The Night Is Watching by Heather Graham Page A

looking at current crime. Also, Henri wants to exploit the skull—great for tourism. I also think he wants to know who it belonged to. That might help him figure out who put a wig on the skull, and he wants to know that so he can fire his or her ass.”
    “You believe whoever did it had to be an actor or crew member or Gilded Lily employee?”
    “It’s not like the place is locked up tight all the time. It’s unlikely that anyone not associated with the theater would have wandered in with a skull in hand to hide it under a wig in the basement,” he told her, shrugging. “So, yes, it had to be someone already here, someone trying to cause trouble.”
    “Someone like...a trickster,” Jane murmured.
    “A trickster?” Sloan asked, looking at her curiously. “Yes, I guess.”
    “Ah, beware tricksters.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Nothing, just thinking out loud,” she said. “It’s hardly a good...joke when you consider that the skull once belonged to someone living and breathing.”
    “Maybe after so many years that didn’t matter much to whoever put it there.”
    “Are you investigating?”
    “We did investigate,” Sloan replied. “Like I said, we dusted for prints. We checked out the basement area. Naturally, we did a thorough search. We wanted to make sure there were no more bones down there. But whoever messed around with the skull wiped it clean, and prints in the basement would mean little because everyone goes down there from time to time. Not necessarily for a wig, but there are boxes of fabric, costumes pieces, props, you name it. So, other than me questioning the cast, crew and staff, there wasn’t all that far we could go. Everyone here denied ever seeing the skull before.”
    “I guess you’re at a dead end, if you’ll forgive the pun. And I understand that Henri Coque might want to know who put the skull there.”
    “Everyone—other than the person who put it there, of course—wants to know who did it. Who the trickster, as you called him, might have been.”
    “Someone with a warped sense of humor, I guess.”
    Sloan frowned at her. “I’m surprised Logan let you come here. Don’t you and your group usually deal with felonies, serial killers, major crime?”
    “Yes.”
    “So how could he spare you?”
    “I’m an artist. You needed an artist. If something major occurs, he’ll call me back in. Frankly, I’m surprised myself. You don’t want me here, for whatever reason, but you called Logan.”
    “I thought I explained that,” he said, a little testily. “I know Logan. I trust him. If we had to have someone in here, I’d prefer to go with a professional sent by someone I know.”
    “Power struggle!” she teased.
    “Not at all. Henri is a politician, I’m just a lawman. But I wanted it done right.” He hesitated. “Henri wanted to call in a local artist who does landscapes, caricatures and the like. When I suggested calling a friend who could recommend a legitimate forensic artist, we came to a compromise.”
    “Ah,” she said.
    “So, I wound up with a member of Logan’s own Krewe.”
    “So you did.”
    He didn’t offer an opinion as to whether that was what he’d wanted or not. He knew Logan, so he had to know something about their Krewes. She’d already guessed as much. But he didn’t ask the questions they usually got. Questions like “Aren’t you known as the bureau’s ‘ghost-busters’?” Or “Shouldn’t you be off chasing ghosts somewhere?” Or one of her personal favorites: “Did the ghost do it? Or was it the butler? Or the butler’s ghost? Ha-ha!”
    Yes, he had to realize that Krewe units were considered “special” or “specific.”
    But he didn’t ask her another question. Liz arrived with his meal and they both began to eat, concentrating on their food. After a while, the silence grew awkward, even though there seemed to be an expectant quality in the very air between them. He was definitely way too attractive, and the sexual draw she felt