Rita Herron - Say You Love Me

Liar. “It sounds more personal.” He closed the distance between them. “I think you know more than you’re telling. You may even know the killer. At least, he knows you.”

She lifted her chin a notch. “A lot of people who write into the magazine think they know me.”

“You’re hiding something, Miss Berger.” He leaned across the desk, so close his face was only a breath away. So close he inhaled the hypnotic scent of her perfume.

So close he felt the tension vibrate in her lean muscles.

“But secrets have a way of coming out. And before this investigation is over, I will find out exactly what you’re keeping from me.”

“IWILL FIND OUTexactly what you’re keeping from me.”

Detective Dubois’s warning echoed in Britta’s head as she searched her memory for any confession letters that might have hinted at violence or murder.

What if the killer had written to her in advance and she had ignored the warning or completely missed it? Maybe she could have saved this woman if she’d paid more attention….

Disturbed by the thought, she bagged the last two months’ submissions to carry to the police station the next day. For now, she had to take a walk. Clear her head.

The stench of beer, alcohol, smoke, sweat, urine and garbage permeated Bourbon Street. The raucous laughter and horny, groping drunken strangers were a dreaded experience.

But living on the streets had taught her how to deal with them. The thought of holing up in her apartment above the office with back copies of the magazine—alone with her own demons—was something she couldn’t face yet.

She’d walk to the Market, lose herself in the local musicians and artists, grab a bite of supper. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d missed lunch. The possibility of a nice crisp crab salad or bowl of seafood gumbo made her mouth water.

She checked over her shoulder for the hundredth time to make certain no one was following her as she wound through the chaotic crowd. A man wearing a patch over his right eye whispered an invitation for her to join him in the pub next door, but she rushed past, aware the man tracked her as she disappeared into the throng. Next door, another club offered half-priced drinks along with pole-dancing, featuring the mammoth-breasted Moaning Mona. Two dregs wearing ratty T-shirts that read “I fuck like a Mack Truck,” grunted an invitation for drinks and a threesome. And a group of bikers boasting tattoos of snakes and tribal symbols huddled around an outdoor table, guzzling beer and making catcalls to the girls flashing their boobs for free drinks and beads.

She plunged through the tawdry mob, south toward Jackson Square and the French Market where the less seedy side congregated in the outdoor cafés, finer restaurants, the open market and shops that comprised the Vieux Carre. Although street musicians and artisans normally flocked to the area, now an open-air festival had been set up with artisans showcasing their creations, demonstrating techniques, offering sketches for the tourists and squabbling over prices for their treasures.

A clown created balloon animals for the children in one corner, a mime entertained in another and a long-haired hippie rasped out music on a washboard for pocket change. Down the street, the famous jazz music of Louis Armstrong flowed from a restaurant while blues tunes paying homage to Fats Domino wailed into the steamy sultry air. Patio gardens and flowerboxes from the delicately carved balconies added color and a sweet fragrance. This was the N’Awlins she loved.

She seated herself at her favorite outdoor café, ordered a glass of pinot grigio and a crab salad, then studied the crowd as she sipped the wine.

But the hair on the back of her neck bristled. Someone was watching her.

She scanned the streets again. Oblivious to her unease, the air buzzed with activity and excitement, celebrating life and the renewal of the city. A mime plucked a coin from behind a little girl’s ear, while puppeteers drew the small kids in droves. Families littered the streets, carrying tired children with painted faces, cotton candy and tacky souvenirs, tugging at heart-strings she tried to ignore.

She banished them quickly. She was not a family kind of girl.

Instead her past mocked her. And the whisper of danger echoed in her ear….

I know your secrets. And you know mine.

No. It was impossible. She’d never told anyone about her childhood. Especially about that night.

And her mother…. Surely she wouldn’t have confessed to anyone. That is, if she’d survived herself.

Then again, her mother had done other unspeakable things.

The washboard player took a break and an earthy-looking saxophone player claimed his spot, adding his own jazz flavor to old favorites. She glanced behind him, toward the edge of the street, and noticed a tall, bald man holding a camera. Her fork clattered to the table. Was he photographing her?

She craned her neck to see more clearly and he lowered the camera. Shadows from the silvery Spanish moss shrouded his face as if he’d been cocooned in a giant spiderweb. Then he lifted his right hand and waved. Her breath caught in her chest.

A series of flashes flickered like fireflies against the growing darkness. Once. Twice. A dozen times. She blinked and threw her hand over her forehead, spots dancing before her eyes.

He was watching her. Taking pictures….

For what reason?

Panic and anger mushroomed inside her and she stepped forward to go confront him, but the waiter appeared with her check and blocked her path.

“Chere? You pay before you leave us? Qui?”

She sighed, removed her wallet and paid. But when she glanced across the street, the man had completely disappeared, lost in the darkness and the sins waging the city.

HOWARD KEITH STOOD nursing a Jax, a locally brewed beer, across the street, shielded by the exuberance of the Mardi Gras festivities. Britta Berger had actually noticed him.

Of course he was at a distance and she couldn’t see his face.

Howard’s right hand went to his prosthetic eyeball and he blinked, feeling it slip out of place. He popped it out, dusted it off, then slipped it back inside his eye pocket, blinking to create enough moisture to force the fake eye to settle.

Of course, he tried not to handle the ocular prosthetic in public, at least not in front of women. They tended to balk at the empty eye socket.

Although even with his eye in place, they were put off by his appearance. They never knew quite where to look, where to focus, so they averted their gazes and studied his feet, his stomach, his hands, anything but his face. And within seconds they rushed away, dismissing him as if he was a freak.

He would show them. Prove them wrong.

His fingers tightened on the camera. Even his interest in photography had garnered laughter and disbelief. How could he truly be an artist when he had no peripheral vision? No depth perception?

The camera compensated. Its powerful lens enabled him to capture the planes and angles, the light and shadows, the depth he wanted, and record it in vivid detail. And New Orleans certainly provided enough colorful characters, scenery and entertainment to feed his camera-frenzied mind.

Then he could do with it as he wished. Create masterpieces with his sketches, mold the faces into sculptures if he chose. Give the subjects life forever. Paint the eyes.

The eyes were the windows to the soul.

Did Britta Berger have any idea that he had seen into hers? That he had been watching her for months? That he knew her schedule. The food she chose for breakfast. The way she liked her coffee. The fact that she enjoyed a glass of wine on her patio at night before she retired. That she brushed her short red hair at least a hundred times before she crawled beneath the sheets.