Chapter Four

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s not that hard, Miss Lockheart.”

“Anne,” I said absently, staring at the list, biting my lip, then glancing at the picture of Katie standing outside Rising Moon.

“Anne,” Sullivan repeated. “People have disappeared, some have turned up dead, and the last place they were seen was that j azz club on Frenchmen.”

“Coincidence.”

“Coincidence is just another word for clue. Especially when you show up with a picture of a missing person in front of that cursed bar.”

“Cursed?”

New Orleans was the voodoo capital of America. If a police detective who believed in curses existed, I had no doubt he’d work here.

“Figure of speech.” His lip curled, revealing his disdain for the whole idea. “Although there are rumors the building’s haunted. I swear everything is around here.”

“That’s common in very old cities.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Something’s weird there; I just don’t know what. The place reopened under new ownership about six months ago.”

My head went up as I recalled Rodolfo saying he’d been open less than a year, but six months…

Sullivan dipped his chin, answering the question I had yet to ask. “Just when the dead and the missing began to double.”

“You can’t…” I trailed off.

“What?”

“Think that Rodolfo is a serial killer.”

“You met him?”

“Yes.”

His lips tightened. “Just because he can play the sax and the piano—”

“Piano?” The image of those hands caressing the keys made me a little light-headed.

Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a talented pretty boy, that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.”

“He’s also blind. I doubt he’s capable of chasing people around the city and murdering them.”

“Maybe he has an accomplice.”

“Because he’s so damn gorgeous anyone would be happy to be his murder buddy?”

“You never know,” Sullivan muttered. “I’ve seen crazier things than that.”

I was certain he had. I’d dealt with my share of cops. They saw a lot, most of it bad. That Sullivan was even pursuing this when he’d been slapped down by both his boss and the FBI meant he cared. I had to admire that.

“Did you check him out?” I asked.

Sullivan gave me a long look. Of course he had.

“And?”

“He’s a native of the city. Creole background.”

I’d heard the word, but I wasn’t exactly certain of its meaning.

Sullivan noted my confusion. “Creoles are descendents of Europeans born in this country. The Spanish and the French settled New Orleans. The place feels French, but a lot of the architecture is Spanish, and Rodolfo is an old Spanish name.”

Which explained his slight accent, although he didn’t seem to be speaking English as a second language.

“How far back were his Spanish ancestors?”

“A few branches on the family tree, but around here they like to keep the past alive.”

Understandable when the past lived and breathed on every street corner.

“So Rodolfo’s got family in New Orleans?”

Sullivan shook his head. “He’s the last of them according to the records. He left years ago, before he even graduated from high school.”

“Why?”

“No one knows. Probably the usual stuff—his parents didn’t understand him; he wanted to be a rock star.”

“Where did he go?”

“He drifted, which made it damn hard to find out what he’s been up to. I tried to track his Social Security number—”

“And were there a rash of unexplained deaths or disappearances in any city where he lived or worked?”

Sullivan lifted a brow. “You’ve done this before.”

“A little.”

“I couldn’t find a trace of him. He didn’t file a tax return until last year.”

That was odd, but not unheard of. Especially for a runaway who’d probably lived on the streets.

“You gonna call the IRS?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

“I’m sure Rodolfo was working for cash, playing sets in bars, getting paid under the table. People do it all the time.”

“Still illegal.”

“Boy Scout,” I muttered, ignoring the glare he sent my way. “How did he lose his sight?”

“Couldn’t find anything on that either.”

Strange. The loss must have been caused by an accident or an illness, maybe even a tumor. Incidents like that would leave a paper trail. Somewhere.

Unless he’d been too down and out to go to a doctor and that’s why he’d ended up blind in the first place.

“Will you help me?” Sullivan asked.

Since the detective was right about Katie fitting the profile, such that it was, and I didn’t have any more leads, or any pressing business in Philly—

“Can I take the file?”

Sullivan grinned; the expression made me realize he was years younger than I’d first thought—late twenties instead of mid-thirties. Not that it mattered.

“I’ll make copies.” He disappeared into a back room, and seconds later the whir of a machine drifted out.

I’d agreed to stay, but where would I stay? Maybe Sullivan had a suggestion.

When he returned, he tossed the file onto the desk, and the sheet with the list of names spilled onto the floor. As I reached down to retrieve it, my eyes stuck on the repetition of the words “Rising Moon,”

almost as if the place were calling to me.

Rising Moon was short handed; I had hands. The salary included a room, which I needed. And, conveniently, people were disappearing from there in droves. I should really keep an eye on things.

I doubted Sullivan would agree that I needed to be that close, so I just wouldn’t tell him about it.

How crazy could Rodolfo be? He was running a successful business; he had employees, customers. If he talked to himself in the dark, not my problem.

Besides, we’d already established that Rodolfo couldn’t be the killer, but there might be someone at Rising Moon who was.

“How can I reach you?” Sullivan asked.

I scribbled my cell phone number on a corner of a page, tore it off and handed it to him, my mind already moving ahead, trying to figure out how I’d get a j ob in a j azz club when I knew nothing about j azz, and I’d never been a waitress or a bartender in my life.

I left the police station after promising to stay in touch. Once outside I relished the coolness of the air just before dawn.

I had to call my parents, make up something. I couldn’t tell them I was investigating a possible serial killer. They’d flip about that even before I told them why.

Until I knew for certain Katie was a victim, I’d keep my mouth shut. However, I did need them to send me more clothes.

I glanced at my watch—five A.M.—if I added the time difference they’d be up in half an hour. I’d just check out the Café du Monde until then.

By the time I reached the cafe near the river, exhaustion threatened. Not that I hadn’t pulled some all- nighters in my life, but everything that had happened since yesterday—the envelope with Katie’s picture, the travel, the emotional ups and downs—had combined to make me dizzy with fatigue.

I discovered chicory coffee and beignets cleared that right up. By the time I ran up the staircase to the elevated walkway near the river, I was wired. I gazed at the sleepy city and wondered what had possessed the founders to build in the crescent-shaped bend of the Mississippi. Back then the place had to have been a mosquito-infested swamp.

My mother answered on the second ring, as if people called at dawn every morning. Of course, since Katie, every phone call could be “the call.”

My choice of career hadn’t thrilled my upper-middle-class parents. My dad was an accountant; my mother had been a nurse. Once Katie was born, she’d stayed home and she’d never gone back. I’d think our family was lost in the fifties, except in that gilded decade daughters didn’t often disappear and women didn’t become private investigators.

“Mom, hi—” I began.

“Where are you?”

Sometimes I swore the woman was psychic. Then again, they did have caller ID.

“New Orleans,” I answered, and quickly told her as little as possible.

“Anne, you don’t even know if the girl in the picture is Katie,” my mother said.

“Yes I do.”

“Why would someone send you a photo and not tell you who they were or why they took it?” my father asked. As usual he’d gotten on the extension the instant my mother said hello.

“I’m sure the person saw Katie’s picture on a Web site or a poster and was surprised to remember her face from their vacation pictures.”

My father grunted, as unconvinced of that as I was.

“Not knowing when the photo was taken means it could date from before she disappeared and not after,” my mother pointed out.

“But Katie never went to New Orleans.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Aren’t you?” I demanded. “She’d just graduated from high school when she disappeared. Did she turn up missing at any other time I’m not aware of?”

“Only the one time,” my mother whispered.

I wanted to smack myself for upsetting her, even as I fought not to break into a happy dance.

“Don’t you see?” I said excitedly. “The picture had to have been taken after Katie disappeared, and that means she was alive longer than the last night she was seen.”

I hadn’t realized until right then that I’d been secretly afraid Katie was at the bottom of the Delaware River.

“Annie.”

My mother was the only one who called me that. I was not the “Annie” type. I didn’t have curly red hair, couldn’t sing a note, and in my opinion the sun did not always come out tomorrow. Tomorrow was usually a day full of clouds.

“You need to give this up now,” she continued.

“Give what up?”

“Your obsession with finding Katie. She’s gone, honey. She isn’t ever coming back.”

I collapsed on one of the benches and stared at the Mississippi flowing peacefully by as if mocking the sudden gurgling, coffee-laced turmoil in my gut.

My parents had given up. They thought Katie was dead.

“You’ve changed so much since we lost her,” my mother murmured.

“Haven’t we all?”

Before, my parents had seemed young. They’d laughed during meals, danced beneath the stars on warm summer nights, there hadn’t been a speck of gray in their hair.

Afterward, they’d aged, almost overnight. They never went anywhere, just in case Katie called. Later it was just in case someone found her. Lately…

Lately they’d started going places again. They’d even taken a vacation to Florida last month. Why hadn’t I understood what that meant?

“I need you to FedEx me some clothes,” I said, ignoring what I didn’t want to hear. “Warm weather stuff, okay?”

“How long are you staying?” my father asked.

“I’ll let you know.”

“You should come home, Anne.”

“I can’t.”

Silence drifted over the line. Finally he murmured, “Be careful.”

I wasn’t sure I could do that either.

“Where should I send the clothes?” My mother scrabbled about for paper and a pen. She might despair of me, but she’d always be there for me. Just as Katie had always been there.

Until she wasn’t.