Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) by Nya Rawlyns Read Free Book Online

splendor. The place was
upscale and safe. Mostly. As shifting as the red light district was, St.
Vartan’s wasn’t known for being a hot-spot for pick-ups.
    “Do you know her?”
    Did I? I wasn’t sure. I crouched down to get a
better look. She was vaguely familiar, the same high forehead and full, pouty
lips, brows darkly arched over almond-shaped eyes. Eyes staring sightless,
filled with terror. Still.
    I’d interviewed at least a dozen working girls, all
either Ukranian, Russian or Armenian. And most with ties to the BDSM and Goth
subcultures. The odds were good I’d talked to one of her friends, if not to her
directly. And, yes, I’d passed out business cards, instructing them to call if
they remembered anything, saw something suspicious.
    O’Hearn had his cop face on, eyes hard, sharp,
watching me with interest. He cocked an eyebrow, ready to press for answers.
    I offered, “I think I know why she’s here,” meaning
‘not somewhere else’, away from her usual haunts.
    I got up with an effort, my belly growling. Neither
of us had had anything to eat or drink. I wanted coffee even more than I wanted
answers.
    O’Hearn must have read my mind. He sent one of the
uniforms off to find us sustenance while I paced in a small circle, thinking
hard over what I knew.
    Chen approached, so we backed off to let her do her
job. She’d confirm later what we already knew.
    O’Hearn took my elbow and led me away from the crowd
and said, his voice sharp, “Talk to me.”
    Running a hand through my unruly mop, I said, “You
saw what was on the counter,” reminding him of the summary sheet I’d made for
the incidents in New Orleans nearly a year ago. “Four hookers. All drained.
Just like this. Three blacks, one white. Two from the same stable, one probably
a runaway and the other… who knows.”
    Tom said, “This one is number five. You said you
knew why she’s here,” he waved a hand to indicate the park, but I shook my head
and motioned him to be quiet while I thought it through.
    He was cop patient, giving me what I needed:
breathing space.
    Finally I said, “I went to Brighton Beach on
Saturday afternoon. Interviewed the friend of the third vic, Svetlana. The
first three, I’d done my poking at night, canvassing street corners, not trying
to pretend to solicit, just doing straight up twenty-questions.”
    What I didn’t mention was the conviction that I’d
picked up a tail in Brighton Beach. It put a different spin on the evening, and
the next victim.
    “You still haven’t…”
    We were standing at the intersection of 35 th and the Queens Midtown Tunnel entrance street. The dome of St. Vartan’s Cathedral
loomed like a sentinel in front of us and to our left.
    “Most of the working girls I saw were Eastern Block.
I suspect this one was in the Cathedral, praying, whatever…” That made sense so
he didn’t interrupt. “I think your girl there,” pointing back to a now empty
bench, “… that one is number four.”
    I explained that tonight’s draining was consistent
with the pattern established elsewhere—an available supply of women ready and
willing to get into cars with strange men or to follow them into hotel rooms. A
simple case of opportunism, with victims society cared little about and service
providers easily replaced with the next wave of illegal immigrants. And while I
couldn’t rule out some extremist religious fanatic targeting women of the
night, the simple fact that the mode of death sat solidly in a weirdo land of
the paranormal argued against such a simplistic theory.
    Tom picked up the pacing routine, running the
numbers. He had no argument with my assessment and said so. Then he asked the
question that had my gut in a knot. “What’s that make the Haven victim?”
    “A message.”
    “For who?”
    Unfortunately, I knew the answer to that. Figuring
out why was going to be more challenging. Those gaps in my memory could come
back to haunt me, big time.
    The uniform on coffee