"I… I don't know. Because I was near Madame's and I saw you there, talking to her… and I was curious. And then you came here."
He nodded. "You know that Nikki was mugged."
"I don't think that's why you were here," she said. "You're not a real tour guide, either. I don't know what you are… " She flashed him a quick glance. "And I'm not sure I want to know."
"So you followed me."
She looked upset. "I shouldn't have."
"Patricia, I can tell something's bothering you. I don't know how to convince you of this, but anything you tell, I'll consider a total confidence."
She still looked upset. "Want some coffee?" she asked.
"I'll have an iced tea. Let's grab something and find a quiet corner."
He was afraid she was going to back off, refuse to talk to him. But she was obviously miserable, and at last, it seemed, she decided that talking had to be better than what she was feeling.
"All right."
A few minutes later, she had a large coffee and he had iced tea, and they were seated in a shady corner of a small brasserie, far from the few other afternoon stragglers.
Patricia played with her stirrer, and then her napkin, looking down at it as she folded it and refolded it.
"I shouldn't be here," she said.
"But you're worried about Nathan."
Her eyes shot to his with wide surprise; then she flushed. "Well, I guess it didn't take a palm reader to know that."
He shook his head.
"I'm really in love with him," she murmured. "But… I'm worried."
"Why?"
"The night that Andy died… I woke up, and he wasn't with me."
"Oh?"
She shook her head. "But mere would be no reason for Nathan… I mean, it's silly, isn't it? There's nothing violent in Nathan. He liked Andy. Nathan is a good person. He walked out of a store once with a pack of gum, realized it twenty minutes later—and we had to go back to pay for it. I guess I just had to talk to someone. And you're trying to figure out the truth about Andy, aren't you? That's really why you're here."
He smiled, touched her hand. "No, I'm here for another matter, but… I think what happened to Andy has something to do with it."
"If I love him, I should have faith in him, right?"
"Blind faith isn't always a good thing."
"Oh, God! I can't imagine what he'd think if he knew I was here with you, talking like this," she murmured.
"Patricia, let me see what I can find out, if something is bothering him. How's that?"
She smiled. "You won't—"
"I swear, he'll never know we talked," Brent assured her.
Patricia rose. "I'm glad that Nikki has you," she said gently. "You really are something. Something good, I mean."
"Thanks."
She started to walk away, then turned back, frowning.
"She does have you, doesn't she? I mean, this isn't just a… "
The question took him by surprise, and it took him a second to answer. Then he said, "She has me. As long as she wants me."
He rose and joined her. As they walked out together, she studied him. "I hope that… well, I just hope that whatever you are… you don't hurt her."
"I would never hurt her."
Patricia looked away, then back at him. "Or cause her to be hurt?"
He felt a tightness around his heart. Could he cause her to be hurt?
No. He wouldn't allow it to happen.
"I would die myself before allowing her to be hurt." Patricia smiled, then asked wistfully, "I wonder if Nathan feels that way about me. Never mind, don't answer. And ignore me. Go find Nikki." He nodded and left her.
Marc Joulette sat at his desk, not working. He shook his head. Massey looked up at him. "What?"
"Nothing."
Joulette pretended interest to the file in front of him. He didn't know what the hell to do.
"Are you going to try to call Haggerty?" he asked Massey.
Massey lifted his hands. "We don't know what the hell we're in for tonight."
"Right."
"So what would be the point?" He got up and walked away. Marc looked back at the file, but the words simply spun before his eyes.
He got up, figuring more coffee couldn't hurt.
As he crossed to the Mr. Coffee, he saw his partner.
Owen Massey was standing in an alcove, talking on his cell phone.
Marc walked back to his desk, sat, hesitated, stared in the direction in which Massey, now concealed by a dividing wall, had gone, then reached for the phone on his desk.
He set it back into the cradle, and pulled his own cell out of his pocket.
He was still talking when Robinson came walking over to him. He flicked his phone shut without finishing his conversation. "What is it, Robinson?"
"Thought you might like to know—we were just called to the building where Andrea Ciello lived."
"Yeah?" Joulette said.
"Her place was torn apart."
"Torn apart? It was robbed?"
"Hell if I know. We're going to have to get hold of her friends or someone, try to find out if anything was taken." He shrugged. "You try to give people a little time, but we should have had her friends in there, cleaning out the place before now. She didn't have any family, but her rent was paid through the end of October, so we didn't rush things. It doesn't look like a robbery, though it looks like someone was searching for something. The crime scene folks are working it now. But there was a stereo, DVD player, jewelry—none of it touched."
"Who put in the call?" Joulette demanded.
"Mrs. Montobello." He rolled his eyes. "She thought that Andy had come back as a ghost, that she was tearing her place up looking for something."
Joulette sighed. "And I'm willing to bet the other tenants were out, right?"
"On the nail," Robinson said. "The report is on my desk. Just wanted you to know you guys are welcome to it."
"Thanks," Joulette said. Robinson walked away, and Marc Joulette waited for Massey to return from his call.
When he left Patricia, Brent hopped on the streetcar and headed for the Garden District. When he arrived, it seemed at first that the cemetery was oddly quiet and empty. He closed his eyes, felt the mist sweep around him.
He opened his eyes, searching.
Here, there… a ghostly form, none of them Andy, and none of them Tom Garfield.
He hoped that Nikki hadn't left and felt in his pocket for his cell phone, thinking he would just give her a call. As he pulled it out, he wandered past her family mausoleum, hoping to find Andy Ciello.
She wasn't there.
On a hunch, he headed toward his wife's grave.
As he neared it, he dropped his phone.
Nikki was there.
But she was obscured by a strange man in a long black coat. He was tall, with long dark hair, and he looked like one of the weirdos who roamed the parish, like maybe he was convinced he was a vampire or something.
He looked as if he was threatening Nikki.
"Hey!" Brent yelled.
Nikki turned. The man reached out, as if to grab her.
Brent raced, adrenaline kicking through him, remembering his words to Patricia. He would die himself before he allowed Nikki to be hurt.
He tackled the stranger, and they fell to the ground together.
He heard Nikki scream, "Stop!" But the sound didn't filter through to the rational section of his mind. He flipped the man and straddled him. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing?"
To his amazement, the man—lean, with sharp, narrow features—stared up at him, not fighting and looking at him with something almost like amusement.
"Brent!" Nikki cried.
But he still ignored her, watching in confusion as the man started to smile. "Nikki, you didn't tell me that you'd hired a bouncer."
"What?" Brent said.
"I'm Max Dupuis." The man cleared his throat. "Your employer, I believe."
Brent remained very still for long seconds, feeling like an idiot. Then he rose, reaching down to help the other man to his feet.
He had definitely overreacted.
"Brent. Brent Blackhawk," he said.
Nikki was still staring at him as if he'd lost his mind. He gave her a grimace with a quick, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders that asked, How the hell was I supposed to know?
"I guessed you were Blackhawk," the man said. He still seemed amused, rather than offended. "I hear you're a natural."
"I know the area. A lot of facts and a lot of legends."
"Good to meet you."
"Yeah, um, sorry about that. I guess I'm a little tense. Nikki was mugged the other night."
"She was telling me," Max said, eyeing Nikki. Brent had to wonder if he'd hurt the guy. He was almost painfully thin, which made him appear even taller. If he were a teenager, he would be a Goth, but Max was no teenager. He appeared to be in his early to mid thirties. "I hear you ran the fellow down."
"No, I didn't catch him."
"You got him away from Nikki, that's what counts." He smiled. "So, got some time? How about some coffee?"
Brent kept from groaning aloud by glancing toward the ground. "I have some time," he said, looking at Nikki. Then he looked back at Max, and realized that suspicion was already creeping into him. So this was Max. Where the hell had he been all this time?
Out of town? Or lying low somewhere? Dressing up in a dark mask and attacking women in the street? And if so, why? Then there was the information he had just received about Nathan. There was only one thing to do, and that was check them all out one by one. He was certain of one thing, though: Madame's place was involved somehow.
He wondered about Max's arms. Was he a junkie? The man was thin enough. Scrawny, but he didn't look wasted. Then again, if you were selling drugs, and making a mint, you might well be smart enough not to sample your own wares.