As Dan and Ryder left the house, reporters were moving in.
“Detective Stapleton, Detective Stapleton!” a woman with a microphone shouted. “Is it the Axeman? Has the Axeman returned to New Orleans?”
Ryder lifted a hand. “The man who committed heinous crimes in this city over a hundred years ago is certainly long dead. So no. He hasn’t returned to the city. Murders were committed. We are just beginning our investigation. I beg that you allow us to investigate and not create a sensationalist panic in the city. That’s all for now. You’ll have information when we have it, if it doesn’t hamper our work. Excuse me now, please.”
Dan was proud of Ryder. That was well-handled.
They made their way to his unmarked car.
“You’re coming with me?” Ryder asked him.
“Took a cab to get here. But I’ll hang outside the station for a few minutes. I have a few calls to make myself.”
Ryder looked at him with a frown.
“I just need to know where a few people might be at this moment,” Dan told him.
“Just remember I’m still trying to make you something official,” Ryder said. “And remember we have a constitution and a bill of rights and—”
“Yeah, yeah. I still want to know where a few people might be right now. And I have friends who know how to do things carefully and correctly,” Dan said.
Ryder nodded.
They were both quiet as they drove to the station. When they arrived, Dan lingered outside, pulling out his phone and started dialing.
Corey Crest was one of the finest investigators Dan had ever met. He was still with the FDLE, and while he never went out in the field, he was probably one of the most useful men who had ever worked for any kind of law enforcement.
He was a genius at finding people—and finding out about them.
He had apparently seen the news already. And he had been expecting a call from Dan.
“I’m on it,” he assured him. “I’ll find George Calabria for you.”
“Not just him, Corey, if you don’t mind. See if you can find out anything at all about the couple that was supposedly on the boat when the murders took place down in the Keys. Dr. Neil Browne and his girlfriend, Jennie. All we knew was they were friends of the Calabria couple from somewhere up north.” He hesitated. “Their bodies were never found, and no one could ever find out if Dr. Neil Browne was even real. We put out a search for them back then, but we didn’t have a last name for Jennie, and you’d be amazed at just how many men have the name Neil Browne.”
“Right. I remember. Hey, half the guys who investigated back then think they might have been imaginary friends. There was no record of them anywhere.”
“Browne was probably using an assumed name.”
“And Calabria claimed that—whoever they were—they have to be remnants in the ocean by now. Bits of bone, if that. Sea creatures can do a number, along with storms, the passage of time...”
“Corey,” Dan said.
“I’m on it. I’m on it.” He was silent a minute. “And I’m glad you are, too. Dan, you’re too good, too smart, too valuable to be running around after skirt-chasers or the like.”
“Yeah, well...”
“Anyway, I’ll get you whatever I can.”
“Thanks.”
They ended the call, and Dan headed into the station, waving to the desk sergeant and then weaving his way toward Ryder’s office.
He paused outside a general-interview room. Through the open door, Dan could see an officer, who he knew as Stanley, and a woman seated in the chair before his desk. The young woman was leaning toward the officer and speaking passionately.
Dan didn’t know her personally, but he recognized her instantly.
Because he had seen her before. Not here, not in New Orleans.
Back in Orlando.
She had been at the trial. She had been a witness in the case against George Calabria. For the defense.
She had been young then, just twenty-one. But she had spoken with dignity, even though half of the time she spoke, tears had blurred her green eyes. She was tall, slim, and had hair so red it was like a fire. Not orangish-red, not auburn-red. Fire-red.
She could never be missed or mistaken for anyone else.
She was Kaitlin Delaney, daughter of the couple killed on the boat in the Keys twelve years ago.
The fifteen-year-old who had risen from a dive to find her parents in a different sea—a sea of blood.
And she was here. In New Orleans.
He’d known that she’d moved, that an uncle or someone was raising her here and she had only returned to Florida for the trial. With everything else, he had forgotten that Katie Delaney lived here now.
He inhaled deeply.
Yes, of course she’d have heard about the murders. The media was broadcasting little else.
So she was here. In New Orleans.
Where some supposed Axeman was striking once again.
And Dan had to wonder just what her involvement might be, and if she might be helpful—or if her defense of her parents’ old friend just might waylay justice once again.
CHAPTER TWO
Katie thought she’d gotten good—very good—at appearing calm, confident and assured whenever she talked about the past.
But the officer she wound up speaking with was nothing short of annoying. He was trying all her hard-earned patience.
“Listen, miss, I’m very sorry about your story, but this is New Orleans. And you’re trying to tell me about something that happened twelve years ago over five hundred miles away.”
“Not only twelve years ago,” Katie said. “Six years ago, too. The killers were never caught. My parents were killed on their boat out in the Gulf. Later, an elderly couple and their niece were killed in their apartment in Orlando. The murders were carried out with two weapons according to the medical examiners. An axe or hatchet and a knife. The bodies weren’t completely dismembered, but they were torn apart, a limb here or there, cut so thoroughly as to be detached or almost off. The medical examiners did consult, they believe the murders were committed by the same killer or killers. You need to know this. You need to consult with law enforcement in Florida because this is quite possibly the same killer, and anything they can share might help you find them.”
“Miss, again, I’m sorry,” the officer said. “We have important business to get through here. We just don’t have time for amateur hour, though if your story is true, again I’m sorry.”