Lover Beware

shirt, he could have passed for a hungover Tulane student.
    “Look, Mike. We haven’t exactly seen eye to eye during this and previous investigations. You don’t like the FBI shouldering its way into your job. You specifically don’t like me—a profiler. I understand. You feel we come with crystal balls and tarot cards.”
    “Hey, I never made that comment. That was Armstrong.”
    “Profiling is a…science. Statistics that rarely fail.”
    “Get to the point, Travelli.”
    “You call this creep’s bluff. Call in the media. Inform them that you’ve made an arrest of the man you feel is your French Quarter Killer. Refuse to release his identity. You might even say your supposed perp has already confessed, not just to the serial killings but to the assault on Barker. Pull in your cruisers and squads.”
    He stared at her. “You’re nuts.”
    “These creeps know they can’t take any risks at this point. Wouldn’t dare. So you accomplish two things. One: Gonzales is going to feel safe and go on the hunt again—beat up and rape a hooker or two. Two: Your serial killer is going to be mighty pissed that someone is stealing his thunder. Both men will hunt again. Your serial killer is going to make one hell of a statement. He’s going to try his best to make the NOPD and the FBI look like idiots. Remember, it’s the power and control he’s after. Notoriety. He’s got something to prove, Mike. Right now he’s feeling untouchable and arrogant enough to believe he can continue to get away with murder.”
    Donovan slumped in his chair, looking as if he hadn’t slept in a week. The normally pristine, starched white shirt he wore was sweat-stained in the armpits, and his tie lay curled on his desk like a sleeping navy blue snake. He hadn’t shaved in days. He needed a haircut. A lock hung down his brow, accenting his dark blue eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness.
    “Seems to me, Travelli, that you’re still assuming that Gonzales is not our serial killer.”
    “He’s not,” she snapped, then glanced at Jerry, who raised one eyebrow and shrugged.
    Donovan narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you just go back to Quantico and do whatever it is you do. I believe my department has this case well in hand without your help.”
    Anna slowly left her chair and leaned her weight on his desk, hands propped upon the stack of files open before him. “I would like nothing better. Right now we’ve got a child killer in Baton Rouge. Cult stuff. Sacrifices. I’ve got a killer in East Texas that the populace is convinced is an alien from outer space who’s kidnapping women and cutting out their uteruses, leaving their bodies as calling cards in crop circles. Nasty business. But my superior is convinced that the French Quarter Killer is going to strike again given the first opportunity and you guys are fighting us tooth and nail. Stop being such a damned macho, bullheaded cop and cooperate.”
    Donovan fingered his lower lip and glanced at Costos. “So you’re saying not to put the girls out tonight.”
    “Not in the least. Put ’em out. Just, for a few days, feed the press and public what they want to hear. I’ll guarantee Angel Gonzales and your serial killer will hit again the moment they think they’re off the hook.”
    Donovan lowered his dark eyebrows and chewed on a toothpick, glanced up at Jerry.
    Less aggressively, Anna rewarded Donovan with a smile. “I know your reputation, Detective. You haven’t made Second Grade by sitting back on your laurels and watching the uniforms catch the bad guys. Gonzales is going to strike again. And so is your killer. Maybe next time it won’t be hookers. Next time it might be little girls.”
     
    ANOTHER WEEK PASSED. No one booked but the usual drunken tourists with pockets full of cheap Vieux Carré souvenirs. It was midnight when the phone rang, jarring Anna from sleep.
    “Donovan. Okay, Travelli. You win. We do it your way. Are you happy?”
    “You’ve let the media know?”
    “By the book, Agent Travelli. Just like you said. Name withheld. Do you realize what’s going to happen to me if this ploy of yours doesn’t work? I’ll be writing fucking parking tickets on Bourbon Street.”
    “Trust me on this one, Detective. If we take a fall on this case, you can blame it totally on the FBI.”
    There came a deep laugh, throaty—sleepy. “You can count on that, Travelli. I’ll see it written on every station bathroom wall in this district and seven