But there was the length of the candles in Saria’s picture. They had burned an inch, if he judged it correctly, and there was only the bowl of blood. In the forensic photographer’s photograph, the candles appeared to have burned a little longer, not that precise inch, although it was difficult to tell. A knotted string lying half in, half out of the bowl of blood was not in Saria’s picture. Not in the ones of the entire altar and not in the ones of just the bowl of blood that she had taken. There were close-ups. Perfectly clear pictures. Nowhere was that small seven-knotted string until the forensic photographer took the pictures several hours after her.
How long had it taken Saria and Bijou to make their way back to the Inn and tell Drake? Drake had brought a generator and lights to the crime scene. He’d had to retrieve those items and make his way back. Had the killer been there all along? Had he watched Saria taking pictures of the crime scene and then finished his ceremony? Bijou had been there as well. How close to both women had he been?
Saria and Bijou had to have interrupted the ritual ceremony the killer was compelled to conduct after each murder. The compulsion was so strong that he’d stayed concealed in the swamp and then, after the women left, he’d finished his ritual. That was the only answer to the discrepancy between the photographs.
His heart reacted to his conclusions, going a little crazy at the thought of either Saria or Bijou so close to a vicious serial killer. He wiped his hand over his suddenly dry mouth. He was going to have to try to talk to Saria whether she liked it or not and try to point out that not only had her life been in danger, but her friend had been in jeopardy as well.
The killer had balls. He’d proved that enough times. He murdered his victim, taking his time harvesting the bones and then conducting his bizarre ritual where others could come up on him at any time. The fact that he could be discovered didn’t seem to faze the killer at all.
Remy picked up Saria’s photograph of the entire altar, comparing it with the forensic photographer’s picture. The most interesting thing of all was the altar contained no blood spatter whatsoever. Not on any of the objects, so Remy was certain the altar was constructed after the murder and harvesting of bones took place. But . . . Remy studied the pictures. There wasn’t a single drop of blood on the ground inside the altar. The scene was messy, all around the altar and beyond it, but not the ground where the altar had been constructed.
“He covered it,” he said aloud. “He had to have covered the ground where he was going to make his altar. He didn’t want any blood spatter on his precious altar.”
Remy sighed again. He wasn’t getting any closer to understanding the killer. Even the photos and the files that the FBI had sent from the previous murders weren’t helping. He had no idea if anything on the altar was significant. It appeared to be a voodoo ritual, but if it was, it was like none he’d come across in all his years there in the bayous. Voodoo was a part of his community and he respected it and those who practiced it. Whatever the killer was doing had nothing to do with the voodoo he knew.
He smelled lavender and almost before the scent could compute he heard the low murmur sweeping through the bull pen. A low wolf whistle had him turning his head, his heart giving a quick leap and his cock jerking at that now familiar scent.
Bijou walked through the bull pen, turning heads as she made her way toward him. She was dressed in a pair of jeans that hugged her curves lovingly and a simple rose-colored shirt that looked as elegant as she was. Her thick cloud of hair was pulled back in a long intricate braid, but tendrils had escaped and curled around her face, drawing attention to her bone structure, flawless skin, beautiful eyes and fantasy mouth.
Remy swore under his breath. Did she have to be so damned sexy? Couldn’t she walk like a normal woman? She had to be aware she was surrounded by men leering at her, but her hips swayed and she had that little smile fixed on her face that made him crazy. His leopard jumped right along with his heart. She was truly breathtaking. He couldn’t blame the other men for gawking, but he didn’t have to like it—and his leopard hated it. The beast raked and clawed and snarled. Bijou Breaux certainly brought out the animal in him every time she got close.
He shook his head and stood up. He knew that little smile that never quite reached her eyes. She looked like money, a little haughty, elusive and completely unattainable. She also had her gaze glued to him, making him feel as if he were the only man in the room. Her white knight charging to the rescue when she didn’t even know she needed rescuing.
His heart did a crazy dance in his chest. Bijou could get up in front of thousands of people on a stage and sing her heart out—he knew—he’d watched a few of her concert performances on YouTube. She detested being Bijou Breaux in person. She looked relaxed, but he knew better. He knew her. He could read her, and sweeping through the bull pen was difficult for her with so many staring at her. She had her eyes on him because he was getting her through it. She was pretending no one else was around. No one but him.