Her eyes had been gouged out, her body mutilated almost beyond recognition. She glanced up, saw Chastian watching her with hungry, glazed eyes—as if he was dying for her to fall apart.
Refusing to give him that satisfaction, she said again in her best hard-ass voice, “Where’s the note?”
He raised an eyebrow, but reached back in the envelope and pulled out yet another letter printed on pale blue paper. She grabbed it, read the two words with a sinking heart. My turn.
She didn’t know what to do, what to say. Could barely look Chastian in the eyes as she contemplated how to handle this latest viciousness. If he was a different kind of lieutenant, she might have asked him for help. Might have listened to his suggestions. Might have counted on him to protect her.
But Chastian hated her and always had, and this was the excuse he’d been waiting for to knock her down a peg—or five.
So she simply watched him, waited. He’d already made up his mind on how to handle this before he’d ever called her in—and he would sure as hell tell her what he wanted to do. Better to wait than to humiliate herself all over again.
But when he spoke, his voice was gentler than she’d expected. “This guy’s fixated on you, Delacroix.”
It was all she could do to keep from laughing. Hysterically. “Yes, sir. That seems pretty obvious at this point.”
“What are we going to do about that fact?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I figure if you’re bringing the topic up, you have a solution.”
He sat down hard on his desk chair, drummed his fingers on the desk as he watched her. “I do. I think you should take a leave of absence.”
Genevieve felt her mouth drop open. Worked hard to close it so she wouldn’t look like a total idiot. But of all the things she’d expected him to say to her, that didn’t even register in the top fifty. “A leave of absence? In the middle of a serial homicide case?” She knew her tone implied that she thought he was several cards short of a full deck, but she couldn’t help it. Had Chastian gone completely insane?
He held up a hand. “It’s dangerous for you to be a part of this case, and I think—”
“It’s dangerous for any of us to be a part of this case!” she exploded. “It’s ridiculous to say that I’m any more at risk than Shawn or Luc or Torres.”
“Don’t throw that feminist crap at me, Delacroix.” Chastian stood up, got in her face. “This guy kills women, not men. And you are definitely a woman.” He waved the photos around. “On top of that, he’s obsessed enough with you that he’s sneaking around a stranger’s backyard to get n**ed pictures of you. I don’t see any of Torres in this pile, do you?”
She gritted her teeth to keep from saying something she’d regret, especially since for once Chastian was actually making sense. “I still don’t think a leave of absence is the way to solve that problem.”
“Yes, well, that’s not actually your call to make.”
“Since when? I’m the one who has to put in for the time off.”
“Genevieve.” Alarm coursed through her as Chastian used her first name for the first time in three years. “You have a choice. Put in for time off or I’ll suspend you.”
Shock reverberated through her and she gasped, outraged. “Because of a few pictures that had no business being taken?”
“Because I’m trying to protect you!”
“Sir, with all due respect, I find that very hard to believe. You’ve gone out of your way to make my life difficult ever since I was assigned to your squad. Your concern now is more than just unexpected. In my opinion, it’s also suspect.”
“Delacroix!” he growled.
“You don’t have the right to suspend me because of something I do in my personal time that has nothing to do with this office.”
“Maybe not. But this deals directly with this office, doesn’t it?” His voice was sharper now, angrier. “The same man you’re investigating, the same one who is killing women in my jurisdiction, took these pictures of you.”
“Allegedly.”
“Don’t go there! We both know he did.”
“What we know and what we can prove are two different things.” She mimicked the words he’d used a few days before on her and could tell her words hit home with him in the most unpleasant manner possible. “And we both know that if this was Shawn being threatened, you’d expect him to suck it up and soldier on. Why should it be any different for me?”
“Because whether or not you and I see eye to eye on anything, the idea of walking into a hotel room and seeing you with your heart cut out and your body massacred is the kind of thought that keeps me up at night. And if you want to call that sexist, go ahead. But the fact of the matter is, this shit isn’t happening to men. It’s happening to women, and I don’t really give a shit if that offends your feminist sensibilities.”
His eyes said she had already lost, but she couldn’t resist trying to negotiate a truce. “Three more days—if I can’t get something together in three more days, I’ll take a leave of absence.”
“I’m not bargaining with you, Delacroix. I don’t want one of my detectives turning up dead in the middle of the Quarter.”
“This is my case. These are my bodies—justice for them is on me.”
“It’s on all of us.”
“No, it’s not, and you know it.”
Chastian’s fist hit the desk and he cursed roundly. But Genevieve relaxed because she knew she’d won the battle. The war, however, was another matter entirely.
“I’ll give you two days. And you stick close to Webster or one of the other guys. And don’t give me any of your bullshit, either. Working with a partner is SOP and you will follow the rules or you will be out. And it will be a cold day in hell before I let you back into my squad. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes. Sir.”
“Then get back to work and don’t get dead.”
“I’ll try my best.”
He snorted. “Forgive me if I’m not reassured.”
Genevieve walked to the door, paused when he called her name.
“I don’t really care what you do in your free time, but I don’t want these photos getting out. If they were made public, it would be an embarrassment to both you and this department, and that I will not put up with. Do I make myself clear?”
She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him as shame coursed through her. He was right—if these pictures got out, the press would have a field day. “Yes, sir.” What went without saying, however, was that it might already be too late. If Chastian had the photos, God only knew who else the sick f**k had given them to.
Her stomach clenched into knots at the thought.
What was she going to do? How the hell was she supposed to deal with Chastian and the evidence clerk and God only knew who else had seen such intimate photos of her?
“Hey,” Shawn called as she walked back to her desk. “What’d Chastian want?”
“Just info on the murders,” she said with a shrug.
“Without me?”
Guilt swamped her—she’d never lied to her partner before, had always made a point of being scrupulously honest with him. Knew that he felt the same way. But how could she tell him what was really going on? That Chastian knew was bad enough. If Shawn knew, she might as well be suspended, because she’d never be able to raise her head in here again.
Finally settling on a half-truth, she told him, “He wants me to take a vacation. Get me out of the killer’s line of sight.”
She waited for Shawn to explode, to tell her what an idiot Chastian was for even suggesting it. Instead, he merely regarded her thoughtfully. “That’s not such a bad idea, you know.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “This guy is gunning for you. Maybe if you weren’t around—”
“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She held her hands over her ears. “If I have to hear one more man tell me to run and hide, I swear I’ll scream.”
“I think you already did that.” Torres walked up behind her, carrying a bunch of roses.
“These came for you—they were at the front desk, and I said I’d bring them back to you.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the hot pink roses. They didn’t seem like something Cole would send, but the alternative was something she didn’t even want to think about.
Reaching for the card, she felt relief swamp her as she read what it said. Thanks for Wednesday. I miss you. Tonight? The flowers might not have been to her taste, but at least they were from Cole. Considering what had happened earlier, it was a huge relief.
She looked up to find the others staring at her, their faces so grim that they must have been fearing exactly what she had. “They’re not from him,” she said, slipping the card into her pocket.
“You’re sure?” Torres demanded.
“Yes.”
Shawn blew out a sigh of relief. “Well, thank God for small favors.”
“Yeah, no shit. Now, can we get to work, please?” Turning to the murder board, she stared at the newly tacked-up pictures of Maria. “What’s the connection? Why these women in a city full of women and tourists?”
“There doesn’t seem to be one,” Luc commented.
“There has to be.” She tapped a finger on Maria’s photo. “We find the connection and we’ll find him. I guarantee it.”
* * *
“You know I thought this was a bad idea from the very beginning, Cole. You can’t actually expect yourself to be able to produce a decent documentary with the stress you’re under.”
“I’m fine, Andrew.” Cole pushed away from the computer where he’d spent the better part of the last twelve hours trying to write the script for the documentary that had started this whole odyssey to New Orleans, and tried to focus on what his agent was saying. It was hard, when half his mind was wrapped up in the script and the other half was stuck on Genevieve, wondering if she was okay. Wondering why she hadn’t called.
“You don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you?”
“I don’t really care what you believe at this point. But if you expect a workable screenplay, you need to leave me alone and let me write the damn thing!”
There was a long silence. “You’re lucky I know you as well as I do, man. Another agent might take offense.”
“Bite me.”
“I’d rather not. You’re poison mean. God only knows what I might catch.”
Cole smiled despite himself. Andrew had been his agent for nine years—well over a year before Samantha had disappeared—and was pretty much the only person still in his life who knew what had made him the way he was. He was a hell of an agent—absolutely cutthroat—and was also the best friend Cole had ever had.
“I’m mellowing in my old age. Didn’t you catch the article in People?”
Andrew snorted. “Compared to what? A nuclear bomb?”
Cole laughed. “I think I resent that.”
“You delicate artist types. You never can take the truth.”
“Screw you.”
“Sorry, buddy. Lisa might get upset—she’s pretty prickly about this whole fidelity thing.”
“I can imagine.”
Andrew cleared his throat, as if he was working up to something. Then mumbled, “So, have you made any progress? You know, on Samantha?”
Cole’s heart dropped to his stomach. He’d known the question was coming, had heard the concern in Andrew’s voice the second he’d picked up the phone. But what could he say? That he was sleeping with the cop he’d handpicked to help him solve the case? That he hadn’t even asked Genevieve about Samantha’s death because he was afraid of messing things up with her?