Violets Are Blue - James Patterson [54]
I checked out corporations that had main or branch offices in the cities and found there were a lot of matches, but it wasn’t likely to get me anywhere. Federal Express, American Express, the Gap, the Limited, McDonald’s, Sears, and JC Penney were just about everywhere. So what?
I had at least one travel book for each of the cities where murders had taken place, and I pored over them until it was almost midnight. Nothing came of it. My arm was throbbing again. I was starting to get a headache. The rest of the house was quiet.
Next, I checked on traveling sports teams, circuses and carnivals, author tours, rock and roll groups — and then I hit on something in the entertainment area. I had been ready to call it a night, but here was something interesting. I tried not to get excited, but my pulse quickened as I checked the West Coast information first. Then the East Coast. Bingo. Maybe.
I had found the kind of pattern that I was looking for — an entertainment act that worked winters and early spring on the West Coast, and then came east. Their tour cities and the murders were matching up for now. Jesus.
They had been touring for fifteen years.
I was almost certain I’d found some kind of connection to the killers.
Two magicians who called themselves Daniel and Charles.
The same ones Andrew Cotton and Dara Grey had seen the night they were murdered in Las Vegas.
I even knew where they were scheduled to perform next. They were probably already there.
New Orleans.
I called Kyle Craig.
Chapter 57
ELEVEN YEARS of unsolved murders had come down to this.
New Orleans, Louisiana.
A nightclub called Howl.
A pair of magicians named Daniel and Charles.
I still couldn’t travel, so I remained in Washington. I hated not being in New Orleans. I was missing an important time, but Kyle was there. I think he wanted to make this bust himself, and I couldn’t blame him. This could help make his career, no doubt about it. The case was huge.
That night in New Orleans a half dozen FBI agents circulated through the crowd that had turned out for Daniel and Charles’s early performance. Howl was located in the warehouse district, off Julia Street. Usually it featured musical acts, and even tonight zydeco and blues reverberated from the mortar-and-redbrick walls. A few tourists tried to bring “geaux” cups from Bourbon Street into Howl. They were denied admission “for life.”
The used Cressidas and Colts and a few sport-utility vehicles in the parking lot were a tip-off to the presence of Tulane and Loyola college students packed inside. Smoke lay thick over the noisy and restless crowd. Several in the audience looked underage, and the club had been cited for serving minors. The owners found it easier to buy off the New Orleans police than to effectively regulate the club.
Suddenly, everything went quiet. A single voice punctuated the silence. “Holy shit! Look at this.”
A white tiger had walked out onto the stage, which was covered in layers of black velvet.
There was no leash on the cat. No trainer or handler was anywhere in sight. The formerly raucous audience remained silent.
The big cat lazily raised its head and roared. A girl in a hot-pink tank top screamed in the pit seating area. The cat roared again.
A second white tiger walked out and stood beside the first. It glared down at the crowd and roared. The pit audience was situated directly in front of the stage. Men and women seated there scrambled away, grabbing their beer bottles.
An unmistakable tiger roar now came from the back, behind the audience. Everyone froze. How many cats were loose in the club? Where were they? What the hell was going on?
The lights onstage made the peripheral space a dark void. Any retreat to either side of the