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“What the hell do you mean breaking into my house…
“puting wiretaps on my phones, setting up surveillance equipment? Are you completely insane? I ought to call the police right now and turn you in—you could lose your license for this! I can’t believe the arrogance—”
Ky smiled. “Getting over your crush on me, are you?”
It was such a ridiculous thing to say; his smile was so unexpected and sexy and charming. For a moment Amy could do nothing but gape at him. Once she recovered, she answered, “By the minute.”
“That’s good,” he said, “because from now on neither one of us is going to have much time for flirting. Now, what I need from you is—”
“All right, that is it.” Amy flung up both hands in a gesture of defiance and spun on her heel toward the door. “I don’t need this. Get out. You’re fired!”
Rebecca Flanders has written over seventy books under a variety of pseudonyms. She lives in the mountains of north Georgia with a collie, a golden retriever and three cats. In her spare time she enjoys painting, hiking, dog training and catching up on the latest bestsellers.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PROLOGUE
New Orleans, Louisiana
July
“This is Amy Fortenoy, reporting live from the scene of what appears to be another bizarre murder, similar to the ones that took place last month. The victim, identified only as a white female between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, was found near the French Market about six o’clock this morning. Her throat, like those of the two previous victims, had been cut with a jagged-edge instrument. Though the body was found partially clothed, police say there is no evidence of sexual assault….”
August
“Another body has been discovered tonight with its throat cut, a young man this time. This is the second victim this month of the so-called Werewolf Killer, known as such because of his propensity for attacking only during the full moon, and because of the brutal nature of the crimes. But Channel Six Action News has learned exclusively tonight of a particularly bizarre piece of forensic evidence that has been a part of each of these murder scenes. Black animal hair—yes, animal hair, like that of a dog—has been found on each body….”
September
“The grim total of the werewolf killings rose to six this morning with the discovery of a body in Jackson Square. The victim is thought to be a homeless man of about forty years old and, like the others, died of wounds to the throat. Last night’s rains will no doubt make the collection of forensic evidence very difficult, but police have confirmed the similarities between this death and previous victims’—the brutality of the attack, the nature of the murder weapon, which is still being described only as a ‘jagged instrument,’ and yes, the presence of black animal hair on the body. While the pathologist admits that the animal hair taken from the scene has been classified as belonging to the canine family, he is adamant in denying the possibility that it could belong to a wolf. Meanwhile, ASPCA officials report a dramatic increase in the number of black dogs being turned in to shelters and caution against a general panic over the possible link between these killings and black dogs. This is Amy Fortenoy for Channel Six Action News.”
October
“This beautiful harvest moon behind me is an eerie backdrop to the scene of yet another violent slaying by the man we’ve come to know as the Werewolf Killer. With Halloween only a few days away, it seems inevitable that the death toll will begin to rise even higher.”
November
“This is Amy Fortenoy live from the banks of the Mississippi River, where the discovery of the partially submerged body of a middle-aged woman brings the total death count to twelve for the Werewolf Killer. Detectives and forensic specialists have been here for hours, securing the scene and collecting evidence, but this time it seems the killer has left them more to go on than on previous occasions. The crime-scene investigators have spent a great deal of time photographing and taking plaster casts of the footprints that were left on the riverbank, and this is what we want to show you. Can you get that close-up, Paul? As you can see, many of the tracks—there’s no other words for them—are clear enough to be read even by an amateur like me. The clear imprint of a rubber-soled shoe—can you see that?—apparently belongs to the victim. This one near it may belong to the attacker—a large print, apparently a bare foot. But these others—these are what are fascinating—appear to have been made by a very large animal. A dog…or a wolf. Is this someone’s idea of a sick joke, or has the Werewolf Killer begun to take his nickname seriously?”
December
“In New Orleans, Louisiana, a serial killer holds the city under siege. During the past six months, attacking only under the full moon, a man the media has dubbed the Werewolf Killer has claimed a total of thirteen victims. Amy Fortenoy with our affiliate in New Orleans has that story.”
January
“This is Amy Fortenoy, live outside the mayor’s office, where, at a press conference this afternoon, Deputy Police Chief Devereaux denied the accusation that the police department has failed to give its full attention to the werewolf killings because the victims so far have been homeless street people. With the discovery of the fifteenth victim yesterday, the public outcry has become understandably intense. The police department insists that it is doing everything in its power to bring the killer to justice, while continuing to caution the media against exploiting the so-called ‘sensationalistic’ elements of this case. Meanwhile, the death toll continues to rise. Back to you at the station…”
CHAPTER ONE
Mardi Gras
March
Amy Fortenoy manipulated the controls of the tape editor until the smooth, too-handsome-to-be-true features of Deputy Police Chief Marshall Devereaux came into center frame. She muttered, freezing the tape, “There you are, you smug, self-righteous son of a—”
“Oh, real helpful, Fortenoy.” Her producer, Janice Waters, paused to look over her shoulder. “Let’s start a war with the police department. Guaranteed to get you lots of publicity. Of course, you won’t be getting any interviews…”
“Watch this.” Amy let the tape play through.
“Before we go any further,” the deputy chief said with hands upraised in the manner of a born politician, “I’d first like to express my sincere disappointment with certain members of the media who, although repeatedly cautioned to use discretion regarding certain sensitive aspects of this case, have nonetheless chosen to turn this series of tragic and senseless killings into a virtual circus—”
“Me!” exclaimed Amy indignantly. “He’s talking about me!”
“Who else?” said Paul Shelton, her cameraman. “You’re the one, after all, who made the Werewolf Killer what he is today. With a little help from your friends, of course,” he added smugly and perched on the edge of the desk to admire the results of his work as it flickered across the screen.
Amy frowned. She didn’t like the way that sounded, any more than she had liked it when Marshall Devereaux had said virtually the same thing earlier that day. Of course, from Devereaux she had cause to take offense, while with Paul…well, he was one of her own. He knew, as well as she did, that it was all part of the business.
“To remind you, once again,” Devereaux was saying on tape, “that disturbed individuals such as this very often thrive on the publicity engendered by their crimes.”
And that was where Amy came in. She leaned forward to mark the tape. “Excuse me, Deputy Devereaux,” she called out clearly from the back of the room. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that we should cease our coverage of the activities of this ‘disturbed individual,’ as you call him?”
Paul swung the camera to Devereaux. She marked a cut. Close-up on Devereaux’s angry face. “What I mean to suggest, young lady—”
“Young lady!” Her voice was practically a squeal. “He called me young lady!”
Paul grinned. Janice frowned. The tape rolled on.
“—is that without the insistence of certain members of the press upon turning an otherwise unremarkable series of killings…”
Chaos erupted from the pressroom, but it was, once again, Amy’s voice that rose above the fray. It was sweet and polite, laced with Southern sugar—a tone those who knew her well did their best to avoid. “Could you describe to us, sir, what you would consider a remarkable series of killings?”
Janice exclaimed in amazement, “What an absolute jerk!”
Paul’s grin broadened as he watched the action unfold on the screen. “Nail him, babe!”
“Now, this is a perfect example of how my words are twisted every time I come before you people,” returned Devereaux angrily.
“You people!” Janice was practically chortling with delight. “That man is going to hang himself by his own—”
Amy held up a hand for attention as Devereaux went on, “What we have is a sick, deranged individual preying on the weak and helpless among us, who, for some reason that’s totally inexplicable to me, has been glorified by the media into what very nearly approximates a cult hero.”
“Well, I resent that,” muttered Paul.
“Cut it,” Janice told Amy, but Amy had already marked it for editing.
“The press has all but convinced the public there is a real werewolf out there, a man who changes into a beast during the full moon and tears people’s throats out. But worse, there is a strong possibility you’ve actually convinced the killer of it, as well. And that’s all we need, isn’t it? A deranged killer who’s convinced of his own invincibility?”
“Well, I never,” murmured Paul, feigning insult.
Amy ignored him.
Devereaux continued, “You might recall that it wasn’t until the media started bandying about the term werewolf killer that this maniac actually began leaving evidence suggestive of a wolf at the scene—”
“Now that’s a downright lie!” exclaimed Janice indignantly. “There was animal hair on the first body!”
Amy simply frowned at the screen.
“Those ridiculous paw prints, which our forensics people had no difficulty dismissing as a hoax, the widely publicized claw and teeth marks…”
“We didn’t widely publicize them,” complained Paul, disgruntled.
“Not to mention the fact that the number of killings has actually increased with each successive cycle, as though the killer is becoming emboldened by his own success. I attribute this directly to what I can only call the media’s exploitation of a tragic situation. Let me be clear on one thing, people—I will not have panic in the streets.”
“Might not the quickest way to avoid that,” Amy spoke up on tape again, “be to make an arrest in the case?”
Devereaux’s contempt for her, and the press, in general, was clear through the tape. “That, of course, is at the top of our list of things to do.”
“Oh, great,” groaned Janice. “The man is dog food.”
Someone else called out, “Do you have an update on the progress in the case?”
But Amy overrode him. “Is it true the FBI has been called in?”
Devereaux glared at her. “It is customary for the FBI to take on a consulting role in all cases of this sort. We’re working closely with federal investigators and expect a break in the case very soon.”
Amy had the last word. “Hopefully, before the next full moon.”
Devereaux looked at her long and hard, and then turned his gaze to the assemblage in general. “Are there other questions?”
Amy turned down the volume.
Janice gave a rueful shake of her head. “I assume he didn’t have anything else important to say?”
“You heard the best parts.”
“The man is such a jerk, it’s almost no fun to torment him. Okay, put the best parts together with a nice little narrative, and we’ll run it at six and eleven. What else have you got?”
“At the moment, nothing. But I’m going to try to get a quote from the mayor tonight. If I can snag it in time for the eleven o’clock show, I’ll let you know.”
Janice lifted an eyebrow. “The mayor, huh? How do you plan to arrange that?”
“Simple. He’s going to the Governor’s Ball tonight. So am I.”
Janice gave her a grinning thumbs-up and left the editing room.
Paul said, rising, “Governor’s Ball, huh? Boy, I wish my folks had money.”
“Money,” replied Amy, running the tape backward, “is nothing. Connections, on the other hand, are everything.”
“So, is your dad going to be there or what?”
Amy did not look up. “No.”
Amy’s father, Byron Fortenoy, the internationally renowned cardiac surgeon and researcher, inventor of the synthetic reflux valve that had saved countless thousands of lives, rarely found time in his busy schedule to visit among mere mortals anymore. His name, however, still carried more than enough influence among the New Orleans elite to guarantee his daughter anything from a bank loan to Saints tickets merely for the asking. Sometimes, such notoriety was a pain. More often than not, however, it was incredibly convenient.
Amy said absently, studying the frames as they moved through the editor, “Anyway, I’m only going for the quote. You know how I hate these Mardi Gras balls. And it’s not like there won’t be a half-dozen other reporters there.”
“Yeah, but none of them who are on first-name basis with the mayor. And none of them,” Paul added pointedly as he turned for the door, “who have the Werewolf Killer in their pockets.”
Amy shuddered. “Did anybody ever tell you you have a creepy way of putting things?”
He shrugged. “Hey, in this business, if you don’t learn to laugh, you spend your life crying.”
“Boy, that’s the truth,” Amy murmured, focusing on the tape.
Amy had been a crime reporter for WLAK’s Channel Six Action News for the past four of her twenty-nine years. In that time, she had covered gang slayings, child murders and child murderers, rapes, molestations, abuse, home invasions, drive-by shootings, arson, bombings. Whatever twisted evil lurked in the hearts of men and whatever violent or obscene way they chose to express it, Amy had seen it all. She had quickly learned that to allow herself to become emotionally affected by the stories she covered was a short road to self-destruction, and she was careful to maintain a professional detachment in every situation.
Until now.
“Paul?” She glanced up as he opened the door, trying to keep her voice casual. “You don’t think…I mean, Devereaux couldn’t be right, could he? About us—about me—encouraging this guy?”
Paul scowled sharply in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “Come on, babe, you know he’s just trying to torment you. If you ask me, he’s just jealous.”
Amy tried to relax. “Of my good looks, no doubt.”
“You better believe it. Hey, if I weren’t married…”
“In your dreams, sweet thing.” Grinning, Amy turned back to the editor. But her amusement faded as she watched the frames scroll by and she said again, “Hey, Paul.”
He looked back. “I’m on my dinner break,” he reminded her impatiently.
Amy said thoughtfully, “What was all that garbage about the forensic evidence, anyway? I never heard anyone declare those paw prints a hoax before. And he out-and-out lied about animal hair on the bodies. Until today, no one said anything about teeth and claw marks on the bodies. It was as though he was trying so hard to tell a lie, he tripped all over the truth.”
“And this is unusual? Devereaux wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the ankle.”
“But would we?” she wondered, only half to herself.
“Huh?”
“Did you ever hear the phrase, ‘Methinks he doth protest too much’?”
“Come on, Amy, I’m going into serious sugar deficit here.”
“It’s just that…maybe I’ve been going about this whole thing the wrong way. Maybe the truth has been staring us in the face the whole time.”
“What? That the killer really is a werewolf?”
Amy didn’t smile. “That the police really don’t know what he is.”
Paul looked confused.
“Think about it, Paul.” Amy’s expression was serious. “A serial killer in one of the most populous cities in the country evades detection for ten months. Fifteen people dead, and not a single witness. The FBI, local police, all the crime detection capabilities of the modern age are involved, and there’s still not so much as a computer sketch or a psychological profile of this guy. Devereaux aside, you don’t really believe for one minute the police are that incompetent, do you?”
Paul frowned. “So what are you saying? That they’re covering up something? Hardly a new theory, Ace.”
“Exactly.” Amy chewed a thumbnail thoughtfully. “Police and corruption. We’ve all been pursuing that angle. It’s politically motivated because all the victims are homeless and the police are heartless. The evidence is being tainted because the police are careless. Competition between law enforcement agencies is hampering the investigation. But, Paul—” she lifted eyes to him that were dark with worry “—what if the simple truth is that the police are doing their best, and they still can’t find him?”
Paul regarded her gravely. “Now, that,” he told her, “is damn scary.”
“Yeah.” She released a breath. “No kidding.”
They looked at each other for another long moment. Finally, Paul said, “I, uh, wouldn’t mention this theory of yours to anybody just yet.”
“Right.”
He turned toward the door again, then looked back. “I’d rather it be a real werewolf,” he said.
Amy smiled, though the expression was faint and empty of humor. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“On the other hand, it’s not as though something like this has never happened before.”
Amy, who had started to turn back to the editor, glanced at him in confusion. “What?”
“That a serial killer eludes detection for months on end in one of the most populated cities in the country,” he explained. “No witnesses, no clean suspects, nothing.”
Amy was interested. “Oh, yeah? When was this?”
“London, 1888,” he told her. “They called him Jack the Ripper.”
“Great,” she muttered, pushing back her smooth blond hair with her hand. “I think I’ll put that in my story tonight. Citizens of New Orleans, there’s hope—London survived Jack the Ripper, we can survive the Werewolf Killer.”
He shrugged. “As long as we aren’t prostitutes or street people, that is. Say, do you have a date for that wingding tonight?”
“Don’t need one. This is business, not pleasure.”
“My tennis partner is getting a divorce, you know, and I’ll bet he’s available on short notice.”
Amy should have seen that one coming. Paul was always trying to fix her up, and his wife was no better. What was it about happily married people that made them incapable of letting their friends be happily single?
She said, “When he actually gets a divorce, let me know. Meanwhile, the party’s black-tie.”
“Oh.”
Paul sounded disappointed, and Amy guessed his friend did not have his own tux.
Then he cheered. “Anyway, Cindy says for you to come to dinner next week.”
“Is the tennis partner going to be there?”
“I guess not, if you’re going to take that attitude.”
“I’ll call Cindy.”
Still Paul hesitated. “You don’t, uh, need a camera for that interview tonight, do you?”
Amy looked up at him and grinned. “You big baby. No. I’m not going to drag you across town to the Governor’s Ball and no, I’m not going to make you put on a tux. Go home to your wife. You’re off duty.”
Paul returned her grin and kissed his fingers to her. “You’re a prince, Fortenoy, an absolute prince. I’ll name an offspring for you.”
“You’d better go before someone sees you hanging around and puts your name on the assignment board.”
“I’m out of here. And be careful crossing Canal to-night—you’ll be hitting the worst of the parade traffic.”
Amy waved him away, smiling, but she was deeply immersed in the editor now and did not look up.
Amy Fortenoy had spent her life laboring under two handicaps: her looks and her family name. Amy was blond, petite and cute in a business that valued tall, svelte and striking. Her shoulder-length hair was the sundrenched color of a three-year-old’s and the texture of satin, her nose a perfect button, her face round and ingenuous. Her eyes were large and fringed with thick dark lashes, and the only thing that kept them from being breathtaking was the fact that they were more hazel than green. She had flawless Fortenoy porcelain skin, and a perfect size-six figure, which was due as much to her own efforts and the demands of the camera as it was to the Fortenoy genes.
In a business that values physical attractiveness at least as much as it did ability, if not more—there were, after all, very few ugly news anchors—being a cute blonde might not be considered a disadvantage. But cute was the operative word, and Amy was a reporter. She was tough, ambitious, alert and perceptive. All she wanted was a chance to prove what she could do, yet she had spent her career fending off advances, fighting the stereotype and being offered jobs as the weather girl by station directors who took one look at her and wondered if she could read…or if it mattered.
But the prejudices she fought in the work force were nothing to the disapproval—indeed, the disappointment—with which she had to contend in her own family. The Fortenoys were a grand old Southern family who bred tradition, snobbery and intellectuals. Amy had two brothers and three sisters, all of whom had earned at least one Ph.D. in suitably exalted subjects like philosophy or mathematics. Two were university professors, one was a doctor like their father, one was a museum curator, one was the director of a major European symphony orchestra. Among her cousins, aunts and uncles were bank presidents, Supreme Court justices, research scientists and poet laureates. Not one of them worked in television. Most of them, in fact, did not even own television sets, and those who did, only brought them out on the occasion of a presidential election or a particularly compelling PBS special.
Amy’s Grandmama Fortenoy still lived in one of those wonderful old antebellum houses on St. Charles Avenue, shaded by creeping ivy and oaks dripping with Spanish moss. On Sunday afternoons she served tea from bone china that had been in the family for three hundred years, and friends and relatives and the social elite would gather in her high-ceilinged parlor with its small brocaded chairs, and speak, in their soft sugared accents, of things lofty and genteel and utterly civilized. The Werewolf Killer would never be among their topics of conversation. And if, by chance, some well-meaning soul asked about “poor little Amy,” throats would be cleared, eyes would be averted and the subject delicately changed.