He made a shrill sound and then his hands were no longer on her.
Josie struggled immediately to the other side of the bed and off, glancing over to see melted wax from the candle cooling on his face. He swiped at it, his eyes closed.
The sheet was twisted under his knees so she left it, snatching the sheath she’d been wearing earlier from the floor as she bolted for the door and out into the drawing room beyond. She heard an inhuman roar, then Philippe was crashing against her, toppling her to the floor and taking the table holding the single white candle with them.
“You just don’t know when to give up, do you?” he growled.
He roughly turned her over and tried to force her legs open with his knee.
“This place is falling down around your ears, not even prostitutes want to stay here, except that dead bitch Frederique, and yet there you are, still determined to make it.”
He thrust his hand against her throat, choking off air and causing her to cough. But his mention of Frederique sparked a memory. He’d opted out of cleaning room 2B earlier, claiming that someone needed to man the front desk.
Could he have killed Frederique? Unlike the general public, he had full knowledge of how the first victim, Claire Laraway had been murdered, right down to how she’d been positioned on the bed. Had he orchestrated a copycat killing, taking care of two birds with one stone by doing away with someone helping Josie and guaranteeing the scandal would chase away any others thinking about staying there?
It seemed so far-fetched.
Then again, what he was doing right now would have seemed the same ten minutes ago.
Her throat burned from the pressure he applied. She started coughing hard, tears coming to her eyes.
Strangely, he loosened his grip slightly. Josie dragged in deep breaths of air.
“Frederique,” she croaked. “What did you do to her?”
The candle on the table they’d overturned during their fall ignited the white tablecloth. The flash of yellow light threw his features into relief as he grinned at her malevolently. “The same that I’m about to do to you.”
The Quarter Killer.
Was it possible that Philippe had committed both the murders of Claire Laraway and Frederique? But Claude had indicated that even though the murders had the same MO on the surface, there were many differences. The first being the rape. The second, the choice of weapon. Claire’s throat had been cut with a clean-edged knife, while Frederique’s flesh had been roughly slit with a duller blade.
Philippe was again trying to pry Josie’s legs apart despite the growing yellow ball of flame to her right. The burning tablecloth had acted like a wick, leading the fire to the curtains. Peripherally, she saw one of the curtains burn from the support poll and land on the settee, where it would most likely set that afire as well.
The Josephine.
She fought against her captor doubly hard.
“Damn you, Philippe! Damn you. May you rot in hell for what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done is nothing compared to what I’m going to do.”
She thrashed her legs, sending him off balance. “Your boss won’t like it if you burn the place down.”
“My boss will probably give me a bonus.”
Josie’s throat was raw with pain where he continued to grip her. “How much is he paying you? I’ll double the amount.”
His full-bodied laugh made her shudder. “With what, Josie? Your good looks?” His gaze scanned her naked frame. “It might have been tempting, once. But since I’m already going to take what you would have given me-”
“Money! I have money,” she cried. “Lots of it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who’s trying to con who now?”
“I’m telling the truth. I went to the bank today and took out a mortgage. The hotel was paid for, free and clear, and I took out a loan to help me get her back up and running again. To bridge the time between now and when business returns.”
She’d also done a lot more to guarantee the Josephine’s survival, but all he needed to know was that she had cash on hand. Lots of it.
“You’re lying.”
“On my grandmother’s grave, I have it.”
He released her neck. She tried to struggle up to a less vulnerable position.
“Where is it?”
“Downstairs. At the front desk.”
He stared at her, apparently unaware of the fire that was growling next to them. “Liar. You wouldn’t keep that kind of money downstairs with the doors open.”
“Think about it. That’s exactly where I would keep the money. Like you, that’s the last place anyone would look for it.”
He removed his weight and lifted her with a hand at the back of her neck. Josie gasped as he shoved her toward the door. She just managed to grab her white sheath before she was stumbling down the stairs. An ominous whoosh sounded behind her as the fire greedily ate everything in its path in her private rooms, fed by the air circulating through the hotel. Air that had been meant to cleanse the structure of any bad karma.
Air that was now helping in the destruction of the Josephine.
She’d managed to get the sheath over herself just as Philippe shoved her down the last remaining stairs into the lobby. She fought to keep her footing and ran for the desk and the shotgun that was behind it.
He caught the back of her hair, pulling hard. Hot tears flooded her eyes and shards of pain shot up her scalp. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
He shoved her to the side, keeping a hand on her as he procured the cash lockbox and the key for it that she kept in a drawer.
Josie used his distraction to edge a little closer to the desk, to the gun. As he awkwardly attempted to open the box with one hand, he released his grip on her slightly.
She took full advantage of the opportunity and shoved him to the side, grabbing for the gun she’d left unlocked.
It wasn’t there…
A loud click sounded.
“Looking for this?” Drew said, the muzzle of the weapon pressed against Philippe’s temple.
20
DREW’S HEAD HURT LIKE HELL and he didn’t feel exactly threatening in the towel around his hips, but all that melted into the background in light of the scene before him. Philippe holding Josie by her soft curls, the white sheath she’d worn earlier hanging low to reveal her precious nakedness to the world.
“Release her. Now.” He shoved the gun harder against the assistant manager’s head.
Philippe let her go.
Drew knew a moment of relief so powerful he let his guard down.
Philippe went sailing over the desk, the lockbox in hand as he scrambled for the open door.
“Shoot him!” Josie shouted.
Drew stared at her. He remembered Dick Rove accusing him of being capable of murder. While his stint in the military had resulted in his share of gunfire, he knew the severity of the consequences.
Sirens sounded from somewhere in the distance.
“We know who he is now, Josie,” he said quietly, putting the gun down as Philippe gained his footing. “The police will find him.”
“The hell they will,” she said, yanking the gun from his hands and taking aim.
Philippe turned at the door as if to give a triumphant grin before he disappeared into the crowded street beyond. And Josie squeezed the trigger, at the last second adjusting her aim so that she didn’t hit him in the head and chest, but rather the groin.
It was enough to take the man down, screaming.
Josie dropped the gun to her side. “That’s what you call Creole justice.”
IT WAS SAID THAT PROBLEMS somehow looked better in the light of day. “Sleep on it, everything will look better in the morning,” people said.
But this morning, everything looked worse.
Drew stood on the street a couple of buildings up from Hotel Josephine, an officer having given him a pair of uniform slacks and a T-shirt, though his feet were still bare. Josie was next to him in her sheath and a police blanket. The N.O. Fire Department was putting out the last of the flames Drew hadn’t even known had been raging on the fourth floor. Sooty water trickled through the lobby door and over the curb, making its way toward the sewer drain a ways down. What hadn’t been burned had suffered major smoke and water damage.