Violets Are Blue - James Patterson [66]
Kyle was as angry as I’d ever seen him. He just wasn’t himself. He was storming about the front of the room, his right hand nervously combing back through his dark hair. I didn’t blame him—everything about the investigation depended on cooperation between the local police and the FBI. The NOPD had broken that trust, broken it badly.
“For once, I sympathize with Mr. Craig,” Jamilla said. “The locals were way out of line.”
“We could have been working on the girl’s disappearance for hours,” I agreed. “What a mess, and it’s getting worse.”
“Maybe that’s our opportunity. I wonder if we could get inside the house during the party tonight. What do you think? I’d love to give it a try,” she whispered. “Everybody who comes to the so-called fetish ball will be in costume, right? Presumably? Somebody needs to get inside that house. We need to do something.”
Kyle stared directly at Jamilla and me. He raised his voice. “Can we have one meeting?”
“He means can he have his meeting,” she whispered. I wondered why she had taken such a dislike to Kyle. He was acting strange, though; the pressure of the case was getting to him. Something had him on edge.
“Tell him what you think,” I said. “He’ll listen. Especially now that the girl is missing.”
“I doubt it. But what can he do — fire me?”
She swiveled around to face Kyle. “I think we could probably get inside the house tonight during the party. And if we don’t, what do we lose? The missing girl might be in there.”
Kyle hesitated, but then he said, “Do it. Let’s see what’s in the house.”
Chapter 71
IT COULD only happen like this in New Orleans. I spent part of the afternoon securing a couple of printed invitations, and then Jamilla and I prepared our costumes for that night. The ball began at midnight, but we’d heard that most of the crowd wouldn’t start to arrive until closer to two.
It had already been a long night for us by the time the festivities started. We waited until just past two to approach the house. Some of the party goers were college age, a few were even younger, but at least half of the crowd looked to be thirty or older. A few arrived in limousines and other expensive cars. The dress for the night was definitely eye-catching: antique morning coats and top hats, velvet Victorian gowns, corsets, walking sticks, tiaras.
The Goth crowd sheathed their androgynous bodies mostly in black leather and velvet, with frilly white and black lace on several of the women. There were body piercings everywhere, belly rings, dog collars, black lipstick, and gobs of mascara on both the men and the women.
Bloodred eyes stared from every direction. It was difficult to look away from them. A song called “Pistol Grip Pump” played from hidden speakers outside the house. Fangs were everywhere. And stage blood. A few of the women wore black or purple velvet bands around their necks, presumably to conceal bite marks.
It got more interesting and eerie inside the house. People were addressing one another with titled names, Sir Nicholas, Mistress Anne, The Baroness, Prince William, Master Ormson. A statuesque woman walked by and brazenly sized up Jamilla. She was bronzed with body paint and wore a bronze-colored thong. The iron scent of blood mingled with smoky leather and pungent oil from wall torches.
Jamilla looked ready; she was definitely tough. She had on a tight, sleek black dress with leather boots and black stockings. If she’d wanted to look sexy, she’d succeeded. She had purchased black lipstick and leather wristbands at a place called the Little Shop of Fantasy on Dumaine Street. She’d also helped me with my outfit: a morning coat that scraped the floor, cravat, black trousers, and black boots that came to my knees.
No one seemed to pay much attention to the two of us. We checked out the main floor, then flowed with the crowd down into the basement. There were flaming torches everywhere on the stone walls. The floors were dirt and stone. It was cold and damp and musty.
“Jesus, Alex,” Jamilla whispered close to my ear. She took my arm, held it