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  There was a knock on the bedroom door, and I said, “I’m decent. Who goes there?”

  Jannie pushed open the door. She was holding a red plastic tray with a breakfast of poached eggs, hot cereal, orange juice, and a mug of steaming coffee. She was smiling, obviously proud of herself. I smiled back at her. That’s my girl. What a little sweetheart she was—when she wanted to be.

  “I don’t know if you can eat yet, Daddy. I brought you some breakfast. Just in case.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. I’m feeling a little better,” I said. I was able to push myself up in bed, then to prop a few pillows behind me with my good hand.

  Jannie carried the tray over to the bed and carefully set it on my lap. She leaned in and kissed my fuzzy cheek. “Somebody needs a shave.”

  “You’re being so nice,” I said to her.

  “I am nice, Daddy,” Jannie answered. “You feel good enough for a little company? We’ll just watch you eat—we’ll be good. No trouble. Is it okay?”

  “Just what I need right now,” I said.

  Jannie came back with little Alex in her arms and Damon trailing behind, giving me the high sign. They climbed up on my bed and, as promised, they were very good, the best medicine around.

  “You just eat your breakfast while it’s hot. You’re getting too skinny,” Jannie teased.

  “Yeah, you are,” Damon agreed. “You are drawn and gaunt.”

  “Very good.” I smiled between small bites of eggs and toast, which I hoped I could keep down. I kept running my hand over little Alex’s head.

  “Did somebody poison you, Daddy?” Jannie wanted to know. “What exactly happened?”

  I sighed and shook my head. “I don’t know, baby. It’s an infection. You can get it from a human bite.”

  Jannie and Damon grimaced. “Nana says its septicemia. They used to call it blood poisoning.” Damon contributed some scholarly research.

  “Who am I to argue with Nana?” I said, and left it at that. “I’m no match for Nana Mama right now.” Or maybe ever.

  I looked at the puffed-up bandage and gauze covering most of my right shoulder. The skin was a sickly yellow around the bandage. “Something bad got into my blood. I’m okay now, though. I’m coming back.” But I remembered what Irwin Snyder had said: You’re one of us.

  Chapter 56

  I WAS able to make it downstairs for dinner that night. Nana rewarded my appearance at the table with chicken, gravy, and biscuits, and a homemade apple crisp. I made an effort to eat, and I surprised myself by doing pretty well.

  After dinner, I put little Alex to bed. I went back up to my room around eight-thirty, and everybody seemed to understand that I was tired, not myself yet.

  I didn’t sleep once I got up to my room, though. Too many bad thoughts about the murders were buzzing in my head. Right or wrong, I felt like we were getting close to something. Maybe I was just fooling myself, though.

  I worked for a couple of hours on the computer, and my concentration was fine. I was pretty certain that something had to link up the cities where the murders had taken place. What was it, though? What was everybody missing? I looked at anything and everything. I studied the schedules of airplane carriers that flew into each of the cities, then bus companies, and finally railroads. It was probably just busywork, but you never know, and I had nothing better to do.

  I checked out corporations that had main or branch offices in the cities and found there were a lot of matches, but it wasn’t likely to get me anywhere. Federal Express, American Express, the Gap, the Limited, McDonald’s, Sears, and JC Penney were just about everywhere. So what?

  I had at least one travel book for each of the cities where murders had taken place, and I pored over them until it was almost midnight. Nothing came of it. My arm was throbbing again. I was starting to get a headache. The rest of the house was quiet.

  Next, I checked on traveling sports teams, circuses and carnivals, author tours, rock and roll groups—and then I hit on something in the entertainment area. I had been ready to call it a night, but here was something interesting. I tried not to get excited, but my pulse quickened as I checked the West Coast information first. Then the East Coast. Bingo. Maybe.

  I had found the kind of pattern that I was looking for—an entertainment act that worked winters and early spring on the West Coast, and then came east. Their tour cities and the murders were matching up for now. Jesus.

  They had been touring for fifteen years.

  I was almost certain I’d found some kind of connection to the killers.

  Two magicians who called themselves Daniel and Charles.

  The same ones Andrew Cotton and Dara Grey had seen the night they were murdered in Las Vegas.

  I even knew where they were scheduled to perform next. They were probably already there.

  New Orleans.

  I called Kyle Craig.

  Chapter 57

  ELEVEN YEARS of unsolved murders had come down to this.

  New Orleans, Louisiana.

  A nightclub called Howl.

  A pair of magicians named Daniel and Charles.

  I still couldn’t travel, so I remained in Washington. I hated not being in New Orleans. I was missing an important time, but Kyle was there. I think he wanted to make this bust himself, and I couldn’t blame him. This could help make his career, no doubt about it. The case was huge.

  That night in New Orleans a half dozen FBI agents circulated through the crowd that had turned out for Daniel and Charles’s early performance. Howl was located in the warehouse district, off Julia Street. Usually it featured musical acts, and even tonight zydeco and blues reverberated from the mortar-and-redbrick walls. A few tourists tried to bring “geaux” cups from Bourbon Street into Howl. They were denied admission “for life.”

  The used Cressidas and Colts and a few sport-utility vehicles in the parking lot were a tip-off to the presence of Tulane and Loyola college students packed inside. Smoke lay thick over the noisy and restless crowd. Several in the audience looked underage, and the club had been cited for serving minors. The owners found it easier to buy off the New Orleans police than to effectively regulate the club.

  Suddenly, everything went quiet. A single voice punctuated the silence. “Holy shit! Look at this.”

  A white tiger had walked out onto the stage, which was covered in layers of black velvet.

  There was no leash on the cat. No trainer or handler was anywhere in sight. The formerly raucous audience remained silent.

  The big cat lazily raised its head and roared. A girl in a hot-pink tank top screamed in the pit seating area. The cat roared again.

  A second white tiger walked out and stood beside the first. It glared down at the crowd and roared. The pit audience was situated directly in front of the stage. Men and women seated there scrambled away, grabbing their beer bottles.

  An unmistakable tiger roar now came from the back, behind the audience. Everyone froze. How many cats were loose in the club? Where were they? What the hell was going on?

  The lights onstage made the peripheral space a dark void. Any retreat to either side of the room was a gamble. There was a shift of the stage lights—left to right, then right to left. The lights were powerful, almost blinding. The lights created the visual illusion that the entire stage had moved.

  The crowd’s gasp was audible. Panic was in the air.

  The tigers were gone!

  Two magicians in shimmering black-and-gold-lamé suits now stood at the center of the stage where the tigers had been just a heartbeat ago. They were both smiling; they almost seemed to be laughing at the jittery audience.

  The taller of the two, Daniel, finally spoke. “You have nothing to fear. We’re Daniel and Charles, and we’re the best you will ever see! That is a promise I plan to keep. Let the magic begin!”

  The crowd inside Howl began to clap and cheer, and then to howl. There were two shows that night. Each was scheduled to last an hour and a half. FBI agents had infiltrated the cr
owd. Kyle Craig was inside. More agents were posted outside on the street. Daniel and Charles concentrated on several tricks, which they called “Homage to Houdini.” They also performed Carl Hertz’s “Merry Widow.”

  The audience response to the shows was highly favorable. Nearly everybody left the club in awe, vowing to come again, to tell friends to come. Apparently, it happened everywhere that Daniel and Charles played, coast to coast.

  Now came the real work for the FBI. After the second show, Daniel and Charles were whisked away to a silver limousine idling in a sealed-off alley at the stage door. There was a lot of noise and confusion backstage. Daniel and Charles were screaming at each other.

  Once the silver limousine finally exited the alley, a team of FBI cars followed through the usual crowds in downtown New Orleans, then out toward Lake Pontchartrain. Kyle Craig was in radio contact for the entire trip.

  The limo pulled up in front of an antebellum mansion where a private party was in full rage. Loud rock and roll music, Dr. John, blared across spacious lawns marked by two- and three-hundred-year-old oaks. Partygoers had spilled onto the lawns that sloped down to the dark, glimmering water of the lake.

  The limo driver got out and opened one of the back doors with a theatrical flourish. As several FBI agents watched in disbelief, two white tigers jumped out.

  Daniel and Charles were not in the limousine. The magicians had disappeared.

  Chapter 58

  DANIEL AND Charles had arrived at a small, private club inside a house in Abita Springs, Louisiana, about fifty miles outside New Orleans. This particular club had never been written up in the entertainment section of the Times-Picayune, or in any of the glossy-covered guide magazines available in the lobbies of just about every large and small New Orleans hotel.

  A man named George Hellenga greeted his guests with great excitement and enthusiasm. Hellenga had badly pitted cheeks, the thickest black eyebrows, dark, sunken eyes. He wore contacts that made his eyes appear black. Hellenga weighed more than three hundred pounds, all of it bunched tightly into a black leather jacket and pants purchased at a Big & Tall shop in Houston. He bowed to the magicians as they arrived and whispered that he was honored by their visit.

  “You should be,” Charles snapped. “We’re tired after a long day. You know why we’re here. Let’s get on with it.” Offstage, Charles often did the talking, especially if it meant addressing someone like this pathetic underling, this cipher, George Hellenga, who immediately showed Daniel and Charles the way downstairs. They were the masters; he was the slave. There were legions of others like him, waiting in so many cities, praying for a chance to serve the Sire.

  As he descended the steps, Daniel broke into a smile. He saw the captive, the slave, and he was well pleased.

  He went to the boy, who looked to be eighteen or nineteen, and spoke to him. “I’m here now. It’s so good to meet you. You’re astonishing.” The boy was tall, perhaps six feet two. He had closely cropped blond hair, supple limbs, full lips that were accented with the most delicate silver rings. His lips were rosy red, outstanding.

  “He’s pouting. He looks so sad. Let him loose,” Daniel commanded the slave Hellenga. “What is the poor boy’s name?”

  “His name is Edward Haggerty, Sire. He’s a freshman at Louisiana State. He is your servant,” said George Hellenga, who was now visibly trembling.

  Edward Haggerty’s slender hands were manacled to the brick wall. He wore silver thong underwear, a silver ankle bracelet. Nothing else. He was a magnificent creature, slender, toned, perfect in every way.

  George Hellenga stole a nervous look at the Sire. “He might run if we let him loose, sir.”

  Daniel reached out his arms to the beautiful boy and held him tenderly, as he would a small child. He kissed his cheek, his forehead, and those astonishing red lips.

  “You won’t run away?” he asked in a soft, soothing voice.

  “Not from you,” the boy answered, just as softly. “You are the Sire, and I am nothing.”

  Daniel smiled. It was the perfect answer.

  Chapter 59

  MY PHONE rang early in the morning, and I snatched it up. It was Kyle. In his slow and deliberate voice, he told me that Daniel and Charles had disappeared the previous night. He was furious at his agents. I’d never heard him so angry. So far, no murders had been reported that night in and around New Orleans. About six that morning, the magicians had showed up at their house in the Garden District. Where had they been all night? What had happened? Something had.

  I stayed in Washington that day, still recuperating from the cellulitis. I studied Daniel and Charles, and wrote a preliminary profile on them to compare with the one being done in Quantico. The first important bit of information was that the magicians had definitely performed in Savannah, Charleston, and Las Vegas. I was working with a couple of techies in Quantico, and they not only matched up the magicians’ tour with about half of the murders but verified that Daniel and Charles had definitely performed in those cities and were there when the murders had taken place. Another useful nugget was that the tigers traveled with Daniel and Charles only for booking dates that lasted at least a week. The magicians were scheduled to perform in New Orleans for the next three weeks. They also owned a house there, in the Garden District.

  I shared what I had found with Quantico, and they put it into the file they were amassing. I also faxed everything to Jamilla Hughes in San Francisco. She was trying her best to get down to New Orleans, but her boss hadn’t made a final decision yet.

  I put in another call to Kyle on the matter. He hemmed and hawed, but finally promised to see if he could get Inspector Hughes sprung for a few days. After all, it had started with her case.

  I was becoming frustrated at home. I felt as if I were on a stakeout in my own bedroom—with nothing to observe firsthand. The consolation was that I was with little Alex for long patches of the day and that I got to see more of Damon and Jannie. But I was feeling a little like the forgotten man on the murder case.

  I went to see Dr. Prahbu at St. Anthony’s that afternoon. The doctor examined me, then reluctantly gave me clearance to go back to work. He told me to take it easy for the next few days.

  “How did you get those bites?” he asked again. “You never told me, Detective.”

  “Yes, I did,” I said. “Vampires in North Carolina.”

  I thanked the doctor for his help, then went home to pack for a trip to New Orleans. I was a little unsteady, but I couldn’t wait to get there. Nana didn’t bother to give me the business when I left Washington this time. She was angry because I’d been so ill from the infected bites.

  I flew into New Orleans International Airport that afternoon, then I took an old yellow cab to the Big Easy. A message was waiting at the front desk of my hotel, which was the Dauphine Orleans. I opened the small envelope hesitantly, but it was good news. Inspector Hughes was on her way to New Orleans.

  The message was classic. It was pure Jamilla: I’m coming to New Orleans, and they’re going down. Don’t doubt it for a second.

  Chapter 60

  JAMILLA AND I met up at the Dauphine Hotel that night. She was decked out in a black leather jacket, blue jeans, a white pocket-T. She looked rested and ready for anything; I didn’t feel so bad myself.

  We had supper together, steak and eggs and beer, in the dining room. As always, I enjoyed her company. We made each other laugh. At ten-thirty we drove over to Howl. Daniel and Charles had shows scheduled at eleven and one. And then? Maybe they had planned another clever disappearing act?

  We were pumped to take them down. Unfortunately, we still needed concrete evidence that they were our killers. There were more than two hundred agents and New Orleans police involved in the case. Something had to break. Presumably, Daniel and Charles would have to feed soon.

  It was a Friday night, and Howl was almost full when we got there. Loud music played from speakers that seemed to be everywhere in the ceiling and walls. The crowd was mostly yo
ung and restless, drinking beer, smoking, dirty dancing. Several Goths were mixed in with the more clean-cut college kids. The two groups leered at each other, and the atmosphere was charged. A photographer from OffBeat magazine crouched in front of the stage, waiting for the magic show to begin.

  Jamilla and I sat down at one of the small tables and ordered beers. There were at least a dozen FBI agents in the club. Kyle was outside in a surveillance car. He had been inside the night before, but it was hard for Kyle to blend in with a mostly young, hip crowd. He looked too much like a cop.

  The back of my throat was already beginning to burn from all the smoke and the heavy perfume in the air. A gulp of beer soothed the gullet somewhat. My arm and hand still ached from the bites.

  My head was clear, though; I definitely felt a lot better than I had. I liked having Jamilla around again. She gave good counsel.

  “Kyle has a six-team surveillance on the magicians around the clock,” I told her. “They won’t lose them again. Kyle guarantees it.”

  “The FBI thinks they’re definitely the killers?” she asked. “No doubt about it? Lock ’em up, throw away the key?”

  “Some doubt, I suppose, but not much. You never know exactly what Kyle is thinking,” I told her. “But yes, I think he does. The techies at Quantico do. So do I.”

  She studied me over the lip of her bottle of beer. “Sounds like the two of you are pretty tight, huh?”

  I nodded. “We’ve worked a lot of cases together in the past few years. Our success rate is good. I can’t say that I really know him.”

  “I’ve never had much luck working with the FBI,” she said. “That’s just me, though.”

  “Part of my job is to make sure police relations with the Bureau run smoothly in D.C. Kyle is definitely smart. He’s just hard to read at times.”