Chapter Three

“Where can I get a room?” I asked. The cabbie snorted and glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Mardi Gras parades are gonna start soon. There ain’t a room to be had.”

“Anywhere?” My voice rose.

He shrugged. “You can try.”

He dumped me at the corner of Bourbon and St. Peter. I walked into the nearest hotel, where I heard the same thing. I asked for a recommendation and only got laughed at. Seemed I’d been more than foolish to come to New Orleans without a reservation this close to such a busy time of the year.

Wandering down Bourbon Street, I was fascinated in spite of myself. A lovely, gated restaurant, with gardens and outdoor tables, existed next to a theater that, from the appearance of their posters, didn’t show Disney movies. A sports bar with a Dixieland band shared space with a shop that proudly displayed pornographic T-shirts. A gorgeous, nineteenth-century hotel--also booked to capacity--with a row of second- and third-floor terraces accessed by French doors, was positioned directly across the street from a strip j oint.

The distinctive smell reflected the nature of the place—stale beer, fresh greenery, and rot.

I stopped at one of the bars, ordered a sandwich, showed Katie’s picture, but no one knew her. I was never going to find her this way. I needed help.

The closest police station was on Royal Street, at the heart of the French Quarter.

I explained my situation to the first cop who asked, showed my ID and Katie’s picture. A short while later I shook the hand of Detective Conner Sullivan.

“Have a seat.” He indicated a chair on the opposite side of his desk.

Sullivan was NFL size—probably six feet five, about two fifty—with blond hair that appeared to have been styled by the Marines and brown eyes that did not j ibe with his name or match his fair coloring.

I especially liked his tie, which sported a Harlequin clown tossing heart-shaped confetti. The contrast of the shorn hair, crisp suit, and flat cop eyes with the amusing tie intrigued me more than it should.

I’d spent the earlier part of the evening lusting after a slightly crazy, blind j azz musician; I didn’t need to be curious about the great big, well-dressed detective. I had more important things to worry about.

“I’m looking for my sister.” I laid Katie’s picture on the desk. “Her name’s Katie. Katherine Lockheart.”

His large hands enveloped the snapshot. He stared at the photo for at least thirty seconds, and I started to think he might recognize her, then he slowly shook his head. “Haven’t seen her, and I don’t recognize the name.”

I took a deep breath, swallowed my fear, and plunged ahead. “Any Jane Does?”

His gaze flicked from Katie to me. “Always. But none that match this.” He returned the picture. “You’ll want to check the hospitals.”

I nodded. I knew the drill.

“Are you in missing persons?” I asked.

“Homicide.” At my confused expression he continued. “We’ve had a lot of people go missing around here. Quite a few of them turned up dead. An equal amount haven’t turned up at all.”

“When you say a lot…”

“Dozens.”

My eyes widened. “And you haven’t been on CNN?”

“Not yet,” he said dryly. “Though the dozens have been over a period of several years, lately the tally’s increased to a disturbing level.”

“How disturbing?”

“Double the usual amount of missing and dead in the past six months.”

“You thinking serial killer?”

He blinked. “Why would you say that?”

“It didn’t cross your mind?”

“Crisscrossed several times and settled in for a nice long stay. I just didn’t figure anyone else would agree.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, the multiple methods of death.”

“Multiple?”

“Yeah.” His disappointed sigh said it all.

Serial killers followed a pattern, almost anally so.

They found a way to do the deed that worked for them, and they stuck to it.

“Some died by strangulation, others had knife wounds, a few gunshots. We’ve even had several deaths by animal attack.”

“Which wouldn’t be attributed to a serial killer.”

He grunted as if he were unconvinced.

“Did you call the FBI?” I asked.

Two bright spots of color flared beneath his cheekbones. His Irish skin probably fried like bacon beneath the Louisiana sun.

“They sent an Agent Franklin. He went over the cases and decided we couldn’t possibly have a serial killer.”

“Because the methods of death were so dissimilar?”

“That and the victims were nothing alike—women, men, young, old.”

Serial killers were also a bit anal about whom they killed, sticking to short, sassy blondes or big- boned redheads, basically anyone who reminded them of Mommy.

“My boss wasn’t happy that I brought in the Feds on a case that was so obviously not Federal.”

Bosses were funny that way. I was glad all over again that I didn’t have one. I’d never played very well with others—except for Katie and sometimes not even her.

“I’m not supposed to be treating the murders as connected. But—” He shrugged.

“You’ve got a hunch.”

“I’ve got something,” he muttered. “I can’t believe that we’ve suddenly had a rash of killings from a dozen different people, or that another dozen have suddenly disappeared without a trace. That’s just too much of a coincidence.”

People disappearing without a trace—that was right up my alley. I had to admit I was intrigued.

“You’d rather believe that one person has killed them all,” I said, “in defiance of every truth we know about how mass murderers behave?”

“It’d be tidier.”

My eyes drifted over his blue suit, pristine white shirt, and neatly knotted tie. I could see where tidy would appeal to him.

“So how come I was brought to you?” I asked.

“I’ve got an agreement with Missing Persons. We exchange information, and if someone comes in when they aren’t here and I am, I take the report, then give them a copy.”

“And vice versa?”

“You got it.” Sullivan opened a drawer in his desk and yanked out a huge file. “I’ve been nosing around on my own. But lately, I haven’t had any extra time to spare.”

I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this, except I’d been told I was easy to talk to. The trait was a handy one since a lot of my work involved trying to get information, a confession, a name.

“Why do you keep at this when there’s no connection between the victims?” I asked.

He lifted his gaze to mine. “Because I found one.”

I leaned forward. “What?”

“The maj ority of the victims were missing before at one time or another.”

Silence settled between us, broken only by the distant ring of a telephone.

“Let me get this straight,” I said, “the sudden influx of dead and missing were all previously missing?”

“Not all, but that may just be because no one noticed or no one reported it.”

“Which still doesn’t mean they’re victims of a serial killer.”

“No. But it is a connection.”

“Did you tell your boss? The FBI?”

“I need more information before I make a fool of myself again.” He stared at me for several seconds.

“Would you like to look into this?”

“Me?”

“Everyone who’s turned up dead or missing was missing before,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a half-wit.

“I got that.”

“Your sister is missing.”

“She’s been missing a long time.”

“Seems she went missing here last. Like a whole lot of other people.”

I frowned. I didn’t like what he wasn’t saying.

Sullivan shoved the file over to my side of the desk, opened it and pointed to a list of names. “These are the missing and the dead; next to them is the last place they were seen.”

My eyes skimmed the page, then I straightened as if I’d been goosed.

“As you can see,” Sullivan said, “quite a few got on that list after visiting Rising Moon.”