Lover Beware

concerned, their laughter tight with emotion they wouldn’t dare show to the cops who were taking great care in hiding the transformers the best they could under the hookers’ meager clothing.
    Anna didn’t care much for Detective Donovan’s plan. The French Quarter Killer was smarter than to take this kind of bait. Since word had been blasted across the city, indeed the entire country, the French Quarter Killer hadn’t made so much as a move. Anna suspected he was simply relaxing, if not in New Orleans, then someplace else, watching the circus of panicking tourists and mountingly frustrated cops who were focused on finding Angel Gonzales—still believing him to be the serial killer.
    Although Detective Mike Donovan agreed to go along with Killroy and Costos’s plan to put decoys on the streets, he kept his mouth closed as much as possible about his hesitancy. Not only was he putting Tyron Johnson’s girls in a sticky situation, not to mention a number of undercover female cops, he was well aware that his own reputation was on the line. The media, both the television and the papers, were coming down hard on them. Just the night before, MSNBC had done an hour-long special on the French Quarter Killer—interviews with distraught parents of the murdered women, and even with Anna, Donovan, and Killroy. By now the entire country believed that Gonzales was the serial killer and since his face had been blasted from one coast to the other, the citizens were frothing over the fact that he had not yet been found.
    Throughout the reporter’s overeager grilling, Anna had kept her opinions to herself. It simply wasn’t good form to publicly argue the police department’s stand on the investigation. Remaining closemouthed through the interrogation was not her style, but as Dr. Jeff Montgomery had pointed out, better to let the real killer stew in his self-satisfaction. With the department focusing on Gonzales, the real French Quarter Killer would do one of two things. His annoyance that someone else was taking the credit for his killings would drive him out to make a statement, or another killing. After all, it was simply a game to him. A power and control issue. He was a man who needed the attention to bolster his importance in the world.
    Gonzales, on the other hand, was a thrill seeker. Such assaults were sporadic sprees—strike out at anyone—man, woman, child.
    The FBI’s VICAP Division had processed this case in record time. The only case files that had come close to matching the French Quarter Killer involved four prostitutes murdered in Maryland the year before. Evisceration, decapitation, and total dismemberment—heads missing—but no removing of the heart. Just like the New Orleans killings, their apartments had been clean of evidence even though the crimes had been committed there.
    Anna tailed after Costos and Donovan on the evening they intended to plant the wired hookers throughout the Quarter.
    “Just listen to me,” she said. “Think about what I’m saying. If this guy was going to hit again, he would have already done it. He might be crazy, but he’s smart. You’ve got squad cars and cruisers crawling along these streets like a damn funeral procession. Your so-called hookers have UNDERCOVER COP
    stamped on their foreheads. Anyone who frequents these girls on a nightly basis is going to know them. They stand out like a freaking neon sign.”
    Donovan entered his office, tossed his files onto his cluttered desk, and dropped into his chair, glancing at Costos. “Does she ever shut up?”
    Jerry glanced at Anna, his eyebrows lowered. “Not if she can help it.”
    Anna planted her hands on Donovan’s desk and leaned toward him. “You listen to me and you’ll make First Grade Detective and get all the pats on the back you can take from the governor and senator. The citizens in this town will put a statue in your honor on Jackson Square.”
    He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “So talk. But make it fast. We’ve got eight undercovers wired and ready to walk.”
    Anna sat in a chair and crossed her legs. “Okay. Listen. Don’t so much as breathe until I’m finished.” She glanced at Jerry. “That goes for you, too.”
    Jerry propped one shoulder against the bulletin board on the wall where photos of the slain women were thumb-tacked to it.
    Anna never took her gaze from Donovan’s blue eyes. He looked haggard and sleepless. But for the shoulder holster and gun he wore over his