Lover Beware

profiler, I sure as hell didn’t think they’d send you.”
    “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?” She pocketed the shield. “The agency felt I’d be an asset since I grew up here. So if you got a problem working with me on this case, take it up with them, Costos.”
    “Maybe I’ll just do that.”
    “Fine. I could use a vacation. But until they pull me, I’m here whether you like it or not.”
    J.D. dropped onto the sofa; he stared at the ceiling. “If you two want to open old scars, take it outside.”
    “Right.” Jerry caught her arm. Anna pulled it back, but moved to the patio door while Costos followed on her heels.
    The back garden of Damascus’s home was lush with blooming flowers, their color somewhat bleached by the intense sunlight. A cobblestone path meandered to an area shadowed by giant oak trees. There, erected beneath the gnarled old limbs, stood a swing set and sandbox wherein sat a little pink pail and shovel and a soccer ball.
    Anna leaned against the tree trunk and dug into her purse, extracting her cigarettes. As she looked at the swing set, a sudden breeze moved the swing forward and back, as if the child’s spirit remained.
    Costos remained silent as she lit her cigarette. She was well acquainted with that silence. The intensity of it could thicken the air.
    She glanced at him. “So how is he holding up?”
    Costos briefly closed his eyes, ran one hand through his dark hair. “His heart has been ripped out of him. Christ.” He sighed. “Frankly I don’t know how he’s held it together as well as he has.”
    “So what’s your theory on this Tyron Johnson?”
    “The guy’s a son of a bitch. A two-bit pimp who occasionally beats up his girls if they cross him. He has an alibi for the time of the Damascus murders.”
    “Reliable?”
    “Marcus DiAngelo. Owns the Lucky Lady Casino. Could be mob connected, but so far we’ve been unable to prove it. J.D. brought him up on charges of racketeering last year, but the bastard beat it.”
    “Jury tampering?”
    “More like judge tampering, I think. His Honor enjoys the tables and is known to lose. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was into the Lady for a lot of money.”
    Jerry reached for her cigarette, took a deep drag from it as he focused on the swing set. Anna turned her face away, the memories of the years they had spent together causing her head to throb harder. She was having second thoughts again about taking on this case. Certainly not too late to back off. Call headquarters and suggest they put another profiler on it.
    Jerry crushed the cigarette out against the tree trunk, then tossed the butt into the sand pail. “For the record: I’m not happy that we’re going to be working together on this case.”
    “Ditto.”
    “I’m not happy to see you at all.”
    “Live with it, Mr. Prosecutor. Or maybe your problem isn’t simply working with me. Maybe it’s working with a woman, period. Seems I recall you felt a woman’s place was in the kitchen—”
    “That’s bull, Anna, and you know it.”
    Anna crossed her arms over her chest and focused on the house. “Doesn’t matter any longer. I didn’t come back to New Orleans to kick open that old kettle of rotten fish. I’m here to help you find a serial killer who may or may not have murdered Damascus’s family. So do we meet with Captain Killroy now, or later?”
    He stared at her, the heat of his gaze burning the side of her face. “I’ll call Killroy and set up a meeting for the morning.”
    “I’ll want to see the crime scene photographs and the coroner’s report first. Then I want an up-close and personal look at the crime scenes themselves. About J.D.—”
    “I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Just leave him alone for now.”
    “Fine. I’m staying at the St. Louis.”
    “Fine. I’ll pick you up—”
    “Got a car, but thanks anyway.”
    He stared at her a moment longer, then turned on his heels and walked toward the house.
    Releasing her breath, Anna sank back against the tree, and closed her eyes.
     
    HE IS HUNGRY again.
    The streets are quiet here. The hookers are scarce. And rightly so.
    That pleases him. Very much.
    The scent of fear lingers in the air as he moves along the dark wharf and gazes out at the river. Moonlight glitters on the swirls and ripples of the moving brown water and casts halos over the scattered warehouses lining the docks. The fog moves in—gray, hazy fingers creeping up the alleys like specters, little by little obliterating