Evelyn Vaughn - Contact

“Yeah,” said Chopin. “The killer. Any suggestions?”

She had to remember that it was Cassandra who’d brought them here, not, as far as they were concerned, Faith. But it was surprisingly easy to hesitate, to glance around. “A few minutes ago I saw the guy who tended bar at DeLoup’s the night Krystal died. But I was talking to him at the time of her murder. And none of my roommates know who Krystal was dating. I believe them.”

“Here’s a thought,” suggested Butch. “We need to figure out more about why this fellow targeted a psychic. Why don’t I make the rounds, talk to some of these fortune-teller types, while Roy here trades you a cup of coffee for an overview of this little community. How would that work for everybody?”

If everybody was Faith and Roy, they just stared at him.

Chopin snapped out of it first, shrugging his rangy shoulders. His suit coat hung open to show the gun and badge on his belt. “Uh, sure. Couldn’t hurt, right?”

Yes, it could, thought Faith. But she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t sense any threat from this man. He was pure cop, and even if she’d been a suspect through her close knowledge of the victim, the evidence couldn’t be less incriminating. He wasn’t out to arrest her. He was…

Was he interested in her?

She’d smelled that shift of pheromones often enough in her life to know that yes, he was. But she also knew physical interest wasn’t exactly an on/off switch for most men, or quite a few women. Sometimes even inappropriate men, like a professor or a doctor, or even her boss, couldn’t help their body’s reactions. All she could hope was for them to guard their behavior. Most, like Greg the other day, did just fine.

Other than calling her cute on the phone, which could’ve just been teasing, Chopin was also keeping it cool. Distant. Although as she continued to hesitate, his brows drew together into a foreboding frown, like he was taking it personally.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll tell you whatever I can, Detective Chopin.”

“You can call him Roy,” insisted Butch with a grin and a wave, veering off toward the first ballroom.

“That guy’s as subtle as an ax to the head,” muttered Roy, forcing an after-you gesture that was hardly sulky at all.

“I’m guessing you don’t get out much?” said Faith, preceding him toward the wide, curved stairway. The restaurant’s bar, the only place to get coffee, was off the lobby on the ground floor.

His presence, behind her, felt downright tangible. “Not that it’s any business of his or yours, but no, I don’t. I’m a little busy what with all the murderers and scumbags running around needing to get caught.”

“All work and no play…”

“Is exactly the sort of thing Butch would say. So how do you like your coffee, Miss Corbett?”

She didn’t bother requesting that he call her Ms. Corbett. She let him fetch the drinks, too. That sort of thing mattered to some guys. For her part, she waited at a little bistro table, her chair turned so she could watch the foot traffic to and from the stairway to the ballrooms and the psychic fair.

“So what can I tell you about the psychic community around here?” she asked, turning her back on the passersby when Chopin returned with the coffee. He was not a graceful man. She felt relieved when the drinks were on the table.

“How’d you get involved with this element?”

She blinked, unused to being taken by surprise. “Am I still a suspect, Detective? I was scheduled to go back to work tomorrow, after the memorial service, but if there’s any question…”

“No, you’re not.” Holding her gaze, Chopin leaned over the table, his presence all but enveloping her. “And it’s Roy.”

Faith considered him and the way his pulse and body temperature belied his cool attitude. “Oh. Well, if you’re asking for personal reasons…I mean, if you’re asking because you’re interested…” She didn’t quite have the guts to finish that sentence, unsure as she felt. “Anyway, you really should be clear about that, and not hide it behind official business.”

He sat back now, folded his arms, studied her. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Tomorrow’s my night off. Go out with me.”

She stared. For someone who telegraphed his emotions that strongly, he’d surprised her twice in just a few minutes!

Maybe he only telegraphed what he wanted to telegraph. The strength. The intensity. The threat. Things that would tell any suspect with a few brain cells to rub together that this wasn’t anybody to mess with. The other stuff, the more personal stuff, he hid that pretty well.

She only caught a whiff of regret when something in his intense eyes faded. “Or not,” he said, shrugging. “I just wanted to get that out of the way before—”

“Okay.” Now she’d been surprised three times. She hadn’t expected to be surprised by herself, though.

He blinked at her, then widened his eyes, raised those expressive brows. “Okay?”

“Tomorrow night. It’s a date.” Faith was so used to reading what other people gave off, it took her a moment to realize that the flip-flopping in her stomach came from her, not anyone or anything else. But that reaction, at least, wasn’t surprising.

She didn’t date. Being whatever she was—not knowing what she was—made things way too complicated. And now she’d said yes? To a homicide detective? One she was hiding things from?

But I’m only hiding Cassandra, she thought grimly. I’m only hiding that I’m not…normal.

What was she supposed to do, make every possible date contingent on a confession of her abnormalities? Magazines suggested that a person keep private problems like STDs or past relationships quiet until at least the second date…or before getting naked, whichever came first. Why was her own freakishness any different?

Now she could barely breathe past the butterflies. What had she done?

She’d taken a defiant stab at being normal, that’s what.

“Good,” said Roy, with a decisive nod. She could tell he was pleased, though he hid it well. “Now, could we move on to the important stuff? How long have you known these people? Not because you’re a suspect—but how well do you understand them?”

It was easier, talking about impersonal things like the New Orleans occult community. And the Big Easy definitely had a thriving occult community. Of course, Chopin—Roy—knew a lot already. He’d seen the Voodoo Museum and Marie Laveau’s tomb. He knew where the vampire bars were—not for true immortals, as far as Faith knew, but for wannabes marginally more Goth than Absinthe. Lord knew Roy couldn’t have patrolled Jackson Square without seeing the readers. But he’d never taken the time to learn what really motivated the psychics.

Until now. When in detective mode, he wasn’t a lousy listener.

Faith explained that none of them seemed to be cult members—an official cult had to have a leader, and the majority of psychics were self-taught. She clarified the more innocent reasons that readers often chose new names, and how careful most of them were to abide by the vice laws that—hopefully—kept people from being defrauded by cons like the old curse-removal ploy. She thought she did a pretty good job at not focusing too intently on the detective’s thick wrists while she talked, or the dark hair on the back of his wrists, or his big hands as he cradled his cup of coffee and stared intently at her, listening. She thought she managed not to breathe in his scent and think about their upcoming date too often.

Would he touch her?

Would he kiss her?

Did she want him to?

How ridiculous was it that she was freaking about something this basic at twenty-two years old! It was time to practice Krystal’s quiet breathing techniques.