Page 1 of Shiver

Chapter 1

Thunder boomedoverhead and electricity crackled through the air, prickling the hair on the nape of Detective Riley MacIntyre’s neck. The large drops of rain wetting his shoulders didn’t relieve the stickiness of the hot August night as he approached the crime scene. Someone yelled for a cover and umbrellas quickly opened above the body, and a tarp was stretched over the area.

Sweat, partly from the heat and partly from expectation, ran down Riley’s back further dampening his shirt. Pulsing red and blue lights flashed on and off centuries-old brick in a strange melodic symphony.

He stepped over the yellow caution tape encircling the crime scene and made his way toward the group of people congregating in front of the Village Carré Hotel.

Mike Parker, a young officer from the Eighth District, approached him, his footsteps matching beat for beat the music echoing down Bourbon Street. “We have everything under control, Detective MacIntyre.” A hint of wariness creased his eyes. “We can handle this. You don’t need to be here.”

Riley cocked a smile but couldn’t quite soften the edge of annoyance in his voice. “The last time I checked, this was my case.”

“We haven’t established yet if this is part of the night stalker case. This one is, uh…different.” Parker looked down, fidgeting.

Riley frowned. “You obviously need some time off, ´cause you’re not making any sense. All homicides are handled downtown. You know that. It doesn’t matter if it’s related to the night stalker case or not.” He patted Parker’s shoulder, then strode off, annoyed that his routine crime-scene approach had been thwarted.

He liked to walk a scene to get a sense of the perimeter—the sounds, sights, smells—before approaching the victim. Sometimes the brutality of murder deadened his perceptions. Then all was lost, his case compromised.

He tried once again to recapture the scene, absorbing the music, the scent of onions and garlic, and simmering jambalaya—a constant yet comforting smell in the French Quarter. As he approached the building, a roach popped out of a broken stone tile in the sidewalk, then scurried into a cracked grate.

In the crevice between the structure’s brick wall and the steep cement steps leading into a doorway, a body leaned haphazardly, the face hidden beneath a thick mass of blond curls. Blue-jean-clad long legs stretched out on the sidewalk. His gaze lingered over turquoise spiked heels adorning perfectly shaped feet. His gut twisted; sweat dampened his palms.

He took a step closer, though for the first time in his career an urge gripped him to turn away—a gut instinct that was his strongest, most prized possession as a detective in the New OrleansPolice Department.He looked back at Parker, who was still watching him, shifting from one foot to the other.

Something was wrong.

He took another step. Tony Tortorici, his friend and partner, stood from his examination of the victim. Suddenly, Riley could see her clearly—deep purple shirt, loops of bright beads hanging from her neck. Pulse racing, he saw how two strands of gold-and-green plastic dice were entwined tightly around her neck, pushing into her delicate skin.

His breathing went shallow as he took in the ugly purple-red bruises beneath the beads and the gold locket lying snug between her breasts. Tony walked toward him, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Riley couldn’t move, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t draw enough of the thick, foul air into his lungs.

He focused on the thick mass of blond hair, hair that he remembered could look like silk billowing in the wind. A sharp twinge shot through him. In her lap, her hands crossed one over the other, rested against the light blue fabric of her shirt, her pinkies interlaced. The position was strange, but before he could think on it further, his eyes locked on the contrasting colors between the top and the bottom of her shirt.

Pain surged through him, slicing his heart as surely as the killer had sliced her throat, turning the blue fabric dark purple with her blood. Blood that had pumped from a heart he’d known since childhood.

“I’m so sorry, man,” Tony said, as he reached him.

The compassion on Tony’s face hit Riley like a blow to the stomach. Anguish loosened his neck muscles and his head rolled back. He stared into the night sky. Drops of rain pelted his face as agony welled up inside him and broke free in a heart-wrenching roar.

Michelle.

* * *

Devra Morgan dreamedof death again—another blue-eyed blonde. She sat up with a start, her heart beating against her chest, her breath coming fast and hard. She brought two shaking fingers to the soft skin of her throat almost expecting to feel a deep gash and the sticky warmth of blood.

Her cat, Felix, meowed in protest as she threw the covers over him and stumbled to the bathroom. Cold sweat chilled her. The distinct scent of the Quarter, with its heavy air and heady taste of the Mississippi, still lingered in her mind. She stood under the hot spray of the shower, scrubbing until her skin ached.

Why now?

Pulling on a plush white robe, she trudged to the kitchen, put the teakettle on to boil, and closed her eyes as an onslaught of chills shook her. She couldn’t go through this again. Not now. Not after she’d actually convinced herself they were over—the horrible dreams that have destroyed so much of her life.

She picked up Felix who was rubbing against her shins and squeezed him against her chest, burying her chin in his soft fur. “Why is this happening now?”

After another squeeze, she set him down and opened a can of cat food. “I’ll have to move again.” If she didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before the police came calling and her world came crashing down around her.Again.

She sighed, added a spoonful of honey to her tea, and strode toward her office. The quicker she got down on paper what she’d seen in her dream, the sooner she could purge it from her mind. Her writing had become an amazing catharsis over the years. Her only means of escape from her nightmares had turned into her salvation and allowed her the freedom, and the anonymity, she needed to survive.

She sat behind the large white desk, turned on her computer, and began to type.

“Hey lady, looking good tonight. Want me to read your fortune?”

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