Rita Herron - Say You Love Me

Yes, a bad girl lurked inside Britta Berger and he would show the world her true self, just as he would with his other subjects. If it hurt them, then so be it.

His own pain had brought him to this point. He used it. Thrived upon it. It had inspired the theme for his work, which would hopefully gain him acclaim.

Then the beautifuls would be erased, their ugliness exposed forever.

IRRITATION KNOTTED Jean-Paul Dubois’s shoulders as he drummed his knuckles on R.J. Justice’s desk. Dammit. Time was critical. He had a murder to investigate and the magazine owner had kept him waiting for half an hour.

Long enough for him to decide he didn’t like the man. That he was weird. His office collections indicated an interest in S and M, witchcraft, bestiality and photographs that bordered on porn.

Justice finally loped in, tugging at his tie. “Sorry about that. My meeting ran over.”

Jean-Paul ignored the feigned apology and studied the man’s features, sizing him up. The women might call him handsome but a cold hardness that Jean-Paul had detected in other suspects hinted that he was ruthless and calculating. He would do whatever he had to do to protect Naked Desires. And to get what he wanted in his personal life.

“You met with Britta already?” Justice asked as he settled into his desk chair.

Jean-Paul nodded. “She was very helpful.” Britta had claimed she and Justice were simply business partners. Just how did Justice feel about her?

“She was upset,” Justice said. “Were her fears justified?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Justice ran a hand over his sleek desk. “Damn. So the crime scene was real?”

Jean-Paul nodded. “We found the woman in the photo murdered earlier.” He leaned forward, his gaze penetrating. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Justice shrugged. “I realize our magazine caters to the…adventuresome side, so we get some odd mail. But we certainly don’t condone murder.”

Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes. “I asked Miss Berger to bring all the mail she’s received in the past month to the station. It’s possible this guy wrote in before.”

Justice hesitated. “I suppose that sounds fair, although I would like to keep our magazine out of the investigation when you talk to the press.”

“You don’t want the publicity?”

Justice shrugged. “I can stand it, but I was thinking about Britta’s safety.”

“Of course.” Jean-Paul cleared his throat, not certain he believed the man. What if Justice had killed the woman, then sent the photo to Britta anonymously to stir publicity?

“Do you keep a record of the submissions with the sender’s name and address?”

“Yes. In a secure file.”

“Who sent this photo?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Justice said matter-of-factly. “I checked and the envelope wasn’t logged in. Ralphie must have found it in the overnight-mail slot and put it on Britta’s desk.”

“Then I need to speak to him.”

Justice punched a button on the intercom and ordered the boy to come to his office.

Jean-Paul stood. “Mr. Justice, can you tell me anything that might help us find the killer? Did you know the victim? Had you ever seen her before?”

Justice steepled his fingers as if in thought. “No. Should I know her?”

“Not necessarily, but I have to ask.”

“What was her name?”

“We haven’t identified her yet.” Jean-Paul paused. “How about the cabin? Did you recognize it?”

Justice scoffed. “That shanty could be any one of a hundred tucked in the bayou.”

Jean-Paul pushed on, “Have you received any calls or letters yourself that might be related?”

“I would have reported it if I had, Detective.”

“Can you think of any reason the killer targeted Miss Berger with the photograph?”

Justice raised a brow. “She’s a beautiful woman. Maybe the killer saw her photo in the magazine and wanted to get her attention.”

“You’re probably right,” Jean-Paul admitted, although his gut instinct hinted there was more. And that Justice was holding back. Maybe he was the one fixated on her. Maybe he’d killed a replica of her to frighten her into his arms.

“How long have you known Miss Berger?” Jean-Paul asked.

Justice’s hands tightened by his side. A telltale sign that the question stirred his anxiety. “A few months.”

“And your relationship is…?”

“Strictly business,” Justice said with a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes.

“Has she been involved with anyone recently? Someone who might want to hurt her?”

“Not that I know of,” Justice said in a curt tone.

“You haven’t noticed any strange men hanging around? Maybe outside?”

“No.” Justice cleared his throat. “Well, except for that Reverend Cortain and his religious group. They’re harassing us.”

“By protesting the publication of Naked Desires?”

Justice heaved a sigh. “Yes. That idiot reverend is leading the madness. If you ask me, he’s a psycho himself. Maybe you should check into him.”

Jean-Paul made a note to do so. “Has he threatened you or Miss Berger?”

“He sent fliers to Britta about his protest rallies, touting some religious bunk about us leading others into sin,” Justice admitted with a scowl. “And if this murder gets out, he’ll probably accuse our magazine of triggering sexually related crimes.”

“Where were you two nights ago, say around midnight?”

Justice snapped his head up, his eyes seething. “You can’t possibly think that I had something to do with this. For God’s sake, I encouraged Britta to report the incident. And like I just said, this crime will only be fodder for Cortain’s nonsense.”

“I have to ask so I can eliminate you as a suspect.”

Justice shuffled his day planner. “I…was with a woman. I can give you her name if you want. She’ll vouch for me.”

Jean-Paul indicated a pad on the desk. “I’d appreciate that.”

Justice’s lips thinned into a straight line, but he tore off the sheet of paper and shoved it toward Jean-Paul.

A knock rapped on the door and a skinny, blond kid appeared. “Mr. Justice? You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Ralphie. Come in. Detective Dubois from the New Orleans Police Department needs to ask you a question.”

Jean-Paul gave him a once-over. Young. Naive. Khakis and a designer shirt with Italian loafers. Green under the collar.

Not a murderer.

The boy paled. “Did I do something wrong?”

Jean-Paul explained about the photo and Ralphie collapsed into a chair. “I…I thought Miss Berger seemed upset when she asked me about the mail earlier, but she didn’t tell me about the picture.”

“What did she say?” Jean-Paul asked.

“She wanted to know if I’d seen the person who’d delivered the envelope.”

“And did you?”

“No.” He crossed his feet at his ankles, rocking sideways. “It was under the door this morning when I arrived.”

Jean-Paul nodded. “So you put it on her desk? But you didn’t open it first?”

“No. It was addressed to her.” Embarrassment colored his face. “Miss Berger doesn’t like me to read the mail. Says I’m too young.”

“How did you get those scratches on your hand?”

“My dog.” He stared at his knuckles. “I just got a boxer puppy. I’m trying to train him but, man, he chews on everything in sight.”

Jean-Paul frowned. The kid obviously knew nothing. “Have you noticed anyone lurking around, maybe watching Miss Berger?”

“No one specifically. Although men always look at her.”

Yes, they would. Although Britta could probably take care of herself, a sliver of worry tickled his spine, arousing protective instincts born of years on the job.

His reaction certainly couldn’t be personal. Britta Berger was definitely not his type.

But the killer had chosen her for a reason.

Jean-Paul intended to find out exactly what it was.

And why his victim had resembled her, as well.

A GUST OF WIND from the impending storm rattled the trees and sent leaves swirling around Britta’s feet as she rushed through the mob on Bourbon Street to her apartment. The storm clouds grew darker; the sounds of feet pounding the pavement became more ominous as the night swelled with the hordes of tourists. She glanced over her shoulder, repeatedly searching for the photographer, but a fog of drunken tourists obliterated any individual from standing out.

Still, someone was out there.

She sensed him watching her, felt his beady eyes on her skin. Studying her. Waiting.

Was it the photographer she’d spotted during dinner? The killer who’d sent her the photo?

Were they the same man?

She considered calling the cops but what could she tell them? She had an odd feeling? They’d think she was crazy.

A beer can rolled across the pavement, clanging into a metal garbage can and she shrieked, pausing as a beefy hand reached down to grab it. “Sorry about that, ma’am.”

She tensed at the lascivious look in his liquor-glazed eyes, and pushed past him, shouldering her way around more groping hands until she reached Naked Desires. Neon lights dotted the street with color, highlighting the painted print and logo on the door window. Several lurid males drooled, their faces pressed against the fog-coated glass as they tried to peek inside.

Ignoring their pleas for a sneak preview of the upcoming magazine and offers to share their fantasies with her, she maneuvered her way inside, slammed the door shut and locked it. But she froze at the sight of the darkened stairwell leading to the upstairs apartment. She tried the light, but it didn’t work. Had someone messed with it or had the bulb simply burned out?

You’re being paranoid. How many times last month had it done the same thing and she hadn’t thought it suspicious?

Choking back fear, she clenched her keys, ready to use them as a weapon. Outside, the wind howled like an animal. She unlocked the door and hurried inside. With only three rooms to the tiny apartment, she raced through them all, finally muttering a silent thank-you to find them empty.

Still, she paused in her bedroom, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling. The top bureau drawer which held her underwear was open slightly. Hadn’t she shut it this morning when she’d left for work? Normally, she kept her garments neat, her bras on the left side, her favorite frilly underwear on the right. In the drawer below, she stored her teddies. Now, her underwear was jumbled as if someone had pawed through it. Frantic, she jerked the second drawer open and gasped. Her teddies had also been moved around as if someone had touched them.

Then she saw it—a red crotchless teddy lay in the center of her bed.

A low sob caught in her throat. It was just like the one the dead woman had worn in the photograph. She glanced up in horror and noticed the note stuck to the mirror.

“I always have one eye on you. You can’t run forever.”

Shaking with fear and disgust, she rushed to the bathroom and splashed water on her face to stem the nausea. What should she do? Could that photographer somehow have gotten into her place? Or the killer who’d sent her the photograph of the murdered woman?

Hands shaking, she reached for a towel, patted her face dry, then glanced in the mirror, expecting to see a madman staring at her. But only her terrified eyes were reflected back. That and images of a long-ago time she’d thought she’d forgotten. Of a terrified little girl and a man she refused to speak of….

She spun around, ran into the bedroom to grab her purse and retrieved Detective Dubois’s card. She had to report the break-in. Show him the red teddy.