Chapter Seven
Suddenly I wanted to get as far away from the man as I could. Not only were there things I didn’t know about him, there were things he didn’t know about me. For instance, I wasn’t working here out of the goodness of my heart. I was trying to discover if someone at Rising Moon was a serial killer.
Uneasy, my gaze flicked again to his wrist, then away. What could have enticed him to suicide? Too many murders?
I doubted it. Serial killers liked to kill. They felt no remorse. That was why they were serial killers. They killed again and again and again until someone stopped them.
I had enough problems in my life. I didn’t need to be involved with a man who had a death wish— even if he kissed like the devil and looked like an angel. I let my gaze trail over his well-trimmed goatee and perfect, half-naked body.
Or maybe it was the other way around.
“You’re probably right,” I said, backing toward the door. “Bad idea. Employer, employee. All sorts of trouble.”
One black eyebrow lifted above the sunglasses. “I’m so happy you see it my way.”
His voice was cool and sarcastic. If I hadn’t just been swapping spit with the man I’d think he had no emotions at all.
But I had been and he did. I’d felt the desperation in his embrace, tasted the lust on his tongue. He’d wanted me as much as I’d wanted him, and he’d also been frightened of it. Wanting someone that badly for no reason at all wasn’t quite sane.
So who was crazier? Him? Or me?
“Will you be all right?” I asked.
“No.”
The question had been a courtesy. Kind of like asking, “How are you?” upon meeting someone. You didn’t really want to know.
“Never mind.” Rodolfo waved a hand toward the door. “Go away.”
That was more the answer I’d expected, yet still I hesitated.
“I’ve been alone for eons, _chica” _ he said softly. “I prefer it.”
I imagined year upon solitary year in the dark, thinking, brooding. No wonder he talked to himself.
“I need to sleep a while longer.” He touched his fingers to his forehead.
How could I have forgotten his migraine? I suppose being kissed senseless was a good excuse—or maybe a poor one.
“I could bring you some aspirin.”
“The only thing that helps is sleep.” Rodolfo returned to the bed. “Turn out the lights. Shut the door.”
He reclined, removing his glasses, setting them on the nightstand with nary a fumble, keeping his eyes closed the entire time.
He’d dismissed me. Slightly annoyed, I did as he asked. Or should I say as he’d ordered? There were times he reminded me of some lord of the manor, ordering his servants about, expecting them to obey without question.
My watch read five-thirty a.m. I was exhausted. Maybe I could catch a few more hours of rest myself.
As I hurried toward my room, one of the doors along the corridor creaked open, and I paused. No one else was supposed to be in the building.
I looked up. Or so I’d thought.
I stepped closer to the gaping doorway. “Hello?”
No one answered. No kidding. Did I expect an intruder to pipe up and say, “I was hiding in preparation to kill you, but since you caught me, never mind?”
Before I could think about how dumb the action was, I opened the door all the way to the wall, just in case someone was lurking behind it, and flicked on the light.
The room was empty, musty, and unoccupied as promised. However, a single candle glowed in the corner.
I hadn’t lit it. I peered at the ceiling. I also kind of doubted Rodolfo had. Then again…
I crept closer, planning to blow out the flame—definitely wasn’t safe to just leave it here—and I noticed several things.
The wax had melted into a glistening puddle, which indicated the wick had been lit hours ago. The candle was set on a low table and surrounded by stones, feathers, tiny carvings—a dog, a cat, a pig, and a chicken. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d stumbled on a child’s playroom. Except there was something vaguely unsettling—both sinister and saintly—about the whole thing.
The low table, the candle, made me think altar, while the other items brought to mind—
Voodoo?
Maybe.
I knew next to nothing about the religion; this could be it. Or something else entirely.
Though my unease increased as I neared the candle, I forced myself to cross the room, lean over and blow.
Poof . Out went the flame.
Then I saw the dark, wet streaks marring the wood surface of the table. In the bright light, they resembled blood.
“Can’t be,” I muttered, and the way my voice shook made me realize it could be, probably would be.
I should call the police, but Rising Moon wasn’t my place, and what if, in New Orleans, an altar like this was commonplace? What if it was for protection or success or even to welcome Mardi Gras?
I backed away, resolving then and there to show King before I did anything foolish. It wasn’t as if the altar could walk away. Slowly I shut the door behind me and headed for my room.
The candle and all the trimmings would still be there come morning.
Except they weren’t. I don’t know why I was surprised.
I got up as soon as I heard a door close downstairs, threw on my now crusty clothes and left my room, stopping at the door of the one where I’d seen the altar the night before.
Nothing was there.
Just to be sure, I checked every other room too, even my own.
Zilch.
Now who was slightly crazy ?
I considered telling King what I’d seen, but what good would it do? The events of last night had begun to take on a surreal quality, including the embrace with John Rodolfo. Maybe I’d imagined everything.
I kept what I’d seen to myself. For all I knew King could be a serial killer—though the odds were against it. For some reason no one can quite figure out, serial killers tended to be white, middle-aged men.
However, he could be the owner of the altar. If the thing was religious, it was none of my business. If it was sinister, I didn’t want to know.
I should probably tell Sullivan, though without proof that the altar had ever existed… why bother? Without a burning need to see King, I returned to bed. When I awoke about midafternoon, a Federal Express box sat outside my door full of lovely, clean clothes. I took a shower and donned some denim shorts and a T-shirt. Then I grabbed Sullivan’s file, and without even checking to see if anyone was puttering around Rising Moon, I headed for an Internet cafe I’d spotted on Chartres Street.
Set back from the main thoroughfare, the tables within a walled garden were occupied by an assortment of locals and tourists. Inside, next to the coffee bar, a long, narrow room was full of computers.
I paid for a latte, a bran muffin, and an hour of Internet use, then got down to business.
I did my usual search of names, background, credit information. I found nothing that Sullivan hadn’t already.
As I sipped my coffee, I took out the list of victims, complete with the locations of the disappearances and deaths, as well as the dates. There was something about the dates of the earlier victims that bugged me. They seemed to occur at regularly scheduled intervals.