Page 20 of Girl Between (Dana Gray FBI Mystery Thriller #5)

Detective George pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead as he stood over another body. His linen Hawaiian shirt was already sticking to him in the midday heat. Thankfully, he was wearing shorts.

Anywhere else in the world, his attire wouldn’t be befitting of a police force. But this was New Orleans. They kept things casual here. After all, Mother Nature was the one in charge, and no one was bold enough to challenge her.

“I don’t get it,” Officer LaSalle said, covering her nose from the stench.

“What’s to get?” George asked. “Another day, another Jane Doe.”

“Yeah, but why the mask?” LaSalle asked.

“Casquette Girls Fest was this weekend,” Officer Neville offered, looking about as pale as the corpse in front of them .

“Was it?” George asked his soon-to-be brother-in-law.

Before he could answer, LaSalle cut in. “If you stuck around last night you wouldn’t have to ask. You shoulda seen Neville. He ‘bout got himself on a float when the parade passed by.”

Neville groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

George shook his head, all too able to smell the booze his fellow officers were sweating off. He didn’t need the details to go with it. “Let’s leave last night where it belongs and focus on this crime scene.”

“Yes, sir,” Neville and LaSalle agreed in unison.

The victim before them lay on her back, arms folded over her chest, eyes closed, like she was merely taking a nap on one of the time-worn tombs.

Her white dress and white mask matched the sun-bleached mausoleums lining the north side of the cemetery.

Her skin was almost as pale as her clothing.

The whole scene was macabre and otherworldly.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say the body had leapt from the pages of the Anne Rice novels his sisters were always reading.

New Orleans was often associated with witchcraft and supernatural anomalies, but it’d been a long time since George had experienced a body like this firsthand.

“She sure seems dressed for Casquette Girls Fest,” LaSalle acknowledged.

“I hate festival season,” Neville muttered. “Brings out the freaks.”

“It also brings much needed tourism to our city. Now let’s leave our opinions out of it and focus, please,” George said again, a little more edge to his voice this time. “Who found the body?” he asked.

“Tour guide called it in,” LaSalle answered.

“This tour guide have a name?”

“I’ll find out,” she answered, heading off toward the groundsman who’d let them into the cemetery before operating hours.

Now that it was open, he was standing at the gate warding off crowds of tourists who’d paid for a glimpse of the famous necropolis. As the oldest extant cemetery in New Orleans, it drew tourist crowds on a daily basis.

In the 1980s a slew of cult-like vandalisms closed the cemetery to the public. It was eventually reopened, but for guided tours only to ensure respect for the 300 years of New Orleanians laid to rest there.

Most tourists didn’t realize St. Louis No. 1 was still a functioning cemetery—a place to be revered and protected. And the city took precautions to keep it that way. Which was what made this crime scene so unusual.

Getting past the iron gates without a key was impossible, and getting over the soaring white walls surrounding the cemetery on Basin Street was just as unlikely thanks to the alarm system and security cameras on every corner of the neoclassical burial grounds.

George was counting on the security footage to give him a lead, because as far as crime scenes went, this one was clean. Too clean.

It pointed to a highly experienced perpetrator. One who’d most likely killed before.

Though it was odd whoever had done this had taken the time to carefully fold the victim’s hands over her chest. It showed remorse, not something usually found in such ostentatious crime scenes.

Someone obviously wanted this body found. The question was why?

A tingling feeling crept up his spine. One that told him he’d just uncovered something deeply sinister. It was an instinct he’d learned not to ignore.

“There’s not much more to be done here,” George finally admitted. He stood, stretching his back, which popped after stooping for so long. “Let’s send her on her way,” he said, gesturing to the two men from the coroner’s office who kept checking their watches.

“I’ll make sure the bags ‘n tags get to the precinct,” Neville said.

George shook his head, not willing to leave anything to chance. “Naw. I’ll escort the evidence on this one. Go help LaSalle hunt down the tour guide who found the body. I want a statement ASAP.”