Violets Are Blue - James Patterson [61]
She sipped her coffee refill. “The neighbors seem to like Daniel and Charles. They consider them eccentric but pleasant and, I love this, civic minded. Daniel owns the house. He inherited it from his father, who was also eccentric — a portrait painter. Rumor has it that the magicians are gay, but they’re often seen in the company of young, attractive women.”
“Vampires aren’t restricted by gender. I learned that from Peter Westin,” I said. “These two are equal-opportunity killers, males and females. Something still isn’t matching up for me, though. There’s a logic hole I keep trying to fill. A few of them, actually.”
“Their magical mystery tour sure matches up with a lot of the murders, Alex,” she said.
“I know. I can’t dispute the evidence we’ve collected so far.”
“But you have one of your famous feelings.”
“I don’t know about famous, but something feels wrong to me. This thing isn’t tracking right. The other shoe hasn’t dropped. That’s what worries me. Why did they get sloppy all of a sudden? They went undetected for years, and now several dozen FBI agents are watching their house.”
We drank our coffee and lingered in the restaurant, which was only half full but would be humming again when the bars closed. Nobody pressured us to leave, and we weren’t in a hurry to get back to the boredom of the stakeout.
Jamilla was interesting to me for a lot of reasons, but the main one was probably that I saw so much of my own experience in hers. We were both committed to police work. We had full lives — friends and family — and yet, in a way, we were loners. Why was that?
“You okay?” she asked. Her eyes communicated concern. I usually can intuit good people, and she was one of them. No doubt about it.
“I just went away for a minute,” I said. “I’m back now.”
“Where do you go when you take these little mind excursions?”
“Florence,” I said. “It’s probably the most beautiful city on earth. My favorite, anyway.”
“And you were just in Florence, Italy?”
“Actually, I was thinking about some of the similarities in our lives.”
She nodded. “I’ve thought about it too. What the heck is to become of us, Alex? Are we both doomed to repeat the same mistakes?”
“Well, hopefully we’re going to catch two real bad killers here in New Orleans. How’s that?”
Jamilla reached over and patted my cheek, then she said ruefully, “That’s what I think too. We are doomed.”
Chapter 65
THE MASTERMIND watched Alex Cross get out of the car. He had him in his sights.
Cross and the lovely Inspector Jamilla Hughes had returned from a dinner break and were back on surveillance duty. Were they getting closer? Would Alex and Jamilla become lovers in New Orleans? That was an obvious flaw in Cross’s character; he needed to be loved, didn’t he?
But now Cross was out of the car again.
Something is bothering the great Cross. Maybe he needs to walk a little after the meal. Or maybe he needs to think about the case some more and wants to be alone. He is a loner, just like I am.
This was amazing; this was no good.
He followed Cross down a dark side street filled with modest homes of two styles — the double shotgun and the Creole cottage; both were staples in this part of New Orleans.
The fragrance of honeysuckle, jasmine, and gardenias was heavy in the air. He sucked in a breath. Pleasant. A hundred years before, the scents had masked the odors of the nearby slaughterhouses. The Mastermind knew his history, knew lots about most things, and the facts flowed easily through his mind as he continued to follow Cross at a safe distance. He retained information and knew how to use it.
He could hear the rattle and hum of the St. Charles Avenue streetcar as it raced along its tracks a few blocks away. It helped to cover any slight sound of his own footsteps.
He was enjoying this walk with Cross immensely, and he thought that maybe this would be the