Maybe she should, Sarah thought. Maybe that was the way to end this dance once and for all.
She stared down at the photographs, her breath still too shallow, her cheek tingling from where he had touched her. “Do you know who they are?”
“The victims?” He was suddenly all business again, his voice brusque, his eyes steely with determination. “Not yet. Not the first one. The second victim’s name is Holly Jessup.”
Sarah felt everything inside her go still.
Holly Jessup.
Sean saw her expression and frowned. “What? Don’t tell me you know her?”
“No, it’s not that...” Sarah left the drawing table and walked back into the living room. Sean followed her. “I know that name,” she said. “I saw it in the paper the other day. They said she’d disappeared from her home in Shreveport.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Her abductor kept her alive for days before he killed her. Then he dumped her body in a vacant apartment. We didn’t find blood or symbols like at the first crime scene. But the killer left a message in the bathroom mirror.”
“The same one?”
“Yeah. ‘I am you.’ Looks like you were right about him. He seems to have a thing about mirrors.”
“Or mirror images.” Sean’s gaze was so intense, a chill skated up Sarah’s spine. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I was just thinking about something.”
“What?” When he didn’t answer, she dropped her voice. “Sean, what is it?”
“I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but where were you last Saturday night?”
Sarah just stared at him.
“Holly Jessup’s neighbors reported seeing a strange car in the neighborhood the day she went missing. An old green sedan. The original crime scene and the dump site of the second body are both just blocks from here. If you were out late last Saturday night, it’s possible you could have seen the car in this neighborhood.”
Sarah’s mind went instantly to the car she’d noticed parked at the curb the night before. It had already been dark when she got home and she’d been in a hurry to get inside. Could it have been the green sedan Holly Jessup’s neighbors had reported?
“I worked until ten and then I came straight home,” she said.
“You didn’t go out later?”
“No.”
His voice was flat, his eyes suddenly distant. “That’s not like you to stay home on a Saturday night.”
“I don’t think I like what you’re implying. What’s this all about?”
“I told you. I thought you might have seen a dark green car in the neighborhood.”
“I was home last Saturday night,” Sarah said on a breath of anger. “Where were you?”
Sean glanced up. “Pardon?”
“Someone kept calling here and hanging up. When I called the number back, it was Catherine. She didn’t say anything, but my guess is she was looking for you. So where were you, Sean?”
Irritation flashed in his eyes a split second before he gave her an enigmatic smile. “I always said you’d make one helluva detective.”
Chapter 17
The smoke curling up from the roach clip in the ashtray burned Catherine Kelton’s eyes. She was sorely tempted to roll down her window to let in some fresh air, but she didn’t want to mess up her hair and makeup. Now that she’d passed thirty, it wasn’t so easy to achieve that dewy, fresh look from her pageant days, and she hadn’t spent the past hour and a half in front of a mirror just to have the wind and rain smudge it all to hell.
Her short black dress crawled up her thighs and she kept tugging it down out of habit, even though she and her friend, Ginette Tenney, were the only occupants of the car. Cat wished for a moment that she’d dressed more casually—like Ginette, in skinny-leg jeans and a cute little top—but if she caught Sean out with his girlfriend tonight, she damn well wanted them both to see what he was missing.
“How long has it been, Kitty Cat?”
She turned to Ginette who was driving. “How long has what been?”
“Since you and me got wasted together. I don’t mean a beer by the pool or a cocktail before dinner. I’m talking about a full-on, shit-faced, girls’-night-out drunk.” Ginette reached for the roach in the ashtray, but by now it was nothing but smoldering ashes. She rolled down her window and tossed it out. “Damn,” she said. “Burned my fingers.”
“You should quit smoking that stuff, Ginette, you’re not a kid anymore.”
“Hey, you like the hooch, I like my weed. What’s the diff?”
“The difference is, you’re destroying your brain cells. After all these years, you probably don’t have that many left.”
“Preach it, sister,” Ginette said good-naturedly. “My memory’s not worth shit these days. But I’m not sure you’ve got that much room to talk, the way you’ve been knocking back the sauce since we left the house. How much you got left of that fifth?”
“Enough to get drunk if I want to.”
“Well, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what are you waiting for?”
Cat shook her head. “You haven’t changed a bit since we were in high school. You’re still a bad influence, just like Mama always said.”
“Damn straight and proud of it.” Ginette drew a hand through her short, black hair, pulling the bangs off her forehead. She wasn’t a particularly attractive woman; her features were too sharp and her face too weathered from the Gulf Coast sun. But she still had a good body and a great smile and was always up for whatever.
The two women had been best friends since the eighth grade, and Cat had the sudden urge to tell Ginette how much she valued their relationship. But she was just lit enough that a sappy confession might turn into a crying jag, and then her mascara would run all to hell and back.
Instead, she turned to stare out the window. The neon lights over the bars and clubs looked soft and hazy, and the wet streets beneath the streetlamps shimmered like quicksilver. Even with the windows up, she could hear music drifting from the jazz clubs, and she thought to herself that New Orleans was beautiful in the rain.
She felt something well inside her—a wave of loneliness that was as uncharacteristic as it was unwelcome. So her home life had gone belly-up. It wasn’t the end of the world. Hell, it wasn’t even her first busted-up marriage. It was, however, the first time she had been the one left behind, and that didn’t sit well with Cat.
Don’t get desperate. Just find a way to make the bastard pay, was her motto.
Ginette turned onto North Rampart, and Cat, who had begun to feel a bit copacetic about her situation once her mind had turned to revenge, was suddenly hit square between the eyes with her husband’s philandering. Sean’s car was parked in front of Sarah DeLaune’s house. A rush of indignation flushed Cat’s cheeks. Well, that and the whiskey.
“That goddamn, motherfucking son of a bitch!”
Ginette’s head whipped around and she gave Cat a wide-eyed stare. “Man, you must really be pissed. I’ve never heard you talk like that before.”
“I’ve never been married to a cheater before, have I?”
“That’s a good point.” Ginette switched on the wipers to clear the windshield. “Is that her house?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that his car?”
“Yeah.”
“Goddamn, motherfucking son of a bitch.” Ginette eased up on the gas. “What do you want to do? I say we go in there and kick some ass. I mean, lay some serious hurt on that shithead. Just say the word and I’ll stop the car right now. Right in the middle of the street. I don’t give a fuck.”
“Just drive on by.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
A light shone from one of the front windows and Cat peered through the drizzle, trying to catch a glimpse of Sean inside.
Ginette leaned forward to stare out Cat’s window. “That’s a nice little house. What did you say she does?”
“She’s a tattoo artist.”
“Shit, Cat, we’re in the wrong business. We sure as hell won’t make enough dough cutting hair to afford a place like that.”
“She comes from money,” Cat said.
“That bitch. So what do you want to do now?”
“Turn at the next corner and park behind that old pickup truck. That way we can watch the house, but if they come out, they won’t spot the car.”
Ginette made the turn and slid her compact car into the curb behind the truck. She killed the lights and turned off the engine. In the ensuing silence, Cat could hear the motor ticking down, and in the distance, the wail of a siren. It was a wet, gloomy night, and she suddenly wasn’t having much fun. Cat didn’t like it when she wasn’t having a good time.
Ginette propped her arm on the steering wheel and peered at her in the dark car. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I just want to sit here for a while and contemplate what I’m going to do to that bastard.”
“I say give him a Lorena Bobbitt.”
“Nah, I don’t like knives,” Cat said. “How about I just shoot it off?”
Ginette suddenly sobered. “Listen, in all seriousness, don’t get too carried away, okay? Bastard’s not worth doing time over. No man is. I mean, I’m all for kicking his ass, don’t get me wrong, but that Saturday Night Special you slipped in your purse before we left the house has me a little worried.”
Cat shrugged. “It’s just for protection.”
“Against what? Or should I say who?”
“Don’t you ever listen to the news? The police found two bodies in this neighborhood in the past week. Both of the victims were white women, about our age.”
“Well, that’s information I would have found useful...say...oh, I don’t know...before I let you talk me into this. Do the police know who killed them?”
“No.”
“So the killer’s still out there somewhere.”
“That’s why I brought the gun. You can’t be too careful these days. Not around here.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Fuck, yeah, it’s loaded.”
Ginette picked a piece of lint from her sweater. “Would you not say that word? It’s like hearing my mother say it.”
“Well, that’s too fucking bad, Ginette, because I’m going to say fuck as many fucking times as I fucking well please tonight. What do you think of that?”
“Well, fuck, don’t let me stop you.”
They started laughing and couldn’t stop. Ginette clutched her stomach as she let her head fall back against the seat. “This is fun. I just wish I didn’t have to pee so bad.”
“I’m sure you can find some bushes around here somewhere.”
“With an ax murderer running around loose? Thanks, I’ll hold it.”
“I don’t think he used an ax.”
“Whatever. Did I tell you about this recurring dream I have where a psycho drag queen chases me around my bedroom with a hatchet? I think it’s a safe bet I’m not going to be peeing in any bushes tonight.”
“Suit yourself,” Cat said. “It’s your bladder.”
Ginette fiddled with the CD player. “What do you feel like listening to?”
“I don’t care. Something old-school maybe.”
“How about a little classic Southern rock for a couple of classic Southern broads?”
“Skynyrd?”
“Hell, yeah, Skynyrd.” Ginette put in the CD and they listened for a moment. “Never gets old, does it?”
“Reminds me of junior high,” Cat said. “They used to end every dance with ‘Freebird,’ remember? Then we’d go over to your house and play the 90210 drinking game. Take a drink every time Brandon asks someone out.”
Cat laughed. “Maybe we should do that right now.”
“What?”
“Take a drink every time someone says the F-word.”
“No fucking way,” Ginette said. “I’m driving, remember? If we get pulled over, I’m dead meat because I can barely walk a straight line even when I’m sober. You’re just going to have to put out.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re used to sleeping with a cop.”
“Oh, like you’re not? Does the name Eddie Jarvis ring a bell?”
“Fuck, I was hoping you didn’t know about that.”
Cat passed her the bottle. “Here, take a drink.”
