Full moons always caused cops to twitch—as well as nurses, waitresses, and psych ward workers. That big round orb made the crazies crazier. Maybe it had something to do with the tides and their magnetic pull. Who knew? But if one full moon caused people to go bat shit, what would two in one month—known as a blue moon—do? Bobby didn’t even want to think about that.
“If the blood on the guy’s ring matches your victim,” Sullivan continued, “the case is closed, and you can get back here before I lose my ever-lovin’ mind. Again.”
“Not so fast. Who’s to say he didn’t find the ring on the ground.”
“Really?”
“I’m just talking like a defense attorney.”
“Guy’s dead,” Sullivan said. “Does he get a defense attorney?”
“True. But we can’t stamp closed on something until we’re sure.”
“What would make you sure?”
“If the meat cleaver is the murder weapon, I’d say we’re in business.”
“Not so fast.” Sullivan repeated Bobby’s words. “No meat-cleaver killings here.”
Man had a point. He often did, which was why they worked so well together.
“Although, since we seem to have hit an uncommon streak of luck, maybe he was stupid enough not to wash the branding ring between victims and there’ll be DNA from all of them all over the place.”
“What are the chances of that?” Bobby wondered.
“Slim to none.”
The usual odds.
“Remember that case in the Hotel St. Germain?” he asked.
Silence came over the line. Bobby could almost see his partner’s face crease in thought. The hotel was in a seedy section of town; therefore they’d had more than one case there. Bobby gave him a hint. “Locked-room mystery.”
“Hated that thing.”
“Did we ever check the floor in the locker?”
“Not following.”
“Seemed like the guy could have been shot through the door of the room, but no hole in the door, and it was still locked, bolted, chained.”
“Hence my hatred. What about the closet?” Despite years spent in New Orleans, to a man from Maine—or was it Massachusetts?—a closet was always and forever a closet.
“Not sure. But the door to the locker and the door to the outside were right next to each other. One was open; one wasn’t. I had a…” Bobby shifted his shoulders. “Hunch. Check the floor in the locker of that room and let me know what you find.”
“’Cause I got nothin’ better to do? There were four murders last night. One of them was another one of those damn wild-animal killings that just makes my head pound.”
Sullivan’s leave of absence had followed a spate of wild-animal attacks in New Orleans. Some by wolves, a creature that had not been seen in Louisiana for at least a century. Others by a big cat larger than any bobcat found in the swamps. Folks had whispered of a loup-garou, a werewolf legend of the Crescent City, whereby the beast attacked beneath a sickle-shaped moon and not the full.
Sullivan—born and bred Yankee that he was—hadn’t believed any of it. He’d figured serial killer, even called the FBI. They had not agreed. The killings had continued. He’d snapped. Then, the killings had stopped. But, apparently, not forever.
Bobby had been briefed about his partner’s issues. Brief being the operative word. He didn’t really know what had happened or why, and he hadn’t asked. Sullivan was the best partner he’d ever had, and he wasn’t going to fuck it up by sticking his nose into things that were over. Except …
What if they weren’t over?
“You okay?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah.” Sullivan let out a long sigh. “I’m not going to jibber in the corner.”
“You say that like you’ve done it before.”
“Haven’t we all?”
Bobby certainly had.
*
“What’s wrong, Genevieve?”
Tears shimmered in the ghost child’s eyes. “He never sees me.”
“I know, baby.” She had Bobby’s eyes. I saw that now.
“Where’s your mom?” I asked.
“She couldn’t see me either.” Her face scrunched into an expression I first thought was confusion and then, when she stomped her foot, realized was anger. “She should have been able to!”
I was confused. Should her mom have been able to see her because she was also dead? Or just because the child thought a mother should always have that connection? I could relate. I still looked for my mother everywhere.
Of course she wasn’t really my mother. But not being blood relations didn’t keep every other specter in the township from appearing to me.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
Genevieve hadn’t moved on for a reason, one I needed to discover so that she could. She didn’t belong in this world. I glanced at the closed door across the hall.
No matter how much the living might long for her.
“My daddy is sad.”
He was, and now I understood why.
“Tell him…”
I leaned forward, but she trailed off, her gaze flicking to his closed door.
“What should I tell him?” I pressed, even though the idea of talking to Bobby Doucet about his dead daughter made me cringe. But who else was going to?
“Tell him it wasn’t his fault,” she said. Then she disappeared.