“Stanley, that’s enough!” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
Startled, Katie turned around. And she frowned, confused and oddly filled with a strange little sizzle of déjà vu and anger.
She knew the man who had spoken. Well, she didn’t know him, but she’d seen him before.
He’d been with the cops trying to prove George Calabria was a psychotic killer. Six years ago, when she’d gone down to George’s trial in Orlando, she had been an excellent character witness for him. She’d been infuriated the police had wanted to skewer the poor man just because he’d been living in Orlando.
The man’s wife had been brutally butchered along with her parents; he’d had to be in a different place if he’d planned on starting over after all that happened.
The officer who had been speaking with her—Stanley, apparently—looked up indignantly. “Hey, come on, Dan! You don’t work here. I’m not even sure what you’re doing here. You can’t just—”
“Stanley, I’ll take over,” another man said as he stepped into the office. The way he seemed to own the space suggested to Katie this might be the detective she was waiting for. “Dan, what’s going on?”
Dan spoke without taking his eyes off her. “Ryder, this is Katie Delaney. Her parents were killed twelve years ago in waters down by the Florida Keys. She has every right to be here. You’re going to want to listen to what she has to say.”
He was helping her? He was still the enemy. He might be trying to find a way to prove that poor George Calabria was here, in New Orleans, and chopping people up again!
“Miss Delaney? I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Detective Ryder Stapleton. Please come to my office if you don’t mind.”
She had to crane her neck to take in the detective. She was seated; maybe that was why the two men seemed so tall. But, of course, she’d seen the one before, the Florida cop or agent or whatever. His name was Daniel Oliver. He stood a good six-three, had a broad-shouldered and lean-muscled body, a clean-shaven face with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, dark hair and piercing amber eyes. He was probably considered good-looking by most, but she had noted that for only a few minutes back in Orlando. Because after she’d seen him testify—seen the way he’d looked at George with fire in those eyes—she’d written him off as a complete ass, rude and ridiculous.
And here he was again.
But at least he was getting her to a cop who might listen to her.
She’d see him long enough to get where she needed to be, and then he’d be out of her life again.
She briefly wondered what the hell he was doing in New Orleans.
It didn’t matter.
“Miss?”
“Thank you,” she said to the detective, rising with all the dignity in her, nodding briefly to the officer who had been so quick to dismiss her, and heading in the direction Ryder Stapleton indicated.
The detective was about the same age, she thought, as Dan Oliver. He was nearly as tall, and a little kinder-looking, with a broader face, fine cheekbones, warm gray eyes and sandy hair. He looked tired; she figured such work had to make you a little worn-out.
He had his own office—not huge, but comfortable—and there were two chairs in front of his desk. He indicated she should take one of them while he walked around the desk. Dan Oliver waited until she was seated.
Then he sat next to her.
She gritted her teeth. And then she almost smiled.
They’d beaten him once. Because George wasn’t guilty. The man had obsessed over George because of circumstantial evidence.
But they’d beaten him.
If he started up on George now, they’d beat him again. And maybe this time, he’d realize that George wasn’t involved.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at Ryder. “Trust me, I understand murders take place all over the country, and many may be similar in method and madness. But as, uh, Mr. Oliver explained to you, I saw firsthand the work of a madman.” She sighed deeply. “I’m a tour guide here in the city. I’m also aware there were a number of axe murders here in New Orleans and environs, taking place back in 1918 and 1919. I understand more fully than most people how myths can grow, how stories can be exaggerated and, yes, how killers can carry out copycat actions.”
Ryder watched her, nodding gravely.
At her side, Dan Oliver was silent.
“I, of course, was not at the crime scene in Orlando, but I believe Mr. Oliver was.” She glanced his way at last. “Or Special Agent Oliver or Detective Oliver or whoever he is now. I experienced the one scene. He saw the other. And the crime scene today?”
Dan Oliver was staring at her with those piercing eyes of his. She realized suddenly he most probably hadn’t just gone after George Calabria out of meanness. He had been deeply horrified by the crimes committed, and to him George had appeared guilty.
She turned back to Ryder quickly.
“I know killings often have motives. I also know they can be random. I’ve read a lot. I’m not an investigator, of course, but I’ve read that serial killers seldom stop, that they stay active until they’re incarcerated or killed themselves. There have been exceptions or times when they take a break. There might have been killings in other places—other countries, even—that we don’t know about. And this killer might have discovered the unsolved case of the Axeman and decided New Orleans might be the right place to strike. My parents were killed twelve years ago, and the killer—or killers—struck again six years later. And now. There might be a pattern here. Something in the motive that means killings must happen six years apart.”
“Six years... Maybe there is something to the number six,” Dan said quietly.
“All right, Miss Delaney,” Ryder said. “I can understand why you’re so concerned, and why you think these killings are related. Sure, you’ve read, so you know about copycat killers. These cases could be totally unrelated. Even your case in the Keys and the one in Orlando might be separate.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Your parents were killed on a boat,” he pointed out.
“But the older couple and their niece in Orlando were killed in their home. Just as these people were killed now.”
Katie glanced at Dan Oliver again. She couldn’t begin to fathom what he was thinking. His face was totally impassive.
“Listen,” Ryder said, “I understand how you both feel. And yes, murders like this aren’t common, thank God. I will bear in mind during the investigation all that has happened in the past.”
“Ryder—” Dan began.
“Look, I called you, right? I want to solve this. I want every piece of information available on this killer. If it is the same guy, I want to get him this time. If it isn’t, I’m still interested in seeing how this killer—or these killers—are copying the Florida murders or the old Axeman of New Orleans. We’re all on the same side here,” Ryder said. “Our forensic teams are still going over the scene. You know that, Dan. We’ll do everything in our power.”