Violets Are Blue

blood poisoning.” Damon contributed some scholarly research.
    “Who am I to argue with Nana?” I said, and left it at that. “I’m no match for Nana Mama right now.”
Or maybe ever
.
    I looked at the puffed-up bandage and gauze covering most of my right shoulder. The skin was a sickly yellow around the bandage. “Something bad got into my blood. I’m okay now, though. I’m coming back.” But I remembered what Irwin Snyder had said:
You’re one of us
.

Chapter 56

    I WAS able to make it downstairs for dinner that night. Nana rewarded my appearance at the table with chicken, gravy, and biscuits, and a homemade apple crisp. I made an effort to eat, and I surprised myself by doing pretty well.
    After dinner, I put little Alex to bed. I went back up to my room around eight-thirty, and everybody seemed to understand that I was tired, not myself yet.
    I didn’t sleep once I got up to my room, though. Too many bad thoughts about the murders were buzzing in my head. Right or wrong, I felt like we were getting close to something. Maybe I was just fooling myself, though.
    I worked for a couple of hours on the computer, and my concentration was fine. I was pretty certain that something had to link up the cities where the murders had taken place. What was it, though? What was everybody missing? I looked at anything and everything. I studied the schedules of airplane carriers that flew into each of the cities, then bus companies, and finally railroads. It was probably just busywork, but you never know, and I had nothing better to do.
    I checked out corporations that had main or branch offices in the cities and found there were a lot of matches, but it wasn’t likely to get me anywhere. Federal Express, American Express, the Gap, the Limited, McDonald’s, Sears, and JC Penney were just about everywhere. So what?
    I had at least one travel book for each of the cities where murders had taken place, and I pored over them until it was almost midnight. Nothing came of it. My arm was throbbing again. I was starting to get a headache. The rest of the house was quiet.
    Next, I checked on traveling sports teams, circuses and carnivals, author tours, rock and roll groups — and then I hit on something in the entertainment area. I had been ready to call it a night, but here was something interesting. I tried not to get excited, but my pulse quickened as I checked the West Coast information first. Then the East Coast.
Bingo. Maybe
.
    I had found the kind of pattern that I was looking for — an entertainment act that worked winters and early spring on the West Coast, and then came east. Their tour cities and the murders were matching up for now. Jesus.
    They had been touring for fifteen years.
    I was almost certain I’d found some kind of connection to the killers.
    Two magicians who called themselves Daniel and Charles.
    The same ones Andrew Cotton and Dara Grey had seen the night they were murdered in Las Vegas.
    I even knew where they were scheduled to perform next. They were probably already there.
    New Orleans.
    I called Kyle Craig.

Chapter 57

    ELEVEN YEARS of unsolved murders had come down to this.
    New Orleans, Louisiana.
    A nightclub called Howl.
    A pair of magicians named Daniel and Charles.
    I still couldn’t travel, so I remained in Washington. I hated not being in New Orleans. I was missing an important time, but Kyle was there. I think he wanted to make this bust himself, and I couldn’t blame him. This could help make his career, no doubt about it. The case was huge.
    That night in New Orleans a half dozen FBI agents circulated through the crowd that had turned out for Daniel and Charles’s early performance. Howl was located in the warehouse district, off Julia Street. Usually it featured musical acts, and even tonight zydeco and blues reverberated from the mortar-and-redbrick walls. A few tourists tried to bring “geaux” cups from Bourbon Street into Howl. They were denied admission “for life.”
    The used Cressidas and Colts and a few sport-utility vehicles in the parking lot were a tip-off to the presence of Tulane and Loyola college students packed inside. Smoke lay thick over the noisy and restless crowd. Several in the audience looked underage, and the club had been cited for serving minors. The owners found it easier to buy off the New Orleans police than to effectively regulate the club.
    Suddenly, everything went quiet. A single voice punctuated the silence. “
Holy shit! Look at