Because he had seen her before. Not here, not in New Orleans.
Back in Orlando.
She had been at the trial. She had been a witness in the case against George Calabria. For the defense.
She had been young then, just twenty-one. But she had spoken with dignity, even though half of the time she spoke, tears had blurred her green eyes. She was tall, slim, and had hair so red it was like a fire. Not orangish-red, not auburn-red. Fire-red.
She could never be missed or mistaken for anyone else.
She was Kaitlin Delaney, daughter of the couple killed on the boat in the Keys twelve years ago.
The fifteen-year-old who had risen from a dive to find her parents in a different sea—a sea of blood.
And she was here. In New Orleans.
He’d known that she’d moved, that an uncle or someone was raising her here and she had only returned to Florida for the trial. With everything else, he had forgotten that Katie Delaney lived here now.
He inhaled deeply.
Yes, of course she’d have heard about the murders. The media was broadcasting little else.
So she was here. In New Orleans.
Where some supposed Axeman was striking once again.
And Dan had to wonder just what her involvement might be, and if she might be helpful—or if her defense of her parents’ old friend just might waylay justice once again.
CHAPTER TWO
Katie thought she’d gotten good—very good—at appearing calm, confident and assured whenever she talked about the past.
But the officer she wound up speaking with was nothing short of annoying. He was trying all her hard-earned patience.
“Listen, miss, I’m very sorry about your story, but this is New Orleans. And you’re trying to tell me about something that happened twelve years ago over five hundred miles away.”
“Not only twelve years ago,” Katie said. “Six years ago, too. The killers were never caught. My parents were killed on their boat out in the Gulf. Later, an elderly couple and their niece were killed in their apartment in Orlando. The murders were carried out with two weapons according to the medical examiners. An axe or hatchet and a knife. The bodies weren’t completely dismembered, but they were torn apart, a limb here or there, cut so thoroughly as to be detached or almost off. The medical examiners did consult, they believe the murders were committed by the same killer or killers. You need to know this. You need to consult with law enforcement in Florida because this is quite possibly the same killer, and anything they can share might help you find them.”
“Miss, again, I’m sorry,” the officer said. “We have important business to get through here. We just don’t have time for amateur hour, though if your story is true, again I’m sorry.”
“Stanley, that’s enough!” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
Startled, Katie turned around. And she frowned, confused and oddly filled with a strange little sizzle of déjà vu and anger.
She knew the man who had spoken. Well, she didn’t know him, but she’d seen him before.
He’d been with the cops trying to prove George Calabria was a psychotic killer. Six years ago, when she’d gone down to George’s trial in Orlando, she had been an excellent character witness for him. She’d been infuriated the police had wanted to skewer the poor man just because he’d been living in Orlando.
The man’s wife had been brutally butchered along with her parents; he’d had to be in a different place if he’d planned on starting over after all that happened.
The officer who had been speaking with her—Stanley, apparently—looked up indignantly. “Hey, come on, Dan! You don’t work here. I’m not even sure what you’re doing here. You can’t just—”
“Stanley, I’ll take over,” another man said as he stepped into the office. The way he seemed to own the space suggested to Katie this might be the detective she was waiting for. “Dan, what’s going on?”
Dan spoke without taking his eyes off her. “Ryder, this is Katie Delaney. Her parents were killed twelve years ago in waters down by the Florida Keys. She has every right to be here. You’re going to want to listen to what she has to say.”
He was helping her? He was still the enemy. He might be trying to find a way to prove that poor George Calabria was here, in New Orleans, and chopping people up again!
“Miss Delaney? I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Detective Ryder Stapleton. Please come to my office if you don’t mind.”
She had to crane her neck to take in the detective. She was seated; maybe that was why the two men seemed so tall. But, of course, she’d seen the one before, the Florida cop or agent or whatever. His name was Daniel Oliver. He stood a good six-three, had a broad-shouldered and lean-muscled body, a clean-shaven face with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, dark hair and piercing amber eyes. He was probably considered good-looking by most, but she had noted that for only a few minutes back in Orlando. Because after she’d seen him testify—seen the way he’d looked at George with fire in those eyes—she’d written him off as a complete ass, rude and ridiculous.
And here he was again.
But at least he was getting her to a cop who might listen to her.
She’d see him long enough to get where she needed to be, and then he’d be out of her life again.
She briefly wondered what the hell he was doing in New Orleans.
It didn’t matter.
“Miss?”
“Thank you,” she said to the detective, rising with all the dignity in her, nodding briefly to the officer who had been so quick to dismiss her, and heading in the direction Ryder Stapleton indicated.
The detective was about the same age, she thought, as Dan Oliver. He was nearly as tall, and a little kinder-looking, with a broader face, fine cheekbones, warm gray eyes and sandy hair. He looked tired; she figured such work had to make you a little worn-out.
He had his own office—not huge, but comfortable—and there were two chairs
