those cases where the swamp consumed all the evidence. After her death, the murders stopped.”
“But there were other victims,” Quinn said.
“Both lovely young women.” Father Ryan paused, deep in memory. “Patricia Ahern and Sonia Gavin. The one was from New York City. The other a Texan, I think. They’d been in New Orleans on vacation. I know the police investigated all the tour operators at the time since both girls had been on tours. Of course, Genevieve hadn’t been on a tour, but she’d been out in the swamp with her boyfriend the day before. He was a suspect, but was cleared. He’d been back at work in his father’s bar all through the night.”
“I heard a little on the past this morning. Detective Deerfield was working back then, too. Those murders fell to the Pearl River department. Those guys seem to think that someone definitely knows about the past murders and all the local lore. Which, I suppose, would point to a local. Only this time we have a male victim. Years ago they were all beautiful young women. I keep thinking, why? What was happening then, and can it have anything to do with what’s happening now? Seldom does a savage killer wait around twenty years to start all over again.”
“Unless he was in prison,” Ryan said. “But the cops are good. Larue and the Pearl River men will be checking for anyone who might have gotten back out. I still think that we’d have heard about a killer brought in who’d done anything like this. There’s a connection with the past murders. There’s probably a connection back to the D’Oro and the Good Witch and the rougarou story. One murder last night, another today. This killer is on a spree. We have to move on this.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Meeting at the house tonight. But we may have something.”
Quinn went on to tell Father Ryan about David Fagin and Julian Henri, their new swamp tour, and the e-mails they received.
“Rival tour group?” Father Ryan said doubtfully. “That’s pretty drastic, brutally murdering people as a means of getting rid of competition.”
Quinn’s phone buzzed.
He checked the display.
Danni had sent him a text.
Back at the Cheshire Cat at 7:00?
He hit the O and K keys and sent his message, then looked at Father Ryan. “Want to check out the local competition?”
“Sounds like a plan. That is, of course, as long as we’re sending someone out for dinner once we get there.”
Quinn pulled out his phone again. Victoria Miller owned Crescent City Sites . The reservation office was on Decatur Street, about a block from Jackson Square.
“We taking Wolf with us?” Father Ryan asked.
“Hell, yeah,” Quinn said. “Wolf is always up for a good swamp tour, aren’t you, boy?”
The dog barked his agreement.
They headed out to Quinn’s car. It wasn’t much of a drive, but the evening had turned cold. The streets of the French Quarter were heavy with pedestrian traffic and finding a place to park on the riverfront took some time. From there it took them only a matter of minutes to reach the tour offices. The doors were closed against the cold. Quinn pushed them open. Wolf followed first, then Father Ryan. The woman behind the counter was probably in her early forties, the kind though who would be a beauty at any stage of life. Her features were delicate, her body slim. She was dressed in a tight red sweater that enhanced the platinum color of her hair and the brilliant shade of her green eyes. She smiled at first in welcome, then seemed to shrink back as she noted Wolf.
“Sorry,” Quinn said quickly. “I’ll have him wait outside.”
“No, it’s all right. He just startled me. Your dog is the size of a pony. Come in, please. What are you looking for? Actually, I should tell you we really can’t allow the dog on the swamp or plantation tours. Though honestly, for a walking tour, if you wanted to hang in the back, I suppose it would be okay. I’m getting ahead of myself. What kind of a tour
“But there were other victims,” Quinn said.
“Both lovely young women.” Father Ryan paused, deep in memory. “Patricia Ahern and Sonia Gavin. The one was from New York City. The other a Texan, I think. They’d been in New Orleans on vacation. I know the police investigated all the tour operators at the time since both girls had been on tours. Of course, Genevieve hadn’t been on a tour, but she’d been out in the swamp with her boyfriend the day before. He was a suspect, but was cleared. He’d been back at work in his father’s bar all through the night.”
“I heard a little on the past this morning. Detective Deerfield was working back then, too. Those murders fell to the Pearl River department. Those guys seem to think that someone definitely knows about the past murders and all the local lore. Which, I suppose, would point to a local. Only this time we have a male victim. Years ago they were all beautiful young women. I keep thinking, why? What was happening then, and can it have anything to do with what’s happening now? Seldom does a savage killer wait around twenty years to start all over again.”
“Unless he was in prison,” Ryan said. “But the cops are good. Larue and the Pearl River men will be checking for anyone who might have gotten back out. I still think that we’d have heard about a killer brought in who’d done anything like this. There’s a connection with the past murders. There’s probably a connection back to the D’Oro and the Good Witch and the rougarou story. One murder last night, another today. This killer is on a spree. We have to move on this.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Meeting at the house tonight. But we may have something.”
Quinn went on to tell Father Ryan about David Fagin and Julian Henri, their new swamp tour, and the e-mails they received.
“Rival tour group?” Father Ryan said doubtfully. “That’s pretty drastic, brutally murdering people as a means of getting rid of competition.”
Quinn’s phone buzzed.
He checked the display.
Danni had sent him a text.
Back at the Cheshire Cat at 7:00?
He hit the O and K keys and sent his message, then looked at Father Ryan. “Want to check out the local competition?”
“Sounds like a plan. That is, of course, as long as we’re sending someone out for dinner once we get there.”
Quinn pulled out his phone again. Victoria Miller owned Crescent City Sites . The reservation office was on Decatur Street, about a block from Jackson Square.
“We taking Wolf with us?” Father Ryan asked.
“Hell, yeah,” Quinn said. “Wolf is always up for a good swamp tour, aren’t you, boy?”
The dog barked his agreement.
They headed out to Quinn’s car. It wasn’t much of a drive, but the evening had turned cold. The streets of the French Quarter were heavy with pedestrian traffic and finding a place to park on the riverfront took some time. From there it took them only a matter of minutes to reach the tour offices. The doors were closed against the cold. Quinn pushed them open. Wolf followed first, then Father Ryan. The woman behind the counter was probably in her early forties, the kind though who would be a beauty at any stage of life. Her features were delicate, her body slim. She was dressed in a tight red sweater that enhanced the platinum color of her hair and the brilliant shade of her green eyes. She smiled at first in welcome, then seemed to shrink back as she noted Wolf.
“Sorry,” Quinn said quickly. “I’ll have him wait outside.”
“No, it’s all right. He just startled me. Your dog is the size of a pony. Come in, please. What are you looking for? Actually, I should tell you we really can’t allow the dog on the swamp or plantation tours. Though honestly, for a walking tour, if you wanted to hang in the back, I suppose it would be okay. I’m getting ahead of myself. What kind of a tour
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