“There are monsters in the world, but no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Damn right.” Sept continued to scrutinize every foot. “Only a ghost can come and go as he pleases and not leave a trace.” The only thing that didn’t make sense to her was the evidence that the killer knelt next to the body. Aside from the two indentations, none of the other blood was out of place. “Hey, Alex. Did you find any blood trace coming this way?” Sept was still standing by the door to the kitchen.

  “No, but there isn’t a drop in any other direction either.” Alex removed the flash assembly from the camera and carefully placed it into its case.

  “Keep at it. Nobody kneels in blood and doesn’t leave a clue as to where they’re headed next.” She carefully made her way to George and patted him on the shoulder. “See you and Aunt Valerie Sunday.”

  George placed his hand over hers and repeated the mantra Sept’s father had originated. “Remember to keep your head down.”

  She spent the rest of the afternoon going door to door in a two-block radius, hoping to find someone who saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. In a post-Katrina world, at least four out of ten homes were empty. The owners were either waiting for federal aid, battling their insurance companies, or seeing if the levees would be shored up.

  “Any luck?” Sept asked Nathan when she got back and found him sitting on the front of the car.

  “Keegan Blanchard was a bitch to you, but everyone else loves her. Not one disgruntled cook wannabe in there.” Nathan flipped through his notes. “One of the dishwashers was the last person who saw Donovan alive. Like Keegan told us, this guy said Donovan was pulling ingredients out to work on something when he said good night. And everyone agreed that Keegan wasn’t here because of that business dinner.”

  “Anyone strike you as hinky?” Sept turned the key in the ignition and put the car in reverse, but got only two feet before Keegan slammed her hands on the trunk. “What the hell?”

  When Sept got out, Keegan said, “If you’re leaving, take all this crap with you.”

  “What crap, Ms. Blanchard?”

  “The yellow tape and the people trampling through my yard.”

  Sept followed the rigid finger in the direction Keegan pointed. “Sorry, the tape and the tramplers are staying until I release the crime scene.”

  “Which is when?”

  “Around ten tonight.”

  “What?” The way Keegan shrieked made Sept press her fingers to the side of her head. “That’s totally unacceptable.”

  “You asked me to do my job, didn’t you? That’s what I’m trying to do, so back off, lady.” She raised her hand and Keegan clenched hers as if she wasn’t intimidated at all.

  “If you think you’ve heard the last of this, you’re crazy.”

  Sept’s father had told her she had an intuitive ability to read faces. She could detect the subtle signs that people tried to hide, but that in reality revealed the essence of who they were. And the truth of what and who they were bubbled up in a flash that they could no more deny than their name. The set of Keegan’s mouth and the way she narrowed her eyes gave Sept what the crime scene could not.

  Here was a woman whose passion probably made her great at her job, but could that be twisted to give her the ability to take a life? The way she didn’t flinch made Sept think that Keegan was more than capable of driving a knife through Donovan’s chest just as easily as a duck’s.

  “I’m sure your family knows everyone from the mayor on down, and a few phone calls could make my job more difficult,” Sept said, trying to sound reasonable. “But you’d just delay us finding who did this. Do that and I have to ask myself why.”

  “Get out of here, and try to stay out of the way. Our lunch crowd will be here in a couple of hours, and it’s hard enough to make a living without people being afraid they’re in danger if they come in.”

  “We’ll do our best, ma’am.”

  *

  For the rest of the afternoon Sept studied her notes and started her report, with Royce Belanger screaming at her for even thinking that Keegan could in any way be involved. Both he and the French Quarter district chief had given her their version of a talking-to, which meant Keegan hadn’t kept her word.

  “Where you going?” Royce asked when she reached for her jacket.

  “To arrest Keegan Blanchard.”

  “The fuck you are.”

  The way the veins in Royce’s neck and forehead stuck out made Sept laugh. “Crank it down a notch, sir.” She took her gun from the top drawer of her desk and slipped it into her shoulder holster before slapping Royce on the back so hard he stumbled a step forward. “I’m on my way to Blanchard’s, but it’s to give the duck Nazi what she wants.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to release the crime scene.”

  “You call Della Blanchard’s granddaughter the duck Nazi to her face, and I’m feeding you to the screaming assholes downtown who’ve been chewing on my ass all day.” Royce shook his finger at her the entire time he was talking. “And get your ass home and get some sleep.”

  Alone, Sept drove back to the restaurant and parked a block away. In her career she’d worked a lot of murders, and living someplace like New Orleans meant she would never have a shortage of work.

  She stood in the backyard of Blanchard’s and glanced at her watch periodically.

  The door would open every twenty minutes or so, and two guys would empty the kitchen’s garbage cans into the Dumpsters. Sept had a good view of not only the restaurant but the street. If this had been a random crime, the perpetrator might take his chances again.

  At ten, the traffic in the entire area slowed down until the last trip to the Dumpster was made and the door closed, and in the quiet Sept heard the dead bolt click into place. With most of the restaurant’s lights off, this was the scene that Donovan had faced the night before.

  Now the area was barely lit from the kitchen lights, because the streetlights were one of the storm’s victims. She stood at the cusp of where the pool of blood had been and slowly surveyed the area again. The darkness made it hard to see the gate and the street beyond.

  “If you want to scream at me some more I’ll be happy to consent, but first give me ten minutes to think.” Sept turned and faced a surprised Keegan, who leaned against the Dumpster and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “A mixture of your perfume and spices,” Sept said. The white chef’s top added light to the area. “Or maybe it’s that endless supply of sarcasm that just oozes off you. It’s hard to tell.”

  “Do you have some sort of social disorder?” Keegan never moved.

  “My mother thinks I’m the best thing since sliced French bread.”

  Keegan laughed so quickly it came out as a snort. “Even Son of Sam’s mother loved him. That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

  “At least I don’t go crying to her when someone wasn’t willing to treat me like a princess.” Sept tried her best to push Keegan’s temper points to see the reaction.

  “You think I called my mother and told on you?” The question still bore traces of sarcasm, but also a bit of humor.

  “Maybe it was just my turn to have a bad day at work.” Sept recalled the position of the body. If Keegan or someone else had come out of the kitchen, the argument had to have escalated to the point that the killer paced around Donovan. Judging from the way Donovan fell, he was facing the gate, not the door, because the wound he sustained was fatal. He hadn’t fought at all. “Are you used to always getting your own way?”

  “What the hell do you know about me?”

  Come on, Sept mentally chanted. “You seem easy enough to read. If the world doesn’t go your way, you change the world.”

  Keegan’s fists clenched in front of her body, and even in the low light her heaving chest was visible. “You’re an idiot if you think I did this, and that’s what you believe, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not, Ms. Blanchard. Please accept my apologies for being rude.” Sept could see that Keegan had a temper but was also a control freak about keeping herself in check. Keegan would kill someone only if her own life was in danger, and according to everyone, including Keegan, Donovan was merely a threat to sugary treats.

  “Not so fast.” Keegan moved to face her. “Are you bipolar or something?”

  “You liked it better when I considered you a suspect?” Sept said with a laugh. “You didn’t do it, Ms. Blanchard, just accept it.”

  “Who did, then? Or do you not care?” Keegan acted like a balloon with a slow leak.

  “I care about every case I work, ma’am. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Was your friend a smoker?”

  “No, Donovan’s only vice was sugar. That’s what made him such a great pastry chef. He wasn’t a violent person and didn’t deserve such a horrible ending.”

  “No one does.” Sept had to discover what he’d been doing out there in order to reconfigure her theory of the crime. “If you can, could you describe his routine when he stayed late?”

  “He experimented, cooked, and cleaned up. He wanted to work here so he could try new things.”

  “What was he working on last night?”

  “Why’s that important? It’s not why someone robbed him.”

  Keegan was obviously still angry because she was frustrated. “Investigating is like following a recipe, Ms. Blanchard, only in reverse. The result always has a reason. We simply have to find the ingredients that brought it about.”

  “It’s December so it was probably something to do with pecans. We buy directly from certain farmers so our selections reflect our area, and the crop was late this year so we just started making pecan-based dishes.” Keegan stared at the door as if trying to remember something. “The dirty pots were out this morning, which wasn’t like Donovan.”

  “What was the dish?”

  “The cleaning crew had a hard time getting out a hard coat of caramel at the bottom of his favorite pot. His pots were special, that one especially, since my grandmother gave it to him. He would have left it like that only because he was dead.”

  “I guess you have to cook to understand what you just said, because I don’t get excited about pots.”

  “The dirty pot belonged to my great-great-grandmother. If your expertise is candy or desserts, you can’t cook anything else in your pots. If you do, any impurities or spices in the pot end up where you don’t want them.”

  “Good to know, if I have a sudden urge to whip up something sweet that I don’t want to taste like fish. Find any caramel-pecan anything in there?” Sept pointed to the kitchen.

  “Just the pot.”

  Sept shook her head and opened the top of the Dumpster Donovan was closest to when he died. She handed her jacket to Keegan and jumped in. Of course it had to be the one the busboys had used all night.

  “Shouldn’t you have done this earlier?”

  “We did, but I was looking for one of those great knives you were using this morning, not sweets.” Sept raised her voice as she moved bags around. With her small flashlight in her mouth she found what she was searching for in the front corner. Donovan had scraped his concoction into a piece of foil and tossed it in. “This look like something?”

  “I didn’t see the pot this morning, but that’s how he got rid of anything he wasn’t happy with. What does that prove?”

  Sept pulled herself out and brushed her pants off, grimacing when she touched something cold and gooey. “Nothing yet, but now I know why he was out here.”

  “And?”

  “Can I walk you to your car, Ms. Blanchard?”

  “You’re done talking to me?” Keegan gave Sept her coat and crossed her arms again.

  “When I have something I’ll let you know—you have my word. Can I give you that escort? I don’t want you out here alone this late.”

  Keegan nodded and led Sept to the parking lot out back. She stopped next to the Mercedes coupe, and Sept wiped her hand before opening the door for her.

  “Don’t forget to keep me updated or I will call my mother.”

  For the first time after meeting Keegan, Sept laughed out of pure humor. “Be careful going home and I’ll be in touch.” She stood until Keegan turned out of the lot, and with her went any suspicion of anything sinister about this crime. It was a robbery gone bad, and that was it.

  The little voice in her head was the only thing that put the brakes on that theory.

  Chapter Four

  The pain behind his eyes made him want to rip them out of his head. He’d done what had been asked of him, but nothing had changed. The silence was overwhelming except for the voices that built his thirst for feeling the knife go in. The suddenness of the urge had surprised him more than anything. He had heard no voices of any kind until the night he saw the guy by the Dumpster. His white shirt had been like a blank canvas waiting to be painted.

  That’s why he’d stripped down despite the temperature. He’d knelt there in the quiet and followed the red blossom across the guy’s chest until it spilt to the walkway and around his naked knees. It was the sacrifice his demons had demanded, but the satisfaction was fleeting.

  When the blood had first touched his skin, like an electric shock, it had numbed the pain briefly. That pain—his excuse to stop everything—was the one constant in his life now.

  At first the agony was so intense it made him pray to die, but then that misery had transmuted into hope. The necessary pain had given birth to the voice in his head, and no woman in his past had been so seductive.

  It started the night he’d heard the guy cursing by the Dumpster. The screaming in his head promised him what he craved, if he would make the right sacrifice. He craved a second chance.

  But something went wrong. He’d done what was asked of him, and the door he most wanted opened had stayed firmly shut. That’s why he’d picked the woman next. The man had been wrong, but the woman’s blood should grease the hinges that appeared welded shut.

  The images on her chest were like the ones he’d seen in the book. He’d knelt next to her too but again—nothing. He’d killed her, but instead of salvation, the emptiness had returned. That betrayal had angered him.

  “What?” he screamed, and pulled the hair at the sides of his head. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “The first two were to see if you were worthy of even seeing the door.”

  The voice made him drop to his knees, his hands still pressed to his head. As much as he wanted to hear its promises, it scared him. He unsheathed the knife and placed it on the bed. The blade had been wiped clean, and in its reflection he could see the tears streaming down his face. Against the rotting sheets the knife did appear to be a shining symbol of hope.

  “That’s not what you said,” he yelled directly at the knife. “You said if I killed them you’d give me what I wanted.”

  “Shut up and stop your sniveling. That’s why you’re here with me instead of where you want. You’re a coward who doesn’t deserve to be rewarded.”

  “I’m sorry…please.” He picked up the knife and kissed the blade.

  “Are you ready to begin?”

  “I’ll do whatever you want.” He rocked as he held the knife against his chest, as if cradling a lover.

  “Perhaps you’ll be worthy yet, but first you have to prepare an altar. You’ve proved you have the courage to begin the journey, but the gods are thirsty for much more.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.” His crying had stopped, and he returned the knife to its sheath with forceful authority. The voice was gone now, but he was calm enough to sleep. “Tomorrow night can’t come soon enough,” he said as he lay down. The bed smelled of mold and mud, but it brought him comfort, and as his eyes closed he thought of where to build his altar.

  That he’d thought of it so quickly made him run his fingers along the handle of his knife. “I knew you weren’t mad at me,” he said to the voice.

  “Sleep now, because you have so much more work to do.”

  *

  Sept’s dashboard clock read 12:30 when she parked in front of her apartment in the Quarter. Her pants were a mess, but she pocketed her keys and walked to Pope’s Pub on Royal Street.

  When she straddled a bar stool the owner asked, “Aren’t you a little old for a food fight?”

  “Bite me, then pour me a beer.”

  “What’s the matter, sunshine?”

  “I’ve had people chewing me out all day about a pastry chef, and I don’t need you piling on.” She sipped her beer and felt the cold liquid go all the way down, then chuckled. She’d been at one of the city’s best restaurants almost all day and hadn’t eaten.

  “I take it the cake maker’s dead,” the owner said as he wiped glasses and put them away.

  “He’s dead all right, probably the first of many, since he died for his wallet and watch.” She drained her glass and waved off another one. “So much for the calm after the storm. The fuckers that kept me hopping before Katrina must be back.”

  “Sure you don’t want another one?”

  “Nah, I’m beat. Thanks, man.” Sept threw a five on the bar and waved over her shoulder. The bar had become a regular haunt for her after the storm because the owner had never evacuated and never closed, even when the high winds had brushed the Quarter clean. In the months since, he’d listened to her reminisce about Noel and Sophie, and nodded to prove it.

  When Sept was a block away from home, she saw a young prostitute she recognized as Erica Median. When she got closer, Erica asked, “Interested in a date?”

  “I give Vice another couple of weeks to start cracking down. Don’t be in the first batch they sweep up.” Sept slapped Erica on the ass when Erica put her arms around her. “Get to bed. This late, you’ll find somebody you don’t need a date with.”