Leopard's Prey

movies. Jean and Juste definitely had aspired to build a large criminal network. They had murdered at least three women. They had forced women to have sex with them and their friends. They’d robbed and beaten the elderly. They sold drugs. There really wasn’t much the brothers wouldn’t do—so why didn’t he think they were capable of carrying out the bone harvester’s murders?
    “He’s ice,” Remy said aloud. “Total ice. He doesn’t ever flinch. There’s no hesitation.” He stared at the board. “You’re one scary man. Who are you? You don’ even break a sweat when you’re carvin’ them up.”
    “Remy?” Angelina came up behind him.
    He could smell the cup of coffee she had in her hand for him. He turned toward her with a faint smile. She was in her late forties, married to another cop and had three children. He often considered her his secret weapon. She could find anything on anyone given time. She worked a computer with lightning speed and nothing ever stood between her and information.
    “I found the insurance policy. It was taken out with Forbes and Regency. It’s a big payoff if Bijou dies. Thirty million dollars, Remy.” She sounded worried. “Definitely the kind of money someone kills for.”
    “You’re an angel, Angelina,” he said. “That gives me everything I need to break Durang. He’ll give up Butterfield.”
    Angelina turned away from him, hesitated, and then turned back. “Remy, I’ve worked with you a long time. You have good instincts. If you aren’t satisfied, don’t listen to anyone else’s conclusions.” She looked up at the murder board, at the photographs of Juste and Jean Rousseau. “If your gut says it isn’t them, then I’m putting my money on you. You’ll find out who really did this one way or another.”
    “Thanks, Angelina. I appreciate the vote of confidence. Leave the report on my desk. I think I have just enough time to run over to the gallery and talk with Lefevre before I have to meet Bijou. She’s comin’ here. Would you mind stayin’ and waiting for her? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
    “Do you think he may have seen something that night?” Angelina asked. “He doesn’t seem interested in anything but his art—which by the way is beautiful but so far above my pay grade I can only wish.”
    “He’s actually quite observant. He pays close attention to details. Both Carson and the Rousseau brothers were poking around his studio the night Carson was murdered. It’s a long shot that he saw something that could shed light on the murderer, but you never know. At this point, I’ll take anything, long shot or not,” Remy said. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to clear the pounding headache.
    He couldn’t imagine that the famed—and very obsessive—sculptor had seen anything of use, not after seeing the frantic sketches of Remy’s facial features he’d been up all night drawing, but maybe he’d get lucky. Sometimes it was only luck solving a case.
    “Sure, I don’ mind waiting for Bijou Breaux,” Angelina agreed. “I have every record she ever made. I know every song by heart. I never talk to her because I don’t want to seem like one of her pushy, crazed fans, but every time I see her, I secretly scream.”
    He swung around, amused by Angelina, the consummate professional’s confession. His eyebrow shot up and he found himself smiling. “Really? You? Scream? I don’ believe you.”
    “In my head, Remy.” She held up her hand when he looked smug, tossing her head like a schoolgirl. “But at her concerts I screamed with the best of them. Once I couldn’t talk for two days afterward.”
    Remy burst out laughing. “You’re priceless, Angelina. When she comes in, talk to her. She’s actually quite shy. You’d never know it when she sings, but she really is. I’ll just be a few minutes, I promise.”
    Remy caught up his jacket, shrugging into it as he hurried out. There was something driving him now, and that usually meant he was close to breaking a case. He should have considered talking to Lefevre right away. The artist
was
good with details and few people had his observation skills. He might have even noticed something earlier, when they were in the gallery itself.
    He walked the short distance to the gallery where Lefevre had his showing. He wasn’t surprised to see it had already closed, but the lights were on and he could see the artist inside, hunched over a large sketchbook. Several drafts of