.”
“I’m not in danger,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure. “Katie was last seen at Rising Moon. I have to stay.”
“I’m not so sure she was there.”
“What?”
“You know, there are ways to alter photographs. It isn’t hard.”
“Why would anyone—”
“I don’t know. Would you give me the photo? Let me have it examined by an expert?”
I hesitated. Though I hadn’t been having any luck, I still wanted to show the photograph to people in the bar.
“I’ll make a copy,” Sullivan said.
I nodded and handed him the original. He was back a few minutes later with a very good reproduction.
“Thanks.” I tucked the new photo into my back pocket.
“You have to consider that perhaps Katie wasn’t here at all.”
“But the bracelet—”
“Might have been left by the person who took Katie in the first place.”
A shiver passed down my back. “Why?”
“I don’t know, Anne.” Sullivan stroked my cheek. His touch was nice—soft and sweet, despite the size and roughness of his hand. “You can’t let anything go either.”
“I guess we’re two of a kind.”
“Yeah.” I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted to kiss me. I almost told him then that we could be nothing more than friends, but before I could someone cleared his or her throat and we jumped apart.
John stood only a few feet away. I knew he hadn’t seen Sullivan touching me; he couldn’t know how close we’d been to an embrace. Yet I felt as if, beyond the reflective sunglasses, his eyes were full of condemnation.
I stiffened. He had no claim on me, just as I had none on him. He’d made that clear.
“Are you ready to leave?” I asked, pleased that my voice sounded normal.
“Are you?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
He hadn’t seen Sullivan and me together, but he’d obviously heard what we’d said. Something about being two of a kind.
So what? We were.
“I’ll be in touch,” Sullivan murmured as I took John’s arm and we headed for the door.
A squad car awaited us. I was tempted to say we’d walk, but between the police station and
Frenchmen lay a lot of ground, and most of it was teeming with revelers in various states of inebriation. The music from Bourbon Street pulsed in the air; the multicolored lights pushed against the night sky like approaching dawn. We got in the car.
Only a few minutes later the silent officer deposited us in front of Rising Moon. The place was empty and dark. I’d figured King would be waiting to hear what had happened. Instead, a note lay on the bar.
Call me. K.
King had scribbled his number below the words.
Quickly I dialed and got voice mail. I guess he wasn’t too worried.
“Everything is fine,” I said. “There was a mistake. They released him.”
I hung up and turned to John, who sat at the piano bench but didn’t touch the keys.
“Do you want me to take you to your apartment?” I asked.
“I can find my own way home. I’m not a cripple.”
My eyebrows shot up. How politically incorrect.
“Okay,” I said slowly, uncertain what he did want from me. I sat in an overstuffed chair that faced the piano, and then I waited.
After a few more minutes of contemplation, John put his fingers to the keys and began to play. I didn’t know the song, but I didn’t need to. Closing my eyes, I let the emotions wash over me—pounding fury, a trill of longing that gave way to the pulse of desire. Music had never affected me like this before; I doubted it ever would again.
When the last note faded, I was breathless. I opened my eyes, and he stood right in front of me. How could he move so quickly and so quietly?
The bruise on his forehead didn’t appear as dark in this light. I lifted my hand to touch it, and he spun toward the window. “You’re awfully chummy with Sullivan.”
Hmm. Could he be j ealous? I couldn’t get my mind around the idea that one man could be j ealous of another over me. Such things didn’t happen to plain Pis from Philly.
“I spoke to him about Katie.”
“That’s all?” He turned, and the black pit of his glasses seemed to bore into my brain. I found myself spilling things I should not.
“He hired me to help him.”
“He hired you to watch me.”
“Not exactly.”
“He certainly didn’t hire you to fuck me.” His head tilted. “Or maybe he did.”
I leaped to my feet, which only put us so close the heat of his body washed over mine.
“I’m not a whore,” I snapped.
“No. Whores don’t take money. Prostitutes do.”
I slapped him. Or I would have if he hadn’t caught my wrist before it reached his cheek. My eyes narrowed. “Have you been practicing the Force, Luke?”
Confusion flickered over his face. “What?”
” Star Wars. The movie?”
“I don’t get to see many movies,” he said sarcastically.
Considering this one had been made long before he’d lost his sight, I couldn’t believe Rodolfo hadn’t watched it. But I suppose everyone couldn’t be a sci-fi action flick buff like me.
His fingers, which could coax such beauty from both a piano and a saxophone, were strong. They clenched, just short of brutal. “The thought that you were sent here by him, that you touched me because
—”
“If you believe that, then you don’t know me.”
He released my arm as if my skin had suddenly become scalding hot. “But I don ’t know you, Anne. This is sex, not love. Right?”
Something in his voice made me ask, “Do you want it to be love?”
He didn’t answer for so long, I gave up. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
I left him in the club alone, climbing the stairs, watchful for any black cats or potbellied pigs, maybe a stray chicken or two.
A thin shaft of silver from the fading crescent moon filtered through the window. I flicked on the lights, scoped the place out before I moved to shut the door, then I yelped.
John stood in the hall.
Before I could say anything, he wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me.
The embrace was different from any we’d shared before. Gentler, sweeter, but for all of that it was also more intense—as if he were trying so hard to be something he was not.
He buried his face in my neck, took a deep breath and sighed. I sensed surrender in that sigh, but not surrender to the moment, to the rush and the need, but surrender to sanity, and I didn’t want that. I wanted him.
Before he could withdraw, I sank to my knees, rubbing my mouth along the solid length of him. He wore only loose cotton trousers; I had no doubt there was nothing between them and him. When I tugged on the elastic waistband, I discovered I was right.
He leaned back, flicked off the lights, slammed, then locked the door. The darkness shrouded us, making me bold. My sexual experiences were minimal at best; they’d never included this, and suddenly I wanted them to. Before he could stop me, I took him in my mouth.
“Anne,” he groaned, his hand cupping my head, thumb brushing my cheek.
I no longer craved the gentleness; I longed for something more. A scrape of my teeth against his tip, and his fingers tightened, tangling in my hair.
“Show me,” I demanded.
The rhythm wasn’t hard to pick up, especially when he did as I asked, guiding my untutored mouth, encouraging me with low-voiced, slightly pornographic instructions. I’d never figured myself for someone who’d enj oy that, but tonight I did.
Was it because his talk of love had scared me, and I needed to put what was between us back on a plane I could live with? How could I fall for a man I knew nothing about? A man who, earlier, had been covered with the blood of a dead woman. A man whom I’d suspected of murder and more?
The heat of him, the scent and the taste, called to a wildness in me I hadn’t known existed until I’d gone down on my knees. However, I wasn’t the one begging; I was the one in control. I was more aroused than I could ever recall being and I still wore every stitch of my clothes.
My hands clutched his hips, slowed him down. I inched away, blowing a soft, warm breath across the wetness left by my mouth, and he shuddered. “Anne.”
I took pity and led him to my bed. He sat on the edge and I drew his shirt over his head like a child, then gave him a little shove. He fell back, everything limp—except that one thing.
I wished that I could see him, admire him, but the darkness left him in shadow. So I took a page from his book and used my hands to “see” the rippling abdomen, the light dusting of curly, dark hair on his legs, the smooth, taut biceps.
Here and there I felt the ridge of a scar, with an especially thin, long one low on his belly. I paused, wondering if that was all that was left of the slashes he’d obtained during the mugging.
I drifted my palm over his cheek, his chin, his hair. “What color are your eyes?” I murmured, and he j erked as if I’d struck him.
“You mean, what color were they?”
I winced. Why had I ruined the mood?
He reached for the glasses. “You want to see them?”
“No,” I said quickly, and his hand dropped back to his side.
I was still completely clothed, standing over him, completely naked. Crawling onto the bed, I indulged my fantasy, running my mouth across his warm, bronzed skin. Touching him, teasing him, causing him to beg all over again. I made up for my rude and foolish question; or at least I hoped I did.
Eons later, when he was gasping, straining, tugging at my clothes, I drew off my shirt, my pants, my underwear.
“Ride me,” he urged, and I lowered myself onto the hard, hot bulk of him.
Perhaps it was the way he held my hips, his thumbs caressing even as his fingers gripped. Or maybe it was the way he said my name, a guttural moan that had the nuance of an endearment. Despite the intense nature of his movements, there was something tender about them too.
Regardless, when he arched, pressing upward with his body while pulling downward on mine, the orgasm was so strong I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming. As the waves of pleasure died away, we remained j oined, bodies slick with sweat. I didn’t have the energy to move. Thankfully I didn’t have to.
His palm skimmed the length of my back, clever fingers kneading my spine, drifting along my shoulder, down my arm, then hesitating for a fraction of a second before linking his fingers with mine.
“Doesn’t everyone always want it to be love, cher?” he whispered.
