“Sophie, what is this thing?” Captain Chagall demanded. “What is it about the rose?”
“Everyone had one—everyone who went to that performance,” Henry said. “Everyone. Captain—”
Chagall spun on Sophie and Bruce. “Everyone had one? You didn’t drop this?” He turned to Lee Underwood. “You were at that performance, too.”
“Mine is back on the jacket I was wearing,” Lee said. “I can prove that right now—it’s out in my car.” He appeared stunned—and just as sick and disbelieving as Sophie. “Henry, sweet Jesus! We were supposed to have some drinks after the show, but you said that you were tired, that you were heading back. Oh, God, I don’t believe it, Henry...”
“Don’t believe it—because it isn’t true!” Henry protested. “I wasn’t the one who bugged out on everyone first. I was still game for drinks, remember? I said I was tired only after Chuck Thompson decided to blow off drinks!” Henry said.
To his credit, Bruce thought, Henry did look like a deer caught in the headlights—completely stunned by what he was suddenly facing.
Henry’s voice grew desperate. “Listen, Captain, Sophie—don’t look at me like that. It’s a rose. Every one of you had one of those roses, too. Okay, so, Sophie, that couldn’t be yours, the women’s roses were different, but...Lee, you had one. Bruce, you had one. Some other petals might have broken. Anyone’s petals might have broken.”
“Yes, they might have, Henry,” Sophie said. She was barely whispering. “But I saw yours...saw the way the petals had been crushed on it. And yours was different. Yours had a mix in the color of the petals. Not just red. It was red and yellow.” She paused, looking at Henry as if her heart was breaking. “I didn’t see any others like it. Yours was...just like this...”
“I know when you crushed your boutonniere. The scene we were both in with Mary. It was when she hugged you. It crushed when Mary Tudor hugged you!” Lee whispered. “I remember.”
Henry shook his head.
“I didn’t do this. I would never hurt anyone.”
He appeared so completely honest. But it was true. There was no doubt it was the rose Henry had been wearing. Crushed in the same manner. With the little tinge of yellow in the petals.
“Henry. We’re going to need to talk,” Captain Chagall said.
“Captain,” Henry cried. “I didn’t do this thing!”
“Henry, I’m going to have to ask you to step up and out of this catacomb—and the graveyard,” Chagall said. His voice was hard.
Henry looked as if he was about to cry. “Captain! I retire soon. How could you...how could any of you believe that I...that I could have done anything so horrible!”
“Henry, I have to ask you to step out.”
“But—”
“We’ll find out, Henry. We’re going to dust and fingerprint—and we’ll find out,” Chagall said quietly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Henry protested again. “I mean, what if it is my flower? The ushers gave them to everyone. Every man. I might have had it attached to my clothing when I got here. It might have just fallen off when I came down here. Captain, I was sound asleep. You called me and I woke up and got dressed fast as possible.”
“I understand that,” Chagall said.
“Captain, this is ridiculous.”
“That’s as it may be,” Chagall said quietly. “But, Henry, one of your photos made it into the paper. You’d been to see the Hooligans—”
“Half the city has been to see the Hooligans,” Henry protested.
“Henry, will you come with me, please?” Chagall said.
“Are you arresting me?” Henry demanded.
“I’m holding you—for now. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Chagall told him. “We’re going to talk.”
“You’re going to interrogate me. I know the tactics.”
“Under these circumstances, there is no choice but to bring you in—and investigate.”
“This is all circumstantial.”
“And damning, Henry. We have to work through this. You can give us your permission to search your home and your car, or I can get a warrant.”
Henry stared back at him. “Search anything I own. I’m innocent, and I can’t believe that you found a flower, and that you can immediately suspect me.”
“Let’s go,” Chagall said quietly.
He indicated the stairs.
Henry looked around the little underground room of the dead, looking for help from someone.
Sophie spoke up. “Henry, if you’re innocent, it will be proven. Or, I should say, you are innocent until you’re proven guilty.” Her tone was soft. Bruce felt a little pinch in his heart. Henry could be ghoulish. But he was her friend.
She didn’t want to accept what was happening. She’d been suspicious—but being suspicious didn’t mean that you wanted to believe.
Henry turned and walked heavily up the stairs.
Chagall nodded to them, and headed up after him, calling out to another member of the forensic team to pick up the camera.
“We’re good here,” Lee Underwood told Sophie. “We’ll...keep working...”
His voice trailed.
Henry was his friend, too.
Sophie headed up the stairs. Bruce followed her.
He watched Sophie take a moment. Just breathing.
“Let’s get out of here,” Bruce said.
“It’s not—finished,” Sophie said. “It’s like we got to the end...and it just wasn’t right.”
“Sophie, you were the first to bring up Henry as a suspect. Someone involved. Henry knows the Dahlia case. And, for now anyway, we found Grace—that’s what is most important, certainly. Actually, you found Grace. And then...Henry’s little rose,” Bruce said. “Sophie, I sure as hell don’t know how it got there—unless it was there before we found Grace.”
She nodded, looking around.
“Bruce, he had Grace. I believe that the slab where she was tied was definitely where the killer slashed and murdered Lili and Brenda. But with what? Where are his tools?”
“I’m willing to bet that they’ll find them. Stashed where a coffin should be. The forensic team will find them.”
“And what about the water?”
“They’ll find that, too,” he told her. He looked around the burial ground. It was no longer crawling with techs and cops.
Most officers and the forensic team were below, working down in the catacombs. A few men and women could be seen, quietly watching the entrances to the cemetery and to the tomb. And two lone techs were tracing the ground, meticulous as they did so, their pinpoint lights covering the ground inch by inch.
“There’s got to be something we can do,” she murmured. “We were going to search, to try to find whoever did that to her...or... Bruce, I just feel empty!”
“Home, Sophie. Let’s go home.” As he spoke, his phone rang. Jackson was on the other end. “Jackson—calling from the hospital,” he told Sophie.
“She is going to be all right?”
He nodded, listening and conveying at the same time. “She will be fine. She has been drugged. They’re working on figuring out just what kind of a cocktail she was given. He hasn’t been able to see her yet, they’re working with her, and she may be incoherent for some time. He’s not leaving.”
“What about Grant?” she asked anxiously.
More members of the forensic team moved by them, all respectfully acknowledging Sophie; in turn, she nodded sadly to the trio.
“Henry Atkins! Can you believe it?” the young woman in the group said as they passed.
“Come on, Henry is creepy,” the tall young man in the group said. “I’ve been to his place. Have you seen all the pictures he has of crime scenes...blood and guts!”
“Oh, good! Judge him for that,” the young woman sa
id. “We’re in forensics. We collect and study blood, bugs, urine...and other crap. We’re all creepy as hell.”
“I don’t know about you, but I haven’t disemboweled, cut up and murdered anyone,” the tall man said.
“All for a picture,” the third member of the group, a short, stout man with a receding hairline, put in, his voice a whisper.
They headed down the stone steps by the no-longer hidden door to the catacombs below.
Bruce waited until they were gone.
“I don’t think that Grant is still in danger,” Bruce murmured.
She shook her head. “I know that we should be... Celebrating isn’t the right word. We should be relieved. Grateful, I guess. It seems...it seems it was Henry. There are still so many loose ends, so many explanations we need. But I just feel empty. And still afraid. I don’t want Grant to be alone.”
“Not to worry. Brodie is on with Grant. You know that.”
“Brodie didn’t get any sleep.”
“That’s all right. Brodie was in the army—a foot soldier who was in a few campaigns where they had to be awake and alert for hours on end. Brodie is all right for now—if he wasn’t, trust me, he would tell me. For now, you need to get some sleep. You’re going to want to talk to Henry Atkins tomorrow. And you’re going to want to talk to Grace Leon. Sophie...this has been intense. Every waking minute for nearly a week solid.”
She nodded. “We’re not going to find Michael and Ann Marie,” she said.
“Not with this much activity around—no, I don’t believe we will.”
“We may have found this killer, but we’ve done nothing for Michael,” she murmured, “or Ann Marie.”
He took her by her shoulders and met her eyes. “In the words of the great fictional Southern heroine, Miss Scarlet O’Hara—‘Tomorrow is another day!’”
She smiled weakly at that. “You’ve read Gone With the Wind?”
“Of course. My mother starred in a stage adaption. Naturally, we all read the book—and heard her emoting around the house, of course.”
She smiled at that. “And your dad?”
“Oh, he was Rhett Butler, of course.”
She looked at him strangely then, and quickly turned—as if afraid he would read her expression.
“You’re right. Let’s go.”
They headed to the car.
It was morning in truth; the sun was rising over the City of Angels.
Sunday morning; traffic was coming alive, as if the city’s hundreds of thousands of cars awoke to and were generated by the sun.
He had driven about half a mile when Sophie broke the silence. “Bruce, did you see his face? Henry’s face. He was stunned. Absolutely stunned.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to argue that? You’re not going to tell me that he might be a fantastic actor himself?”
“No. He appeared stunned.”
“Do you think we got it wrong somehow?”
“There’s some damning—circumstantial—evidence against him. That was his rose. I didn’t see another with the same coloring. Not on anyone—not all night. But then again, I wasn’t studying every man’s chest and boutonniere.”
“What if someone planted it?” Sophie asked.
“Who? You? Me? Grace Leon?”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“I’m not. Sophie, I’m wondering, too. But it might just be that we can’t believe it’s over. You’ve got a dogged determination when you’re on something—and then it’s almost a letdown, as if you should still be drastically hurrying, when you get to a conclusion.”
“Something just doesn’t feel right yet.”
He agreed with her. Tonight—or this morning—had been almost...
Too easy?
Anticlimactic?
“For now, sleep. When we wake up, we’ll deal with all the questions. Sophie, there was nothing left for us to do there.”
“We could have kept searching the graveyard—as we were going to do before—before we found the little rose.”
“The place is crawling with cops and FBI agents.”
“I know. But, Bruce, what if it isn’t Henry?”
“You mean, what if he was being set up?”
“That’s possible. I mean, okay, the man is a bit creepy. But I think you—and maybe others—made note of the fact that being creepy or ghoulish doesn’t make you a murderer.”
“No. But it does add to the possibilities.”
The sun was almost bright when he parked in front of her house.
“Sleep,” he said, and it sounded ironic.
“Shower,” she said. “Bruce, look at me, smell me! It’s horrible, that scent of blood.”
He set the shower warm and steamy for her as she stripped. She stood under the spray for a long time. He was afraid for a minute that she’d fallen asleep in the water, and he helped her out, and helped her dry, and she smiled and allowed him to do so.
They slipped into bed. He held her.
He thought that she had drifted off when she said, “You’ll be leaving.”
He pulled her tighter to him.
It was true; LA wasn’t his home. He knew that through the investigation—working as a “consultant” for Jackson—he had begun to feel, the way that Bryan surely had, that being a Krewe member might be a very interesting way of making use of his friendships with many who were dead.
And if he joined them, the Krewe worked out of Northern Virginia.
“I won’t be leaving until all the questions are answered,” he said. “There’s a lot...seeing if Henry cracks, if he confesses. Hoping that the teams did find the killer’s murder tools. The water supply. And we have Grace Leon. She may know something, remember something.”
She didn’t reply. A few minutes later, he realized that she was sleeping.
He held her tight.
And slept alongside her.
Sunday, noon
The day began with a sweet dream.
Sophie was resting, sweetly comfortable in cool, clean sheets. The air conditioner hummed. She felt a feather-like touch down her back, a sweet and subtle caress that seemed to tease and ever so sensually arouse.
Another touch, so light at first, bringing a liquid heat that seemed to grow. She stretched luxuriously, feeling that slow, simmering, burn.
She moved into just gradually awakening.
She was with a man. Bruce. A man she was coming to crave.
And the touch was going on and on...
That brush of fingers, stroke of hand, and those kisses, moving over her breasts, then midriff, belly, down to her knees, up to her thighs and then...
Then she was wide-awake. Body on fire. Arching, writhing, searching.
He rose above her, eyes on hers, and they were together, moving and moving.
Fire roared all around her, entered her blood, her limbs...her soul.
Beautiful. The sweetest dream, but real, flesh and blood, flesh that still lay hot and deliciously damp next to her own.
She exhaled a sigh.
He rolled and perched up on an elbow and told her with some amusement, “This is what a Sunday should look like. Okay, if you were a beat cop, you might work Sundays. But you’re a detective now. You’ve got other cops backing you up. You don’t have to work every moment.”
“I’ve noticed just how much you don’t work when you’re on a case,” she told him gravely.
He shrugged. “Sometimes, I’m not so bad. I have faith in my brothers—and in others when we’ve worked together. Now, if it were another Sunday, we could get an old-fashioned real live newspaper. I could hop up and make us coffee, and then we could sip it together in bed. Then you could hop up and make omelets, and we—”
“Oh, no. My omelets are god-awful, Bruce.”
“
Okay, I can make the omelets.”
“However, I do prepare a really mean turkey. And—though I have no clue why—a great Hungarian goulash.”
“Good. Then, I would cook breakfast, and later—when we’ve hung around in bed all day, reading the paper, maybe heading to a park or a museum, you could whip up dinner.”
“Probably much better that way. Bruce?”
“Yes?”
“I actually do get the paper. And I can make coffee.”
It might have been a cue—her phone rang. Then his phone rang.
“On a different Sunday,” Bruce muttered.
He reached for his phone.
She grabbed hers.
It was Captain Chagall that Sophie said hello to.
“I thought that you’d want to know, Sophie. Grace Leon is awake and aware. And asking for you. I’m here at the hospital. I have Henry stewing in an interrogation room at the station. Anyway, come see Grace. Then you can be with me when I start on Henry.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophie said quickly, glancing at Bruce.
His face was strange.
She rose, ending her call.
“What is it?”
“The LA FBI office led the search of Henry’s home,” he said.
“And? Blood?” she asked. “Bloody clothing? Trinkets—trophies he took from his victims?”
He shook his head.
“Bruce!”
He hesitated just a moment longer. “They found a high-powered sniper’s gun. Military issue. It’s a USMC Hi-Lux—brand-new, really expensive. They found it under Henry’s bed.”
“And the bullets fired from it will match what went after Grant Vining—and me.”
“They’re testing it now.”
She shook her head. “I’ve always seen Henry with a camera lens.”
“Well, he knows how to focus,” Bruce said drily. “That’s for sure. We’re going to the hospital?”
“As soon as possible.”
He was up and headed for the bathroom door. He turned and stopped her—even though she hadn’t followed him. “Nope, nope, gotta do this one alone, no matter how badly you want to rush in!”
She laughed. “I don’t mean to stomp on any ego, but...I’ll be fine.”
“The problem isn’t you,” he told her. “It’s me.”