Chapter Eight
This was all foolishness. I didn’t believe in curses; I thought voodoo was a j oke. But someone at Rising Moon obviously didn’t share my opinion.
“You should really talk to a person who’s more knowledgeable than me about the religion,” Maggie said.
“You seem to know quite a bit.”
She smiled, pleased. “As I said, I’m interested. You can’t live here and not be.”
I probably could, but that was just me.
“I bet if you called Priestess Cassandra,” Maggie continued, “she could help you figure out what those animal carvings were for.”
“I hate to bother a voodoo priestess with a new baby.”
I’d had a couple of friends in the same situation. After a few weeks of sleep deprivation they resembled Linda Blair, croaking obscenities as their heads spun round and round. And they’d just been regular old new moms. I did not want to mess with a cranky voodoo priestess.
“She’s the most knowledgeable voodoo practitioner in the city from what I hear,” Maggie said. “She even went to Haiti on some kind of pilgrimage. You should see her snake.”
No, I shouldn’t.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said as I gathered Sullivan’s file.
“Cassandra’s on Royal,” Maggie called as I left the cafe. “Shop by the same name, you can’t miss it.”
I lifted my hand in good-bye and kept going.
My phone rang as I headed toward Frenchmen; a glance at the caller ID revealed a local number.
“Anne, can you meet me?” I instantly recognized Detective Sullivan’s low clipped voice.
“Now?” I stopped walking and turned toward town. “Where?”
“There’s a place called Kelly’s on Orleans. Do you know it?”
I knew none of the places here, but I had a feeling I was going to learn. “I’ll find it.”
With Bourbon Street as a center point, locating things wasn’t hard. The French Quarter extended from Esplanade to Canal in one direction and from Rampart to the Mississippi in the other—a total of about ninety-eight blocks.
I found Kelly’s without any trouble—a small, narrow tavern among a host of others. Sullivan was already at the bar, nursing something clear and sparkly, with ice. His big hand enveloped the smaller container, and he downed the drink in a single gulp, then nodded at the bartender for another.
“Long day?” I asked, sliding onto the stool beside him.
The man behind the bar rilled Sullivan’s glass with clear soda. Interesting. Most cops I knew would have been drinking straight vodka, and I wouldn’t blame them.
“Not bad,” Sullivan answered. “What’ll you have?”
“Same.” I smiled; so did he, the expression starting a warm glow just below my breastbone. Conner Sullivan was a nice man, and I met so damn few of them.
My mind flashed on last night—make that early this morning—Rodolfo and I in the attic, him naked, me wanting to be. My face flushed, and I downed my drink in several large gulps.
“Long day?” Sullivan repeated.
“Oh, yeah.” I motioned for another.
“Where are you staying?”
“Rising Moon.”
His lips, which had still been curved appealingly upward, turned in the other direction. “What?”
“I got a j ob at Rising Moon. The salary includes a room on the second floor.”
Sullivan blinked, several times, long and slow. “You’re serious.”
“Most of the time.” I emptied half my second soft drink. I should probably have ordered water, but the sugar really tasted good after a night with so little sleep.
“When I told you I wanted your help on this, I didn’t mean—”
“For me to actually do something?” I interrupted.
“I don’t think sleeping in the lion’s den is classified as anything other than suicide.”
“No one’s going to kill me.”
“No? Does he know who you are?”
I knew precisely whom Sullivan meant by “he.” “Of course.”
“You told him you’re a private investigator, looking for your missing sister and working for me because I think he’s a serial-killing psycho?”
When he put it like that—”Not exactly.”
“What, exactly?”
“Rodolfo knows I’m searching for my sister.”
Sullivan waited, but I didn’t elaborate, because there was little else to tell.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered.
“If people are disappearing from Rising Moon, someone should be there.”
“If people are disappearing, you could be next.”
I shrugged and took another sip. I didn’t care.
“Have you been undercover before?” he demanded.
Setting my glass down slowly so I wouldn’t slam it, I faced him. “Yes. My license isn’t just for show.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Not on me.”
“Where is it?”
“In Philly.”
“Which will be so much help if you’re dragged into the swamp.”
“I can take care of myself, Detective.”
He didn’t answer, just signaled for another round. We were both going to be hopped up on sugar before this was through.
“Why did you call me?” I asked.
“I wanted to make sure you had a room. It didn’t occur to me last night that the city was filled to the brim.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Where were you going to suggest that I stay?”
“With me.”
Silence fell between us. Dull red crept up his neck. “I have an extra room.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I said. “You don’t even know me.”
“I checked you out.”
“Oh?” I wasn’t surprised. “And what did you find?”
“You’re exactly who you say you are. You’re single-minded in your devotion to finding your sister. No black marks on your record. You’d make a good cop.”
“Thanks.” For a man like him, who seemed to live and breathe his j ob, that had to be the highest praise.
“How did you end up in New Orleans?”
“You don’t think I’m from here?”
“No.”
“What gave me away?”
“Lack of an accent?”
“Maybe I got rid of it.”
“Why would you do that? You’ve got to take heat every day for being a Yankee.”
He shrugged. “More when I first came than now. People got used to me.”
In a city that had tallied more than its fair share of police corruption, Sullivan had to be an icon, or maybe a curiosity. In the wake of Katrina, at least fifteen percent of the NOPD had deserted their posts and many were caught looting. I doubted Sullivan had been one of them. I was certain that those who valued honesty and integrity and devotion to duty were able to overlook Sullivan’s lack of Southern charm.
“Did you have a chance to read the file?” he asked, neatly turning the subj ect away from himself.
“Yeah. Did you notice a pattern in the dates of the disappearances and deaths?”
“What kind of pattern?”
“I typed them into an astrological Web site.”
He straightened. “And?”
“Until six months ago, the maj ority of disappearances and deaths in New Orleans took place on the night of a full moon.”
“So you’re thinking we’ve got a werewolf?”
I snorted. “What?”
“Full moon, disappearances, deaths. Doesn’t that equal werewolf to you?”
“If I’m Lon Chaney Junior. You don’t actually think werewolves exist.”
“No, but there might be someone who does.”
“Someone who thinks he’s a werewolf?” I asked.
“It could happen.”
Not a bad theory, except—
“The full-moon connection falls apart about six months ago.”