No. Id say not, Jagger agreed with what appeared to be obvious.
Such a pity, and so strange. Murder is never beautiful, and yet she is beautiful, Dewey commented.
Dewey, give me something that isnt in plain sight, Jagger said.
Dewey went to work. He was efficient and methodical. He had his camera out, the flash going as he shot the body from every conceivable angle. Then he approached the woman, checked for liver temperature and shook his head. Shes still in rigor. Other than the fact that shes about bloodless, I have no idea whats going on here. Ill need to get her into the morgue to figure out how and why she died. I cant find anything to show how it might have happened. Odd, really odd. A body without blood wouldnt shock mewe seem to attract wackos to this city all the timebut I cant find so much as a pinprick to explain what happened. Hell, like I said, Ive got to get her out of here to check further. Lord knows, enough people around here think theyre vampires.
Right, I know, Jagger said. When did she die? I was estimating late last night or early this morning.
Then youre right on, Dewey told him. She died sometime between midnight and two in the morning, but give me fifteen minutes either side.
I want everything you get as quickly as you get it, Jagger said.
I have two shooting deaths, a motorcycle accident, a possible vehicular homicidenot to mention that the D.A.s determined to harass an octogenarian over her husbands death, even though hes been suffering from cancer for years Dewey broke off, seeing the set expression on Jaggers face. Sure, Lafarge. Ill put a rush on it. This is the kind of thing youve got to get a handle on quickly, God knows. We get enough sensationalist media coverage around here. I dont want to see a frenzy start.
Thanks, Jagger told him.
He looked around the Grigsby family tomb one more time. It was what he didnt see that he noted. No fingerprints in the dust. No footprints. No sign whatsoever of how the girl had come to lie, bloodless and beautiful, upon the dusty tomb of a long dead patriarch.
He wanted the CSUs, Tony and the uniforms all busy here. He had some investigating to do that he needed to tackle on his own.
He lowered his sunglasses from the top of his head to his eyes and walked back out into the brilliant light of the early fall morning.
The sky was cloudless and brilliantly blue. The air was pleasant, without the dead heat of summer.
It seemed to be a day when the world was vibrant. Positively pulsing with life.
Hey, Detective DeFarge!
It was Celia Larson, forty, scrubbed, the no-nonsense head of the crime-scene unit that had been assigned. Can we go on in? Ive had my folks working the area, around the entry, around the tomb but, hey, with the cemeteries around here being such tourist hangouts, folks had been tramping around for an hour before we got the call. Weve collected every possible sample we could, but we really need to get inside.
Its all yours, Celia. And good luck.
She leaned into the mausoleum and said accusingly, You and Dewey have tramped all over the footprints.
There were no footprints.
There had to be footprints, she said flatly, as if he was the worst kind of fool.
He shrugged and smiled.
None, but, hey, youre the expert. Youll see what we missed, right? he asked pleasantly. Celia wasnt his favorite civil servant with whom to work. She considered every police officer, from beat cop right on up to detective, to be an oaf with nothing better to do than mess up her crime scene. She didnt seem to understand the concept of teamworkor that she was the technician, and the detectives used her information to put the pieces together, find the suspect and make the arrest. Celia had seen way too many CSI-type shows and had it in her head that she was going to be the detective who solved every case. Still, he did his best to be level-tempered and professional, if not pleasant. He did have to work with the woman.
Get me a good picture of the face, Celia. Well get her image out to the media.
She waved a hand dismissively, and he walked on.
This wasnt going to be an ordinary case. And he wasnt going to be able to investigate in any of the customary ways.
He made it as far as the sidewalk.
Then he saw real trouble.
He groaned inwardly. Of course she would show up. Of coursedespite the fact that hed only just seen the corpse himself, word had traveled.
She didnt look like trouble. Oddly enough, she came with a smile that was pure charm, and she was, in fact, stunning. She was tall and slim and lithe, mercurial in her graceful movements.
Her eyes were blue. They could be almost as aqua as the sea, as light as a summer sky, as piercing as midnight.
Naturally she was a blonde. Not that brunettes couldnt be just as beautiful, just as angelic lookingor just as manipulative.
She had long blond hair. Like her eyes, it seemed to change. It could appear golden in the sun, platinum in moonlight and always as smooth and soft as silk as it curled over her shoulders. She had a fringe of bangs that were both waiflike and the height of fashion.
And naturally she was here.
Sunglasses shaded her eyes, as they did his. The Southern Louisiana sun could be brutal. Most people walked around during the day with shades on.
Well, hello, Miss MacDonald, he said, heading for his car. Officers had blocked the entry to the cemetery and the borders of the scene itself with crime-scene tape. But the sidewalk was fair game. The news crews had arrived and staked it out, and the gawkers were lining up, as well.
Before Fiona MacDonald could reply, one of the local network news reporters saw him and charged over, calling, Detective! Detective DeFarge! It was Andrea Andy Larkin. She was a primped and proper young woman who had recently been transferred from her networks Ohio affiliate. She was a fish out of water down here.
She was followed by her cameraman, and he was followed by a pack of other reporters. The local cable stations and newspapers were all present. And yes, there came the other network newscasters.
He stopped. Might as well handle the press now, he thought, though the departments community rep really should be fielding the questions. But if he dodged the reporters, it would just make things worse.
He held his ground, aware that Fiona was watching him from a spot not far from the cemetery wall. He wasnt going to escape the reporters, and he definitely wasnt going to escape her.
Detective DeFarge? Andy Larkin had apparently assigned herself to be the spokeswoman for the media crew. Weve heard a young woman has been founddrained of blood. Who was she? Do you think we have some kind of cultists at work in the area? Was it a ritual sacrifice?
He lifted a hand as a clamoring of questions arose, one voice indistinguishable from the next.
Ladies, gentlemen, please! Weve just begun our investigation into this case. Yes, we have discovered the body of a young woman in a mausoleum, but thats all that I can really tell you at the moment. Well have the preliminary autopsy reports in a day or so, which will answer any questions about the state of the body. We dont have an identity for the victim, and its far too early for me to speculate in any way on whether this is a singular incident or not. However, at this time I have no reason to suspect that we have a cult at work in the city. As soon as I have information, youll have information. Thats absolutely all that I am at liberty to say at the moment.
But Andy Larkin began.
At any time that I can, without jeopardizing our investigation, I will be happy to see to it that the news media is advised.
Wait! A man from one of the rags spoke up; he was probably in his early twenties, taking the best job available to a young journalism graduate. His hair was long and shaggy, and he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and carrying a notepad rather than an electronic device of any kind. Shouldnt you be warning the citizens of New Orleans to be careful? Shouldnt you be giving them a profile of the killer?
Jagger hoped his sunglasses fully covered his eyes as he inadvertently stared over at Fiona MacDonald.
She had a profile of the killer, he was certain.
We dont know anything yet. I repeatweve just begun our investigation. Im going to give young women in this city the same warning I give all the time: be smart, and be careful. Dont go walking the streets alone in the dark. Let someone know where youre going at all times, and if you go out to party, dont go alone. People, use common sense. Thats my warning.
But arent serial killers usually young white men between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five? shouted a tiny woman from the rear. She was Livy Drew, from a small local cable station.
He reminded himself that he had to stay calmand courteous. The public affairs department was much better at that, though, and he fervently wished they would hurry up and get there.
Livy, theres nothing to indicate that we have a serial killer on our hands.
Youre denying that this is the work of a serial killer?
Im not denying or confirming anything, he said, fighting for patience. One more timeour investigation is just beginning. Yes, young women should take special care, because yes, a young woman has been killed. Now, if youll let me get to work, Ill be able to answer more questions for you in the future. Though we have no ID on her yet, we may make a hit with fingerprints or dental impressions, and well have a picture available for you soon. And, as always, the department will be grateful for any information that can help us identify the victimand find her killer. But no heroics from anyone, please. Just call the station with any information you may have.
Someone called from the back of the crowd. Detective, what
Thats all! Jagger said firmly, then turned to head for his car, parked almost directly in front of the gates. He looked for Fiona MacDonald, but she was gone.
He knew where he would find her.
He got into his car and pulled away from the curb, glancing expectantly in the rearview mirror. She was just sitting up. Her expression was grim as she stared at him.
What the hell is going on, DeFarge? she asked.
He nearly smiled. If things hadnt been quite so serious, he would have.
I dont know.
Well, I do. You have a rogue vampire on your hands. And you have to put a stop to this immediately.
He pulled up the ramp to a public parking area by the river. He found a quiet place to park along the far edge of the lot and turned to look at her.
Fiona was young, somewhere around twenty-nine or thirty, he thought. Young in any world, very young in their world.
They knew each other, of course; they saw each other now and then at the rare council meetings in which several underworld groups met to discuss events, make suggestions, keep tabs on one another and keep the status quo going.
He suddenly wished fervently that her parents were still alive. The savage war that had nearly ripped through the city had been stopped only by the tremendous sacrifice the couple had made, leaving their daughters to watch over the evenly divided main powers existing in the underbelly of New Orleans, a world few even knew existed.
Naturally the war had been fought because of a vampire.
No, not true. A vampire and a shapeshifter.
Vampire Cato Leone had fallen deeply and madly in love with shapeshifter Susan Chaisse, who had fallen in love with him in return. The two had been unable to understand why they werent allowed to fall in love. Frankly Jagger didnt understand it, either. Old World prejudice had done them in. It had been a Romeo and Juliet scenario, a Southern West Side Story, a tale as old as time. Young love seldom cared about proper boundaries. Man and every subspecies of man seemed prone to prejudice, and it was usually born of fear and or economics. Either way, the outcome was almost always the same. In this case, just as in Shakespeares tale, it had been cousins of the young lovers who had caused the problems. Susans first cousin Julian had taken on the form of a monster being, half vampire, half werewolf, and attacked Cato. Shapeshifters were truly gifted; they could take on whatever shape they chose, and mimic not only anothers appearance but take on their powers, as well. Cato hadnt even known who he was battling, and in the thick of the fight his own cousin jumped to his aid and was killed by the shapeshifter. That raised an uncontrollable rage in Cato, who in turn killed his attacker, and because the shapeshifter had taken on a guise that was partly werewolf, Catos family had attacked the werewolves, and the violence had threatened to spill over into the streets. The power that Fiona MacDonalds parents had summoned to defeat the warring parties had cost them their lives. No Keeper, no matter how strong, could exert that much power and survive.
They had known what they were doing. But they had known as well that if the battle had erupted into the human world, it would have brought about the destruction of them all. Humans far outnumbered the various paranormal subspecies, not just here, but across the world, though the largest concentration of any such creatures was right here, in New Orleans, Louisiana, commonly referred to locally as NOLA. History had decreed that they all learn how to coexist. Werewolves learned to harness their power at each full moon, and vampires learned how to exist on the occasional foray into a blood bank, along with a steady diet of cows blood. The shapeshifters had it the easiest, subsisting in their human form on human diets. Hell, half of them were vegetarians these days.
Fiona, he said quietly, I can only repeat what Ive said to the media. I dont know anything yet. I have to investigate. God knows there are enough idiots living here, and more coming all the time, who want to think theyre vampires. You cant deny that this city does attract more than its share of would-be mystics, cultists, wiccans, psychics and plain old nuts.
I heard that she was entirely drained of blood, Fiona said flatly.
He wished that he were dealing with her mother. Jen MacDonald had lived a long life; she had been a fine Keeper, along with her husband, Ewan. The twoboth born with the marks of each of the three major subspecieshad been fair and judicious. And wise. They had never jumped to conclusions; they had always done their own questioning, conducted their own investigations. They had loved those they had been born to watch, never interjecting themselves into the governing councils of their charges but being there in case of disputes or problemsor to point out potential problems before they became major bones of contention.
Jagger took a deep breath. He had become a police officer himself because he didnt want history to keep repeating itself. Most of the underworldKeepers includedhad come to NOLA after years of seeking a real home. The churchs battle against witchcraft had begun as long ago as the 900s, and in 1022, even monkspious, but outspoken against some of the doctrines of the churchhad been burned. Witchcraft had become synonymous with devil worship, and the monks were said to cavort with demons and devils, indulge in mass orgies, and sacrifice and even eat small children. In 1488 the Papal Bull issued by Pope Innocent III set off hundreds of years of torture and death for any innocent accused of witchcraft. Jagger found it absolutely astounding that any intelligent man had ever believed that the thousands persecuted through the years could possibly have been the devil worshipping witches they were condemned for being. If theyd had half the powers they were purported to possess, they would have called upon the devil and flown far away from the stake, where they were tied and allowed to choose between the garrote or burning alive.