LePont made a motion to his a.s.sistants. A body bag was brought, and Pierre stepped away from Sean. "Give me a few hours, then come by and see me. I'll give you whatever I've got."

"Thanks," Sean told him.

"Days like this make me glad I'm the photographer," Bill said.

Sean arched a brow. "Nice pictures?" he queried skeptically.

Bill shook his head. "The pictures haunt you. Stay with you. You can wake up in the middle of the night seeing those d.a.m.ned pictures in front of you. But at least I don't have to find the wacko who did this." "Wacko?" Sean echoed thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of our guy in such a term, to tell you the truth."

Bill stared at him incredulously. "Okay, so you think someone quote unquote normal could have done something like this?"

Sean shrugged. "Define normal. My first instinct was that this guy crossed somebody bigger. It seems like a very methodical kill. The severing of the head is not an easy thing to do- Pierre has just a.s.sured me of this-and this head was not just severed, it was done so neatly. There's no blood. There should be pools of blood here. The obvious would be that the guy was killed elsewhere, and dumped here. The head was severed with a purpose, and put back in place so perfectly I didn't realize it wasn't attached until Pierre started moving it around. There's some system and reason here."

"Wackos do make use of system and reason," Bill reminded him. "You told me that yourself after you took that course on serial killers up at the FBI academy at Quantico.

Remember?" Bill reminded him.

"My point is that we're not going to be looking for someone obvious-no drooling ghouls or the like haunting the city."

"This is d.a.m.ned scary. Right off Bourbon Street," Bill said, shaking his head with disgust. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "The girl in the cemetery had her throat so slit the head came off, too."

"Yep."

"Remember," Bill said, wagging a finger at Sean, "Jack the Ripper was supposedly extraordinarily methodical with body parts."

"Serial killers can be cla.s.sified as organized or disorganized, or they can be a combination," Sean murmured. "An execution-style murder is usually preplanned, neat.

Death is the ultimate goal. For some killers, it's the prelude to death that matters most.

Jack the Ripper's body parts had blood on them," Sean mused. "At least some."

"Like I said, taking pictures is easier than going after the wackos." Again, Bill's voice lowered. "You gotta catch this one fast, buddy. My wife is scared out of her wits. Have you seen the headlines? Not just the Times/Picayune. The cemetery killing was so sensational, it's been picked up across the country."

Sean exhaled a long sigh. He knew. The killing in the cemetery had been horrible, sensational, and-admittedly, Ripper-esque. The whole world saw it as a savage and terrifying event. What they didn't see was that the cops just didn't have anything to go on.

The girl hadn't fought-there hadn't been a single cell of her killer's flesh beneath her nails, not a single hair or fiber had been found on her body. She'd had s.e.x before her death, but according to Pierre, it hadn't been forced. They did have sperm samples, but not a single suspect with whom to compare sperm. DNA testing was being done by the FBI, but results might take days or weeks, and Sean was afraid now that their killer could strike many times before forensic science could help them.

There had been thousands of fingerprints on the tomb where the murdered prost.i.tute was found. The same with footprints- there had been partials almost everywhere. There was nothing at all to go on except the pathetic and unmourned body of a dead wh.o.r.e no one had yet so much as offered to name.

"Serial killer, like you were saying," Bill suggested.

Sean had that uncomfortable feeling himself. "I didn't exactly say that; we don't know that yet." Two decapitated corpses. A connection sure seemed probable. "Hey, it doesn't make me happy."

"Bill, we don't know anything yet for sure. There are still some differences here. When we get more verifiable information from Pierre-"

"Sean, you ain't a cop who goes by the book, you're a cop who goes by the gut. That's why you're a good cop. And you know that these killings are different."

"We've got to watch what we're saying around the media," Sean insisted. "New Orleans is going to go sky high over this one." He saw Jack over Bill's shoulder and managed a grin. "There's my boy. I'm going to collect him and we'll do a door-to-door for witnesses ourselves. See you later, Bill. And remember, low profile on this, huh?"

Bill nodded glumly. "Sure."

Sean moved on. Jack was still ashen, but remarkably recovered-and embarra.s.sed. "It was just the eyes," he told Sean. "I looked at him and felt that if I turned around and saw what was mirrored in his eyes, I'd see whatever monster had done this to him."

"That's all right, Jack. I've seen more dead men than I care to admit, but that guy is one to spook anyone. Did you get information on the street?"

Jack nodded. "Actually, I may not be very good with corpses, but I have made a discovery that might well interest you-and salvage a bit of my dignity," Jack told him.

"You don't need to salvage any dignity, but I'm intrigued by any discovery. What is it?"

"Follow me," Jack said.

Curiously, hopefully, Sean did so.

Maggie Montgomery looked out the window of her second-floor office. From her vantage point, she could see the area down the street which had been cordoned off by the police. She could see the dozens of police and citizens and tourists who were hovering on either side of the line. A little shiver snaked down her spine. It's not that New Orleans was crime-less-far from it!-and certainly not the Vieux Carre itself. But this had the look of something beyond the norm. Robberies were common enough; tourists were even warned by shopkeepers and hotel management to avoid certain streets. New Orleans hadn't avoided the drug crimes that plagued the country, and there was no way out of the fact that illegal delights, carnal and other, were readily for sale. Over the years, the area had seen murders that were bizarre, occult related, and more. And still . . .

"It's a body!" Angie Taylor, Maggie's a.s.sistant, said, her soft, drawling voice filled with both dread and fascination as she swept into the office, bringing Maggie a cup of rich, chicory-flavored coffee. "A murdered body," she added emphatically. Angie was a dynamo, five feet four in her highest heels, beautifully, compactly built. She was of Cajun descent, with dark, sweeping hair and huge, soulful, sensual eyes. She had a fascination for life, an energy that didn't quit. She was Maggie's best friend, as well as the most competent a.s.sistant in the world.

"Murder has happened here before," Maggie murmured, frowning as she tried to look through the crowd. Even from her point here above the street, there was little that she could see. The corpse was in a body bag on a gurney, being wheeled away to the ambulance that would bear it to the morgue. The crowd was just beginning to break up. Officers were still busy behind the crime tape, specialists, technicians, looking for clues.

"The rumor is already rampant on the streets. This body was decapitated." Maggie felt another little chill snake along her spine. "Male body or female body?"

"Male. A pimp, if the word at Cafe La Pet.i.te Fleur is right," Angie said slowly. The cafe was next door to them. Very convenient. It was new, but the husband-and-wife owner were Creoles with a family history that went back to the origins of the city. Their beignets and cafe au lait were out of this world.

Angie went on, speaking more slowly. "The murder victim was a young guy, handsome fellow. They say he was a pimp working the right kind of girls."

"It wasn't like the murder that filled the paper the other day?" Maggie asked, holding back the lace curtains to keep her vigil on the street.

"No, no. The body wasn't mutilated, just decapitated."

"Just decapitated," Maggie murmured.

Angie giggled nervously. "I suppose that is awful enough, isn't it? It was just the description of the way that poor girl was found in the cemetery ... Well, she was a poor young girl. A fallen angel, if you will. Now this guy, it seemed, was living off the pain of others."

Maggie cast her a wry glance. "Angie, I don't think that all prost.i.tutes are actually in pain. Some choose to do what they do because it can be what they consider good money."

She shrugged. "Some women have even made media careers out of being madams!"

Angie wrinkled her nose. "n.o.body goes to bed with yucky, hairy, disgusting or gross men without being in pain. My point here is that the fellow murdered last night-or whenever he was murdered-was selling someone else's flesh and making his money that way. I can't imagine anything more despicable." She looked at Maggie and sighed again.

"Maggie, it's just a little bit better because he was bad, evil if you will. And maybe an evil thing happened to an evil person, and that's just a little bit more right than what happened to that poor young lost girl. Don't you think that evil pays to evil?"

"No, not always," Maggie said. Then she smiled, shaking her head. "Angie, you're looking for a perfect world. If there were a perfect world, wonderful, kind deserving people wouldn't be crippled and in wheelchairs. Babies wouldn't die of AIDS."

Angie sighed with vast impatience. "Just my point. Isn't it fitting when it's actually the bad person who has something bad happen to him?"

Maggie had to smile slightly. "What if he wasn't all bad? What if he had been abused or mistreated as a child? What if he had a deep-seated psychological hatred for women-"

"Maggie, he was bad!" Angie announced with impatience, "He prost.i.tuted women for money. An that's that!"

Maggie lifted her hands, still smiling. "Fine. He gets no excuses. You've made your point. Still ..."

"Still what?"

"Two people decapitated in a week."

"You think it's the same murderer? One of the victims was a man, one was a woman.

One was ripped to shreds and one merely lost his head."

Maggie hesitated. "Decapitation is not all that common," she said quietly. "And it's scary. New Orleans is going to be going insane. Tourists will start staying away if the police can't make an arrest quickly."

"Tourists are filling the shop downstairs right now despite the police. Or maybe because of them," Angie said with a crisp, businesslike warning. "If Allie and Gema need help, they'll phone up," Maggie a.s.sured her, leaving the window behind and returning to her desk, sinking somewhat wearily into the swivel chair behind it.

Allie and Gema were the saleswomen who manned the downstairs boutique section of Magdalena's. The business had been in Maggie's family for years. Since before the Civil War, Montgomery women had been designing fine fashion wear. It had been elegant ball gowns at first, and a great deal of the one-of-a-kind garments Maggie designed remained evening wear. But over the last few years, she had found herself working on resort wear and lingerie as well, going along with the times, she a.s.sumed. But along with her unique made-to-order designs, she kept a boutique where those without the pocketbooks for one- of-a-kind wear could also find unusual, special pieces. Along with Gema and Allie, she had a staff of twenty seamstresses, two supervisors with two a.s.sistants each, a receptionist and an accountant to deal with the goings-on of the business. She created the designs- lingerie, day wear, even jewelry- and she and Allie usually created the displays that showed through the windows in the downstairs store. Offices were on the second floor, production was on the third. The building was over one hundred and fifty years old, charming in its architecture, modernized just enough to make it comfortable and convenient, but retaining its character.

Cissy Spillane, the receptionist, a tall quadroon girl with a slim figure and stunning face, tapped lightly on Maggie's open door. "Maggie, there are two cops in the reception area. They want to speak with you."

"Me?" Maggie said, startled.

Cissy shrugged. "They asked me a few questions as well, and they want to talk with Angie. But they seem mostly interested in you."

"Why?"

"Because you own the building," Cissy said. "At least that's the way it appears to me."

Maggie glanced at her watch, disturbed that she felt such uneasiness. "I have an appointment at ten-" she murmured.

"It's Mrs. Rochfort. I'll hold the old battle-axe at bay!" Angie promised.

There was no way she could refuse to see cops. They'd just come back with deep suspicions and search warrants if she did so.

"Fine. Show them in, please, Cissy," Maggie told her.

Angie slipped out the door to Maggie's office behind Cissy. Less than thirty seconds later, Cissy stepped back in, followed by two men. Neither was in uniform.

Maggie rose from her swivel chair and came around her large oak desk, swiftly inspecting the two. They were an impressive pair. The younger man was a tall, well-built redhead with a quick smile and warm brown eyes that seemed to deepen as he watched her approach. He was handsome, in the prime of life, Maggie thought, and wondered if his wife or girlfriend feared for him at his job.

The second man appeared to be more of a veteran, definitely older, yet incredibly attractive. For some strange reason, he caused a little flutter to stir within her heart. He'd been around, she thought, studying the sharp, intriguing blue eyes that studied her so openly in return. He was a tall man, at least six two, quite broad-shouldered, with very dark hair just beginning to acquire a few silver streaks at the temples. His brows were very dark, handsomely arched. His skin was bronzed from exposure to the sun and there were fine lines about his mouth and eyes. They added character to a face that was arresting, more rugged than handsome, but cleanly, strongly sculpted. There was a fluidity in his movements, something about his eyes, and even the curve of his mouth that was elementally sensual. There was a power about him, a strength of will, that was completely compelling.

"Miss Montgomery?" he asked. He had a deep voice. It was resonant. She felt another little quiver deep inside her.

"Yes, how can I help you?"

"I'm Jack Delaney, Miss Montgomery," the younger man began, quickly offering her a handshake. "This is my partner, Sean Canady. We've-"

"Canady?" she repeated, her eyes falling back upon the older man. Sean.

He nodded, watching her in turn. He smiled. It was a nice smile, rueful, slashed across his bronzed face. It added charm and an even greater sensuality to his ruggedly hewn features. "Old-time name, I know. So is yours."

She nodded as well, and asked him, "Isn't there a statue of one of your ancestors on a corner not far from here?"

"A great-great-grandfather, I believe. Another Sean. He formed a cavalry company for Dixie and led many a gallant charge against the Yanks, so says the plaque beneath the statue."

"Ah, yes! I remember the stories about him. He could travel like lightning, so they say."

Canady smiled. "And I admit, I'm entranced to meet you. Magdalena's was here when Sean was defending his city."

Maggie nodded. "We've changed throughout the years, but yes, it all began back then."

"We're sorry to bother you," Jack said, "but unfortunately, we've a few questions we must ask you."

"Fine," Maggie told them. "Will you have a seat? Can I get you some coffee?"

"No-" Sean began.

"Yes-" Jack said. He looked at Sean. Maggie decided it was evident, though they hadn't introduced themselves with any rank, that Sean was the senior man here.

But Sean seemed completely at ease with his authority and needed to prove nothing. He grinned at Jack. "Sure. Coffee would be nice."

Maggie went back behind her desk and pressed the intercom, asking Cissy to bring coffee for the gentlemen. She sat then, sweeping a hand out to the richly upholstered Victorian armchairs that faced her handsomely carved desk. The men took the chairs, Sean in front of her to the left, Jack in front of her to her right.

"This is a business call, gentlemen?" she asked. She tried to look at them both. She found herself staring in Sean Canady's eyes.

He nodded grimly, watching her. She had a feeling in the few minutes they'd been together that he had done a total a.s.sessment of her-the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she spoke, the things she said. He would notice details. All the little details.

"You're aware there was another murder?" Jack said.

She managed to draw her gaze from Sean and look at Jack Delaney. "Another murder?

Not to insult the efforts of the force, gentlemen, but I'm afraid there are many murders each year in New Orleans."

"Unfortunately, that's true," Sean said. He glanced at his partner, perhaps just a little irritated. "Let's rephrase the question. You're aware that a body was found on the street just about two blocks from here?"

She nodded. "A young man. A pimp-at least that's the word in the cafe next door."

There was a tapping, and Cissy stuck her head in. "Coffee. May I bring it in?"

Maggie nodded. "Thank you, Cissy, the desk will be fine."

Cissy set the tray on the table, swiftly showing the officers the sugar, cream, and artificial sweetener. Jack added cream. Sean took his black. Somehow, she knew that he would. He had the look of a dedicated man. One who would run out of his house (apartment?) with a m.u.f.fin in one hand and mug of coffee-black-in the other. He wouldn't waste time eating when time was crucial, and though he'd need the caffeine often enough to keep going, he wouldn't spend the time to use cream or sugar. Jack might be like that one day-he just hadn't been around the block as many times as Sean.

She realized that Canady was returning her stare. She wondered if he was imagining her lifestyle, just as she was imagining his. Those dark-blue eyes of his were studying her.

They were unsettling. She wondered with a shade of unease just what he saw. And strangely enough, she felt that little surge of a flutter within her breast again. He was the kind of man who could do that to a woman. She wondered if he was aware of his appeal. He was an attractive man. Hardened, no-nonsense, all grown up. And it was annoying to realize just how deeply she was attracted to him. Almost painfully so.