Figure 8

By Tammy Riviere

Murders of prostitutes plague Baton Rouge which could be possibly linked to detective, Andre Rodriguez's wife's brutal murder three years ago. The figure 8 branded on the thighs of the women are discovered, the same as Andre's dead wife. Fireworks also ignite between Andre and reporter, Olivia Gallows as their paths repeatedly cross while investigating the "Figure 8" murders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053266

Book preview

One

Andre Rodriguez let his gaze travel around the bar. It was nice and quiet. Just like he liked it. There was just enough room for a dance floor and a couple of pool tables. In the last year, Andre frequented the bar often—to unwind, to forget and to bury himself in a bottle of whiskey. He was even on a first name basis with the bartender, and occupied his own place at the far end of the bar, away from everyone. At that moment, Otis Redding played on the jukebox, Dock of the Bay.

Andre took a hearty swig of the whiskey. It burned his throat going down, but usually it did the trick. It made him forget everything, including the scent of blood on the victims of the homicides he’d investigated. Even the faces of their families when he broke the news to them faded from memory.

God, how he wanted to forget! He swallowed another gulp of the strong liquid, wanting to forget the rapes and beatings—one in particular. His wife, Deidre, found dead, not very far from their home.

Three years later and he still suffered from the nightmares, waking up with a jerk, his body trembling and soaked in sweat.

Deidre’s murder had never been avenged and that nagged at him. Drove him crazy. His idea of restitution didn’t include prison. He wanted to find the bastard and strangle him with his bare hands. That one thought had consumed him most of the year after her death. Bitterness, anger, and rage got him through the day. He knew killing wouldn’t bring his wife back. But damn, how much better he would feel.

Now, there were a couple of new murders. Two prostitutes had been found only days ago floating in City Lake near the LSU campus. Raped and murdered. Not far from his apartment. Right under his damn nose.

Frustrated, Andre glanced at this watch. It was well past eleven. Time to get the hell out of this place and go home. Home to what? An empty apartment? An empty bed?

He noticed a man and woman sitting in the center of the bar. Andre had never seen them before. He would have remembered the woman if he had. Her hair was long, blonde and silky with gold highlights and it was pushed away from her face. A face that was flawless and tanned and beautiful. She was what Andre would call a natural beauty, not made up, and her neck was long and graceful.

The woman had entered the bar alone, lowered herself to a barstool and ordered a glass of white wine. More than once, she and Andre’s eyes had merged.

Then the man had entered some time later, taking a seat beside the woman. He had smiled and winked at her. A damn Casanova, Andre thought, recognizing the type immediately, the type who liked to prey on women. The blonde had given him a stiff smile in return and kept answers to his questions brief. That hadn’t swayed Casanova one bit. He continued a steady stream of chatter despite her lack of interest.

Andre nursed his whiskey while listening with half an ear as Casanova tried coaxing the woman into further conversation.

Hey, what do you say I buy you a drink?

No, thanks, I have one, the woman refused, casting a quick glance over at Andre.

Casanova followed her glance, glaring at Andre with open hostility. His beady dark eyes gleamed with anger beneath bushy brows.

Andre resisted the urge to rush to the woman’s rescue. He wasn’t in the mood for performing any heroic deeds. Despite her quick glances his way, she could take care of herself.

Casanova turned back to the blonde. How about a dance then? Every woman likes to dance. We could make us a nice area right here and dance real slow. Casanova inched closer.

The blonde moved away. I don’t think so.

Oh come on sweetheart. Don’t be like that. Dance with me.

Like I said before, no thank you.

You’re not one of those women that say no, but really mean yes, are you? Come on beautiful, let’s dance.

Sorry Bastard. Andre threw the remainder of the whiskey down his throat, set the glass down on the bar and rose. Patience and tolerance weren’t his strong suit.

In several long strides, Andre filled the gap between himself and the man. He leaned over and whispered in a hard tone. The lady doesn’t want to dance, so I suggest you quit harassing her.

Casanova turned and scowled up at him. Who the hell are you?

Someone you wouldn’t care to mess with, Andre shot back.

All I did was ask her to dance.

Yeah, and I believe she told you no.

I don’t see where it is any of your fucking business.

I’m making it my fucking business.

Casanova snickered, eyes narrowing. Yeah, I know what you want. You want a piece of her too, don’t you? I noticed you ogling her tits.

Andre lost his temper then. He grabbed the man by the front of his flannel shirt and forced him up from the barstool, pinning him against the bar. The man’s eyes widened. A tagged scar stood out on his face above his goatee, and Andre caught the stench of sweat and alcohol.

If you don’t leave here in the next few minutes, I’m gonna take great delight in laying your rear end out across the top of this bar. You fucking got that?

Casanova’s face reddened. Yeah, I got it. I was just trying to have some fun, that’s all.

Andre’s eyes bored into his for a moment, then relaxed his grip. I suggest you have your fun someplace else.

Casanova hesitated, casting an annoyed look at the blonde. Your loss, sweetheart.

I’m sure I’ll survive, the woman said.

Casanova looked defeated. Whatever. He straightened his shirt from Andre’s grip and ambled to the door. With a last antagonistic glance back at Andre, he exited the bar.

Andre’s gaze shifted back to the woman. You shouldn’t have to worry about him for the rest of the night. He turned to leave.

Wait... She rose and placed a hand on his arm.

He glanced down at her hand. Nice hands, feminine with long and graceful fingers and frosty colored nails. His jaw tightened. It reminded him of what he needed and lacked these last three years. A woman’s touch. God, how he needed that!

She removed her hand from his arm and searched his eyes. Can I buy you a drink?

And damn if he couldn’t help noticing how beautiful her eyes were, very green and damn sexy, almost hypnotic looking. He shook his head. That’s not necessary.

I know it’s not necessary, but I’d like to repay you. You did rescue me from a bad situation.

He hesitated, deciding what the hell. He glanced over at the bartender. Give me a beer, Jeb.

She smiled. And I’ll have another glass of wine. She slid her glass toward Jeb and he disappeared.

She gestured toward the barstool beside her. Please, sit down.

I’m fine standing, thanks. He knew he was being difficult.

Okay, then I’ll sit. She lowered herself to the barstool. By the way, my name is Olivia. She held out her hand.

Andre. He took her hand in his. Her hands were soft, and he wondered how soft she felt all over.

She smiled again and Andre couldn’t help noticing how damn beautiful that smile was. Nice to meet you, Andre.

Yeah, same here. He liked the way his name sounded on her lips, silky and sexy, and he imagined her whispering his name in the dark in that same silky and sexy tone.

Do you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress? she leaned back against the back of the barstool, crossed her legs, and studied him.

Nope, not usually. He tried not to notice how those fitting short-cropped black pants showed just enough of her long, sleek and tanned legs and he imagined her wrapping those legs around him.

That’s surprising since you seem comfortable in the role of rescuer.

He wasn’t able to rescue his wife when she was being butchered. I’m a cop, he reluctantly admitted.

She cocked an eyebrow and studied him. You look like a cop.

Jeb appeared with their drinks at that moment. Thanks, man. Andre took a sip of beer, his gaze still fixed on Olivia. And how is a cop supposed to look?

You know, like a tough guy.

Tough guy, huh? Andre caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across from the bar. His swarthy complexion appeared more shadowed from a couple of days’ stubble and his black hair tousled from raking his hand through it.

Yes, she smiled. "Like Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry."

That smile again. Hell. Stop it, Rodriguez. She spoke with her hands, those long and graceful fingers of hers kept moving in the air. No ring on her left finger, Andre noticed, annoyed for caring. Dirty Harry, huh? The woman had taste. He’d watched enough Dirty Harry flicks himself.

Are you a detective like Dirty Harry, Andre?

He smiled wryly. Yeah, unfortunately, I am.

That’s not a good thing?

He sighed. It has its ups and downs. More downs than ups.

Yes, I imagine it would, she answered, taking a sip of her wine, her eyes fixed on him. And you come here often?

Often enough, he answered. But you don’t, do you?

Nice dimple. No, I don’t. This is my first time here actually.

He leaned against the bar, the cop coming out in him. And what brought you here tonight?

She hiked up her chin, keeping eye contact. No reason in particular. I was just passing by from work and I thought I’d stop and check out the place. I had a very long and tiring day and I wanted to unwind.

Unwind, huh? What kind of work do you do? Fuck, he didn’t like the interest she created in him.

I’m a reporter.

His jaw tightened. Reporter, he repeated, not very pleased by that little tidbit.

And of course since you’re a cop, you don’t like reporters, do you?

He frowned. I’m not fond of them, no.

May I ask why?

Well, for one thing, they ask too many damn questions—too many damn personal questions.

No more than you cops do.

He gave her an I-don’t-know-about-that look and plunged on. Another reason, they totally screw up the facts.

Not all of us do.

He ignored her statement. Then there’s the fact that they’re a royal pain in the ass. They’re forever badgering us cops.

She glared at him. I don’t consider myself a pain in the ass. Nor do I feel like I badger anyone.

Yeah right, of course you don’t. Lastly, they ruin an investigation. Is that enough for you or do you want more?

Those green eyes of hers glinted dangerously at him. In defense of me and my profession, Detective, we are all not major screw-ups as you suggest we are. Just like cops, we have a responsibility to the people we serve. In other words, we have a job to do.

He snorted in disgust. Yeah, okay. Maybe it’s time I left. This bar may be too small for the both of us.

She tilted her chin at him at a stubborn angle. Well, maybe it’s time you did leave, she challenged.

Their eyes met and held and something potent and lethal passed between them. He should leave, but hell if he wanted to. Despite her reporter status, he was drawn to her. Like honey to a bee. He was also feeling the effects of the whiskey from earlier—his better judgment slightly off kilter.

Her gaze dropped to the wedding band on his left finger. His own gaze followed. He couldn’t make himself take it off. Thoughts of Deidre filled his mind and guilt consumed his insides. For the last three years, he’d not given another woman so much as a second glance. Now, he noticed every single friggin’ detail about this woman beside him.

His expression hardened and he looked away from her. My wife was killed three years ago.

I’m very sorry, she whispered, her tone softening.

Yeah. He took a hearty gulp of his beer. So am I.

A moment of silence passed between them.

That must have been a difficult time for you.

He fixed her with a cool glance, feeling the familiar pang of loss stirring deep within him. Even though his wife had been dead for three years, the wound still felt very raw, just below the surface. Difficult? he smiled sardonically. Sheer hell would be a better word. But I got by. And finding the son of a bitch who did it was the only thing that got me out of the bed in the mornings.

She searched his face. Did you ever find him?

Questions, questions and more questions.

She turned away and took another sip of her wine. Sorry. Forget I asked.

The truth was that the familiar taste of hostility and rage for Louis Britt, whom he believed to be his wife’s murderer, would forever leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He could never prove that Britt had anything to do with Deidre’s murder, but deep down, he knew.

The answer is no. I thought I had, but there wasn’t enough proof to convict the SOB and he walked. Andre took another gulp of his beer to wash the bitter taste of defeat from his throat. Six months later, he was caught red-handed selling drugs and he was sent to prison.

Is he still in prison?

Andre shrugged. As far as I know.

Another silence stretched out between them.

Were you and your wife married a long time?

A stab of pain shot though Andre at that moment as he eyed the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes away from midnight. Thirteen years. He glanced at her, suddenly anxious, eager and desperate to talk about something, anything other than what happened three years ago or his thirteenth year wedding anniversary twenty minutes away. Enough about me. What about you?

She lifted a manicured brow. "What about me?"

Well, for starters, are you married? Several of the top buttons of her white blouse were unclasped and showed a peek of cleavage and he found himself growing quickly aroused, very aroused.

No, I’m not.

Why did that please him so damn much? You live around here?

She nodded. The Garden District.

Nice area. Baton Rouge’s Garden District was a far cry from the Garden District of New Orleans, but it was a nice upper class area.

Yes, I like it very much. It’s quiet. The neighbors are nice.

Andre took in the shape of her mouth, her lips, nice and full—like ripe berries, ready to be plucked and tasted. I guess having nice neighbors is important. He shrugged. But I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met mine. He wondered how her lips tasted and at the same time, watched those green eyes of hers skim the outline of his own lips. Electricity sizzled between them and he looked away. Damn. Was it his imagination or was it getting hot in the bar?

So, why haven’t I seen you around the precinct harassing us cops with all your other reporter buddies?

She opened her mouth to answer.

But you don’t consider yourself harassing do you? Doing a service to your readers? Is that what you’ve said? he eyed her over the top of his beer mug.

She smiled. Yes, that’s what I said and as far as any reporter buddies, I haven’t been back in Baton Rouge long enough to get to know anyone. Anyway, I prefer to work alone.

He suppressed the urge to ask her where she had been living. It was time for him to leave, yet he dreaded the thought of returning to that hollow apartment and worse, to that empty bed. The last three years he hadn’t cared to be with people. Like her in her work, he had become a loner, preferring his own company, even dodging his partner whenever he could. Now, suddenly, being alone didn’t sound too damned inviting. In fact, it sucked, big time. He wanted company, this woman’s company. Damn her!

He pushed his mug away from him. It’s time I left.

So soon? she looked disappointed.

Yeah, I got an early morning. His eyes brushed her face, traveling down to the pulse beating in her neck, and lastly to the opened buttons of her white blouse, trying to fully visualize in his mind what hid underneath.

Their eyes met and held once again; sparks flew. Thanks for the beer and the conversation, Andre said.

Thank you for coming to my rescue.

No problem. He nodded, turning to leave, tearing himself away from her.

Andre? she called after him.

Yeah? he turned and looked at her, his heart on the verge of exploding out of his chest.

Would you be interested in a nightcap at my house?

ANDRE FOLLOWED HER in his truck and as soon as they entered the front door, she asked him if he wanted a glass of wine. Wine was the furthest thing from his mind at that moment, but he accepted it anyway. She came back with two long stemmed glasses filled with the amber liquid and handed one to him. She gestured for him to sit, and he did. She sat beside him. He smelled the scent of her perfume—light, flowery, but potent enough for him to want to bury his nose in the crook of her neck, and trail kisses to every damn part of her body. Her presence so close beside him was becoming distracting.

Conversation became damn near impossible as he kept wondering how she tasted, the feel of her soft skin against his, and how it felt to be inside of her. He drained the last of his wine.

I gotta go, he announced, but made no attempt to move.

You haven’t been here that long.

Long enough.

Do you want to leave? she whispered.

No, I don’t.

Then don’t.

And before Andre knew what was happening, his lips pressed her. He tasted those ripe full lips and realized just how much he missed a woman’s kiss. She tasted like friggin’ heaven and he wanted more, much, much more and he forced himself to slow down, pace himself. It had been too long. He wanted to see her, all of her, without clothes and he unclasped the buttons of her blouse, showing her breasts peeking out from the lacy bra. They were perfect and damn eager and tanned. God, how he wanted to find out if she was tanned all over! Her breasts fit his hands perfectly as he freed them from the bondage of the bra and he took one then the other nipple in his mouth, teasing, and licking and she moaned in response. In a matter of minutes, they were both fully naked and he couldn’t control himself any longer. He needed to be inside of her—deep inside.

Suddenly, she looked at him, eyes ablaze with desire. Do you have protection?

No, he admitted, aggravated for not having a condom. In the last three years, making love to a woman had been the furthest thing from his mind.

I may have a condom. She rose.

Andre grabbed her wrist, jaw taut. You do this often?

Surprise and confusion crossed her face. No, Andre, I don’t.

He let her go, not liking the way he felt —territorial and possessive with a woman he’d only met about three hours ago.

He leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch, chest bare, jeans unzipped, the fire roaring in the fireplace, warming him. Andre closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, and contemplated whether or not he should leave.

Annoyed, he rose, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted what she had and was angry for it. He strode over to the window, moved the curtain back, and peered out into the night. The streetlights lit the yards of the other houses. But no lights shone from inside the windows of the homes. Everyone was tucked in for the night. Everything appeared safe and secure.

The scent of her perfume reached him first, then her touch. Her hand stroked his bare back and massaged his muscles, loosening them. God, how he needed that! A woman’s touch. Her touch.

Do you see anything interesting out there? she whispered in his ear.

He turned, fully aroused. She stood close, her nipples brushing his chest. Nothing as interesting as in here, he whispered, his lips claiming hers at that point, starved for her.

She kissed him in return, teasing him with her tongue. He carried her back to the couch. He used the condom and when he entered her, she moaned in pleasure. She whispered words of need with that silky voice of hers and moved her hips just right, milking him, drawing him deeper and deeper within her. Their lips found each other again, kissing, teasing, their tongues entwined and he groaned in delight, loving the taste of her, the feel of her through the condom. He coiled his hands in her long blonde hair and finally, no longer able to hold back, orgasmed, deeply and damned satisfying, three long years worth. Her legs encircled him, trapping him within her warm body.

Later, their lovemaking progressed to her bedroom, still explosive until they lay in each other’s arms exhausted and sleep claiming them immediately.

The next morning, Andre awakened to a dog barking outside and the woman he’d made love to the night before sleeping peacefully beside him. He sighed, recalling the night, and remembering his anniversary had been celebrated with someone other than his wife. A part of him felt ashamed and guilty for betraying Deidre. The other part of him hungered to be touched and caressed, hungry to feel again.

He examined the bedroom searching for clues to the personality and character of the woman who lay peacefully in his arms. Immaculate, like the rest of the house. The furniture looked old, but tasteful. Prints of landmarks of New Orleans hung on her walls—St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, and the French Quarter. The four-poster bed was probably an antique. It was large and comfortable, a man’s bed. Light filtered in through the blinds covering the many long windows in her bedroom and despite his lack of expertise with color, everything seemed to match just right.

A scent of lilac from her hair drifted up to him and he buried his nose against her soft locks of hair and inhaled more of her scent.

The sound of his cell vibrating on the night stand interrupted his inspection of the room and of her.

Damn, he muttered under his breath as he felt her stir in his arms. Trying not to wake her, he reached over to turn on the lamp and grab his phone from the table. The ID pad belonged to his partner. He snatched it up and placed it against his ear.

Yeah. He said when he heard his partner’s