Leopard's Prey(130)

“We do have an excellent timeline, Remy,” Gage pronounced. “Carson took a whole hell of a lot of photographs last night.”

In the distance, they could hear the sheriff’s boat making its way toward the spot, coming in from the water with the forensic team. Word would be spreading up and down the bayou that another murder had taken place in their backyard.

Remy continued to look at the body. Carson had taken a while to die, mostly because the killer hadn’t severed any arteries when he began carving him up. But still, there were no marks on the throat indicating multiple chokings. He sighed and ran a hand down the back of his neck. It was right there in front of him, but he wasn’t getting it.

“Remy, you have to take a look at these pictures Carson took,” Gage said again. He walked the camera over to his brother. “Start here. There’s an entire series, startin’ at the gallery, inside, before we tossed him out. The first few pictures were of the sculptures in the gallery and then the more famous and wealthy jet-setters who came to fight for the right to purchase one of Lefevre’s latest creations. There are many photographs of Arnaud and Bijou. He’s definitely fixated on her.”

“That’s not news.”

“He took more photos with a zoom lens from across the street after we tossed him out, but the windows are glass and the place was lit up like a Christmas tree. Between those pictures and his scribbles for the headlines and article idea, we’ve at least got a timeline of his whereabouts right before his murder.”

“Did we get lucky enough to get his murderer caught in the act?” Remy asked, half serious. Of course, had the murderer been on the camera, he would have ditched it in the swamp or canals. No one was that stupid.

“Take a look, Remy,” Gage encouraged. “There’s a hell of a lot of photographs and some are very unexpected. I’d rather not jump to conclusions or influence you in any way. See for yourself.”

Remy took the camera with a gloved hand, studying the photograph Gage had brought up. Bijou, looking beautiful and far too elegant, was laughing, looking into Arnaud’s eyes over his drink. The next picture was of the two of them, studying his latest creation, a look of rapt attention on her face. Arnaud seemed enthralled with Bijou, his gaze only on her. If one just looked at the series of photographs and knew nothing of Bijou and Arnaud’s relationship, they would believe the two were lovers.

He moved on to the next few shots. They were taken from outside the gallery, Bijou and Arnaud dancing and then many more of Arnaud staring at Remy’s face. The artist looked enraptured. Even enamored. Definitely fixated on Remy now, not Bijou.

“It’s interestin’ what interpretation one can put on a photograph,” he murmured. “I can imagine what spin Carson was going to put on these.”

There were more photographs of Remy and Bijou dancing together and they definitely looked like lovers, dancing so close their bodies were practically entwined. There was one of Bijou looking up at him and his heart clenched hard. There was love stamped on her face. She looked beautiful, so beautiful. The moment should have been private between them, but Carson had planned on spreading it out in a tabloid, with photos of Lefevre as well and calling it “love triangle with a twist.”

Remy went still when the next set of photographs appeared. He could feel Gage watching him. Rob Butterfield was hunched over the trunk of his car, one hand on the latch as he talked to Jason Durang. The two looked furtive, which had probably been the reason they drew Carson’s attention.

Durang’s vehicle, a four-wheel-drive Jeep, was parked very close to Butterfield’s Mercedes. The next shots showed the Mercedes trunk open and Butterfield reaching in to extract a large plastic tarp and more plastic sheets folded. Remy’s mouth went dry. He glanced at his brother, who looked grim.

“Keep goin’,” Gage suggested.

The next shot showed Butterfield spreading a leather-type case open on the hood of his car. Both men peered down at it. Carson used a zoom lens to focus on the set of surgical tools.

Remy’s pulse leapt. His leopard snarled. They had planned a murder, but whose? Bijou’s? Had they planned to kill her and make it look as if the bone harvester had done it? He’d been worried about that for a while. Had Carson caught them in the act and then been caught himself?

“Get a warrant, Gage. Let’s search both vehicles. We should have enough with these photographs for that.”

Remy continued to examine the pictures Carson had taken that night. After he left the parking lot, he’d gone to the small studio Lefevre rented to work in. The room was surrounded on three sides by mostly glass for the light. Again there was a series of photographs, all capturing the Frenchmen engrossed in his work, busy sketching. At times the artist almost looked frantic, driven by his relentless need to create. There were dozens of sketches of Remy’s eyes. Of his face. Some just of his mouth.