Rising Moon

Chapter Thirteen



I shook my head, and in that instant of movement, that tiny blink of an eye, the guy disappeared.



I stepped outside, but there was no sign of him anywhere.



Logically I knew the man couldn’t just disappear. He’d probably ducked down an alley, maybe even collapsed in one.



The distant wail of a siren kept me from finding out. The police were coming, and it probably wasn’t a good idea for John to be alone, with blood all over his hands, when they arrived.



I don’t know why I felt so protective of him. Considering what had just happened, he certainly didn’t need my help. Even blind, the man could take care of himself.



So what had happened the other night?



“Did he die?” Rodolfo asked as soon as I came back inside.



“Not anywhere that I could see.”



He scowled and appeared as if he wanted to race off in pursuit. I stepped in front of him. “The police are coming.”



His face j erked toward the front of the building. “You called them? What the hell for?”



“There was a guy with a knife trying to kill you.”



“He didn’t.”



“Which is more than what you did for him.”



“You said he wasn’t dead.”



“Not yet.”



Which was just weird if you asked me. What kind of guy didn’t fall down when you stabbed him in the chest?



The kind I never wanted to meet again.



“You really expected me not to call them?” I asked. “To let you race after a crazy man?”



“Who said he was crazy?”



“A sane man wouldn’t run off with a knife embedded in his chest.”



No, a sane man—or any man for that matter-would die.



I shook off the odd thought. Of course the intruder had been a man. What else could he be?



The true crazy person was the one in front of me who’d fought a knife-wielding assailant as if he did so every day.



I wondered sometimes if Rodolfo’s blindness was so recent he forgot about it and just reacted. Why else would he begin to chase a madman when he had no hope of keeping up? For that matter, why had he fought the guy in the first place?



It couldn’t have been for me.



“I’m not helpless,” Rodolfo said softly. “I don’t want you to think that I am.”



His face was somber; his eyes as unreadable behind those damn sunglasses as ever. I moved toward him, intent on removing the barriers, seeing once and for all what lay beneath.



The door burst open. “Police! Let me see your hands.”



Both Rodolfo and I lifted them; unfortunately John’s were covered in blood. The cops took one look and tackled him.



Half an hour later, we’d ironed things out. I’d managed to convince the officers to uncuff my boss. They’d taken him into another room. Standard procedure for questioning.



Since there wasn’t a scratch on me or on him, nor a bloody knife anywhere in the building, I think they believed our story. Problem was, the crazy guy had disappeared.



Oh, there was a blood trail, which helped, but no guy. Not anywhere in a reasonable vicinity.



“Had to have been hopped up on something to run off like that with a knife in his chest,” one of the officers said. “He’ll probably turn up in an ER.”



“Or the morgue,” answered another.



I’d had this conversation before, or one very similar to it. Sullivan had shot a guy and he’d run off like a j ackrabbit, never to be seen or heard from again—as far as I knew.



“Can one of you call Detective Sullivan?” I asked.



“No need.” Sullivan stepped into the bar. “I’m right here.”



For the first time since I’d known him he wasn’t wearing a suit and tie but j eans with a light green button-down shirt. He appeared both comfortable and comforting. Strong, solid, sane. I wasn’t attracted to him in the way he seemed to be attracted to me, but I was very glad to see him.



“I heard the call on my scanner,” he continued.



Some cops were never off duty. It didn’t surprise me at all that Sullivan was one of them.



“Got here as quick as I could,” he said. “What’s going on?”



I told him everything. Well, everything except the part where I swiped the altar icons. I’d left that out of my statement earlier as well. If I wanted to discover what they meant, I couldn’t do so while they were locked up in the evidence locker at the NOPD.



The police had searched me, found the icons, and not even given them a second glance. For all they knew, the tiny wooden animals were my good-luck charms. I’d put them back in my pocket with no one the wiser.



They also hadn’t mentioned the altar upstairs. Around here, the things were probably considered decoration.



Sullivan took my hand. “I’m glad you’re okay.”



“Me too.” I squeezed his fingers.



A shuffle made me glance up; Rodolfo stood in the doorway. Though I knew he couldn’t see us, nevertheless I snatched my hand away from Sullivan’s guiltily.



“Detective,” Rodolfo greeted.



My eyebrows shot up. How did he do that? Probably wasn’t as big of a mystery as I thought. He’d no doubt heard Sullivan and me speaking even in the other room.



“Did anyone tell you I’ve been asking for you?” Sullivan glanced at me.



I shrugged. “He just got back.”



“From where?”



Rodolfo tilted his head, staring slightly to the right of Sullivan’s shoulder. “Am I under arrest?”



“Not yet.”



Rodolfo smiled and the expression, without benefit of the eyes, was not a friendly one. “Then I don’t believe I have to tell you where I’ve been.”



Even I thought that sounded guilty.



“There have been disappearances,” I began.



Rodolfo’s mirrored gaze turned in my direction. “What do you know about them?”



Sullivan and I exchanged glances.



Whoops.



“Anne was here when I came in to ask about a man. Show his picture.”



“And?”



“She didn’t know him. Neither did your cohort.”



“I’d like to help you, Detective, but I won’t be any good with pictures.”



“His name was Harvey Klingman.”



“Was?”



Sullivan’s sigh was impatient. “He was found in Lake Pontchartrain.”



“People drown, Detective. I don’t understand why Homicide is involved.”



“Because the man didn’t drown. There was the small matter of being set on fire before he wound up in the lake.”



Rodolfo was good. If I hadn’t been studying him, I wouldn’t have seen the flicker of emotion cross his face. I wasn’t sure what it had been. Unease? Shock? Guilt? Whatever it was, I don’t think Sullivan noticed.



“Set on fire,” Rodolfo repeated. “Seems a little extreme.”



“Not if you’re trying to hide something.”



“I’m an open book, Detective.”



“Yeah, a regular fountain of helpful info, that’s you,” Sullivan muttered.



“If I knew anything that would help, I’d tell you.”



“You didn’t know Harvey?”



“No.”



Well, that was a bald-faced lie. Or was it?



I’d seen them together, but who was to say Harvey hadn’t given a false name, or perhaps not given his name at all? Maybe he’d merely been accompanying a blind man down the street, or telling John how much he enj oyed his music, then they’d parted company a few blocks over, and Harvey had gone on to meet his horrific and untimely demise.



If so, then telling Sullivan Rodolfo had been in the company of a dead man only hours before he became dead would ensure a trip to the slammer for my boss. I didn’t want that.



I’d kept my counsel to give Rodolfo the benefit of the doubt. I planned to talk to him first, in private, about Harvey Klingman.



Time enough to tell Sullivan later, if there was anything to tell. Harvey wasn’t going anywhere. Or at least I hoped he wasn’t.



“I have several witnesses who saw Klingman at Rising Moon the night before he disappeared,” Sullivan said.



“This is the same tune, different verse, Detective, and just like those other times, with other people, I never saw them.”



“You never see anyone. Which is damn convenient if you ask me.”



I gasped at the rudeness. Sullivan gave me a glare; Rodolfo merely smiled.



“If you think this is convenient”—Rodolfo flicked a finger at his glasses—”you aren’t as bright as I thought you were, Conner.”



“And you aren’t half as smart as you think you are, John. There’s something about you that nags at me, and I’m going to find out what it is.” With a nod in my direction, Sullivan left. The rest of the officers followed.



I waited until the door clicked shut behind them before I spoke. “I saw you with him.”



Rodolfo didn’t bother to pretend he didn’t know which “him” I referred to. He crossed the short distance between us and grabbed me by the forearms, yanking me onto my toes. “You think I’m a murderer, chica?”



I meant to say no, but what came out instead was, “Are you?”



His fingers tightened to an almost painful degree, but I refused to glance away, even though I could read nothing from his hidden gaze. “I don’t know any Harvey. I met a man leaving Rising Moon this morning and we walked together for a bit. He was pleasant. I enj oyed the conversation. I assume that was him.”



“Why didn’t you tell Sullivan?”



“I didn’t know until you told me that the kind gentleman and the dead gentleman were one and the same.”



Huh. He was right.



“How can you think I’m a murderer after we’ve been as close as two people can be?” he murmured.



“We had sex, John. We weren’t close.”



“And we never will be.”



The despair in his voice made my throat thicken. Despite his darkness, his silence, his mystery, there was still an aura of need surrounding him that called to me. Was I using him to fill the empty place that was Katie? She’d needed me; I’d failed, so did I subconsciously hope to atone for my mistake with Rodolfo?



I wasn’t sure.



What I was sure of was that having him need me, wanting him to, was a very dangerous thing to want.



“I don’t know how you can expect us to have anything other than an occasional bump in the night,” I snapped, “when you lie at every opportunity.”



He leaned into me, rubbing his cheek against my hair, brushing his lips across my temple, even as he continued to hold on to me so tightly I had no doubt I’d have a bruise come tomorrow. “And you don’t?”



he murmured.



I stiffened. “Me?”



“You say you’re searching for your sister.”



I pulled back, but he didn’t let me go. “I am.”



“You didn’t mention that you’re a private investigator.”



“You checked me out?” I don’t know why that annoyed me. Sullivan had done the same thing and I’d barely blinked.



“I may not be as smart as I think I am, but I’m definitely not as dumb as I look. You thought I’d let you work here, sleep here, and not make sure you aren’t an extremely attractive escaped lunatic?”



“Are you—” I broke off before I said “blind.” Instead I muttered, “I’m not attractive,” horrified to discover I suddenly wanted to be.



“Pretty is as pretty does,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment. Lying wasn’t very pretty.



“You’re crazy.”



Rodolfo smiled down at me. “Well, I never said I wasn’t an escaped lunatic.”