Then he sat next to her.
She gritted her teeth. And then she almost smiled.
They’d beaten him once. Because George wasn’t guilty. The man had obsessed over George because of circumstantial evidence.
But they’d beaten him.
If he started up on George now, they’d beat him again. And maybe this time, he’d realize that George wasn’t involved.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at Ryder. “Trust me, I understand murders take place all over the country, and many may be similar in method and madness. But as, uh, Mr. Oliver explained to you, I saw firsthand the work of a madman.” She sighed deeply. “I’m a tour guide here in the city. I’m also aware there were a number of axe murders here in New Orleans and environs, taking place back in 1918 and 1919. I understand more fully than most people how myths can grow, how stories can be exaggerated and, yes, how killers can carry out copycat actions.”
Ryder watched her, nodding gravely.
At her side, Dan Oliver was silent.
“I, of course, was not at the crime scene in Orlando, but I believe Mr. Oliver was.” She glanced his way at last. “Or Special Agent Oliver or Detective Oliver or whoever he is now. I experienced the one scene. He saw the other. And the crime scene today?”
Dan Oliver was staring at her with those piercing eyes of his. She realized suddenly he most probably hadn’t just gone after George Calabria out of meanness. He had been deeply horrified by the crimes committed, and to him George had appeared guilty.
She turned back to Ryder quickly.
“I know killings often have motives. I also know they can be random. I’ve read a lot. I’m not an investigator, of course, but I’ve read that serial killers seldom stop, that they stay active until they’re incarcerated or killed themselves. There have been exceptions or times when they take a break. There might have been killings in other places—other countries, even—that we don’t know about. And this killer might have discovered the unsolved case of the Axeman and decided New Orleans might be the right place to strike. My parents were killed twelve years ago, and the killer—or killers—struck again six years later. And now. There might be a pattern here. Something in the motive that means killings must happen six years apart.”
“Six years... Maybe there is something to the number six,” Dan said quietly.
“All right, Miss Delaney,” Ryder said. “I can understand why you’re so concerned, and why you think these killings are related. Sure, you’ve read, so you know about copycat killers. These cases could be totally unrelated. Even your case in the Keys and the one in Orlando might be separate.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Your parents were killed on a boat,” he pointed out.
“But the older couple and their niece in Orlando were killed in their home. Just as these people were killed now.”
Katie glanced at Dan Oliver again. She couldn’t begin to fathom what he was thinking. His face was totally impassive.
“Listen,” Ryder said, “I understand how you both feel. And yes, murders like this aren’t common, thank God. I will bear in mind during the investigation all that has happened in the past.”
“Ryder—” Dan began.
“Look, I called you, right? I want to solve this. I want every piece of information available on this killer. If it is the same guy, I want to get him this time. If it isn’t, I’m still interested in seeing how this killer—or these killers—are copying the Florida murders or the old Axeman of New Orleans. We’re all on the same side here,” Ryder said. “Our forensic teams are still going over the scene. You know that, Dan. We’ll do everything in our power.”
“That means calling Florida for every record available,” Dan reminded him.
“I will get everything transferred,” Ryder promised. He looked at them both. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” he said to Katie.
She nodded. “Thank you. If you need me to describe what happened, what I found on the boat that day, I can do so.”
“I don’t see a need to make you go through that now, Miss Delaney. When I’ve read all the reports...well, I may ask you to come back in.”
Katie nodded. There was nothing else she could do. She stood. “Thank you,” she said to Ryder. It somewhat pained her, but she turned to Dan Oliver, who had risen as well, and said “Thank you” again.
Ryder also rose. They all just stood there for a few seconds, and Katie turned to leave at last but then turned back.
“Are you a cop here now?” she asked Dan.
He seemed to take a long time to answer. “Private investigator.”
“Ah. Well, please, don’t forget, if I can give you anything at all, do call me.”
She didn’t ask them to keep her abreast of any information.
She was just a civilian. They wouldn’t tell her anything.
She headed out of the office and the police station at last.
Outside, she walked to her car, a little SUV that allowed her to tool around the city, including the French Quarter, with comparative ease.
Sitting in the vehicle, she couldn’t help but relive the awful day when her parents had been killed. And the trial when George had been accused of the Orlando murders.
Something inside told her the killer was the same.
And while a half dozen law-enforcement agencies had searched for information on Dr. Neil Browne and Jennie, nothing, nothing had been discovered on them. They might have been ghosts—except they hadn’t been. They’d been flesh and blood.
They had either become shark food in the Atlantic, or...
They had been the killers. George said he didn’t know much about them. Yes, he had said they were friends. He and Anita had met them at a dockside bar in Coconut Grove. They’d been so nice. They’d claimed they were from New York. Thinking back, he’d never even asked if they were from New York State or
