Say You Love Me

The phone clicked, then went dead in her hand.

A vision of the woman begging for her life taunted her. Then the crude mask of Sobek and an image of this man offering the woman as a sacrifice to the half crocodile, half man.

Time swirled backward. The smell of death, blood and the marsh assaulted her. Then the hiss and snapping of the gators as they churned the muddy water, anxious for their meal….

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS since they’d found Elvira Erickson. Jean-Paul Dubois sighed, loosening his collar in the smothering heat as he exited the precinct. Another long, frustrating day. And no headway on the case. He’d questioned the two mask-makers in town for the festival and neither of them made or sold one like they’d found at the scene. Both men had alibis, too.

The necklaces, however, were a dime a dozen.

Several reporters suddenly rushed him, jamming microphones in his face. A camera flash nearly blinded him and he threw up his hands to block another.

“Tell us about the woman murdered in Black Bayou!” a reporter shouted.

“Is it true she was stabbed with a lancet?”

“Did the gators get to her?”

“He raped her before he killed her or after?”

“Do we have a serial-killer case?”

Jean-Paul had to make some kind of statement. But what could he tell them? That so far they had no evidence, no name, no one to arrest? He spotted Mazie Burgess and headed toward her. She was a friend of sorts; had written stories on the hurricane and was fair. She’d also asked him out, but he hadn’t been ready or interested in dating. She smiled and met him halfway and he took the mike.

“We did find a woman murdered yesterday,” he said matter-of-factly. “At this time we have no suspects in custody, but the police are doing everything possible to find the woman’s killer. Now, get out of the way so I can do my job.”

Mazie thanked him. But instead of backing up, the mob moved in, surrounding him. He shouldered his way through, shrugging off a skinny guy who chased him to his car. “Come on, Detective, you have to give us more than that. Someone said that the killer contacted the editor of the Naked Desires magazine.”

Bon Dieu! If they caught wind of the picture Britta Berger had seen, there would be widespread panic. “No comment,” Jean-Paul barked. The last thing he wanted was the press hounding Britta. They might even scare off this guy from sending her information.

And he refused to give the swamp devil the pleasure of seeing a big write-up in the paper.

He tried to pry the man’s fingers off his car door but the reporter resisted. “If you don’t move out of the way, I’m going to arrest you for interfering with a police investigation and charge you with assault.”

“I didn’t assault you!” the man screeched, but he did back away. Jean-Paul hit the accelerator and bolted.

Next on his agenda—he had to check R.J. Justice’s alibi. He drove to the pricey new lofts near the edge of town and met Carson. Debbie Waller, the woman with whom Justice claimed he’d spent the night, supposedly lived in one of the units. The inside of the building consisted of chrome and cement and showcased exposed beams and concrete walls. Apparently the artsy, rich twenties and thirties crowd had flocked to buy the units.

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