and pulled out of the parking space. Knowing she was probably making a huge mistake, she drove deeper into the city. For a macabre reason she didn't understand, she felt compelled to drive by the scene of the crime.
Just like the killers are supposed to do.
Traffic was messy. It had begun to rain in earnest and huge drops fell from the sky, pelting the streets and running down the windshield so fast that the wipers could barely slap them away.
Taillights glowed red, seeming to smear through the glass as she wound her way to the other side of Canal Street and through the French Quarter, where umbrella-wielding pedestrians filled the sidewalks and sometimes spilled into the streets. She turned on the radio.
WSLJ was playing jazz and it grated on her nerves. Maybe it was just from being overly tired and wrung out, but she couldn't stand the thought of vocal interpretations and riffs.
She found a country station and cranked up the volume.
Better to listen to pining and heartache.
Yeah, right. She clicked off the radio.
On the east side of City Park she squinted at the street signs until she found one she recognized, then rolled down the narrow street until she came to the charred, burned-out building. Not much was left, she thought as she pulled close to the curb and climbed out of her little truck.
Crime scene tape roped off part of the yard and all of the debris and ash. Her shoes were no match for the water rushing through the street, and the jacket she kept in the cab had no hood. Nonetheless, she threw it over her shoulders and waded across the street to stare at the soggy, blackened rubble. Rain peppered her face and ran through her hair as she remembered the vivid scene from her vision. The victim --that horrified blond woman--had died horribly here, somewhere in the burned shell of a house. At the hands of a priest.
Shivering, she whispered, "Who are you, you bastard?" She'd thought if she came here, actually stepped onto the soil where the horrid event took place, she might get a glimmer, a flash of him, might/see/ him again and gain some clue to his identity. Traffic crawled behind her but the rain muffled much of the city's noise as it poured from the sky and dripped off the surrounding trees.
She closed her eyes. Listened to her own heartbeat. Felt something. A prickle that brought a slight chill, as if the killer had passed her on the street. "Come on, come on," she said, her eyes still closed as she turned her face skyward, felt the harsh wash of rain and strained to see something, to hear something, to smell-"See anything?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Fists clenched, she whirled.
In the sheeting rain, Detective Bentz was standing less man a foot away from her.
"Oh, God, you scared me," she said, her heart pounding in her ears, adrenalin rushing through her bloodstream.' ' ... no ... I don't see anything but rubble."
He nodded. Wearing a baseball cap with the symbol for the New Orleans Police Department emblazoned upon it and a water-repellant jacket, he asked, "What were you doing?
Just now."
She felt foolish. Embarrassment washed up the back of her neck. "It was just an exercise. I thought maybe if I actually came to the scene of the crime, I might get more of a sense of him."
"The killer?"
"Yeah." She glanced at the Jeep double-parked on the street
"Did you follow me here?"
"Nah. Headin' home. Thought I'd swing by. Maybe see something' or get a glimmer--a hunch--of what went on now that it's quiet here. Kinda like you were doin'." He gave her a quick once-over. "You're getting wet." She smiled. "Now I know why you're a detective. It's your keen sense of observation." Raindrops caught in her eyelashes and dripped from her nose.' "s just no getting' anything past you, is there?"
"I like to think not," he said but gave her the barest of smiles, one that seemed genuine and she'd begun to realize was rare. "How about I buy you a cup of coffee ... or dinner, before you get completely
Just like the killers are supposed to do.
Traffic was messy. It had begun to rain in earnest and huge drops fell from the sky, pelting the streets and running down the windshield so fast that the wipers could barely slap them away.
Taillights glowed red, seeming to smear through the glass as she wound her way to the other side of Canal Street and through the French Quarter, where umbrella-wielding pedestrians filled the sidewalks and sometimes spilled into the streets. She turned on the radio.
WSLJ was playing jazz and it grated on her nerves. Maybe it was just from being overly tired and wrung out, but she couldn't stand the thought of vocal interpretations and riffs.
She found a country station and cranked up the volume.
Better to listen to pining and heartache.
Yeah, right. She clicked off the radio.
On the east side of City Park she squinted at the street signs until she found one she recognized, then rolled down the narrow street until she came to the charred, burned-out building. Not much was left, she thought as she pulled close to the curb and climbed out of her little truck.
Crime scene tape roped off part of the yard and all of the debris and ash. Her shoes were no match for the water rushing through the street, and the jacket she kept in the cab had no hood. Nonetheless, she threw it over her shoulders and waded across the street to stare at the soggy, blackened rubble. Rain peppered her face and ran through her hair as she remembered the vivid scene from her vision. The victim --that horrified blond woman--had died horribly here, somewhere in the burned shell of a house. At the hands of a priest.
Shivering, she whispered, "Who are you, you bastard?" She'd thought if she came here, actually stepped onto the soil where the horrid event took place, she might get a glimmer, a flash of him, might/see/ him again and gain some clue to his identity. Traffic crawled behind her but the rain muffled much of the city's noise as it poured from the sky and dripped off the surrounding trees.
She closed her eyes. Listened to her own heartbeat. Felt something. A prickle that brought a slight chill, as if the killer had passed her on the street. "Come on, come on," she said, her eyes still closed as she turned her face skyward, felt the harsh wash of rain and strained to see something, to hear something, to smell-"See anything?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Fists clenched, she whirled.
In the sheeting rain, Detective Bentz was standing less man a foot away from her.
"Oh, God, you scared me," she said, her heart pounding in her ears, adrenalin rushing through her bloodstream.' ' ... no ... I don't see anything but rubble."
He nodded. Wearing a baseball cap with the symbol for the New Orleans Police Department emblazoned upon it and a water-repellant jacket, he asked, "What were you doing?
Just now."
She felt foolish. Embarrassment washed up the back of her neck. "It was just an exercise. I thought maybe if I actually came to the scene of the crime, I might get more of a sense of him."
"The killer?"
"Yeah." She glanced at the Jeep double-parked on the street
"Did you follow me here?"
"Nah. Headin' home. Thought I'd swing by. Maybe see something' or get a glimmer--a hunch--of what went on now that it's quiet here. Kinda like you were doin'." He gave her a quick once-over. "You're getting wet." She smiled. "Now I know why you're a detective. It's your keen sense of observation." Raindrops caught in her eyelashes and dripped from her nose.' "s just no getting' anything past you, is there?"
"I like to think not," he said but gave her the barest of smiles, one that seemed genuine and she'd begun to realize was rare. "How about I buy you a cup of coffee ... or dinner, before you get completely
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