GODDESS OF THE MOON (A Diana Racine Psychic Suspense) Page 3

  An uneasy feeling rose in Lucier’s gut. He rested his hand on Diana’s shoulder. “Until we know what we’re dealing with, keep your doors and windows locked. When you visit the children’s ward at the hospitals, I don’t want you to go alone.”

  “Aren’t you overreacting?” she asked.

  No, he thought. No. Diana lived alone, vulnerable to those who’d want to hurt her. He wanted to live with her, to protect her. But she wasn’t ready. He didn’t push even though he was.

  It had been eight years since an auto accident took the lives of his wife and children. He’d survived the grief, the endless days of work and sleep and more work. Diana had breathed new energy into him. She wanted him to cherish the memory of his former life and the woman with whom he shared it. He loved Diana for that. He’d never forget that life, but Diana was a different woman not a replacement, and their life together would be a different life. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t.

  “No. ‘We await you, Diana’ doesn’t sound good to me. In fact, it sounds like someone is eager to make your acquaintance.”

  “They’re capitalizing on the publicity. Someone’s trying to put a scare into the psychic, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s putting a scare into the psychic’s boyfriend.” Lucier realized what he said in front of his men. “You guys didn’t hear that, okay?”

  Beecher zipped his lips but couldn’t hide the smirk beneath. Cash snatched the newspaper and hurried from the room.

  Diana’s smile brightened her face. “I like the sound of that, Lieutenant. I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

  “What are you laughing at?” Lucier snarled at Beecher, who took the hint and left. Lucier stroked his fingers across Diana’s cheek. “I don’t want to be your first boyfriend and your last.”

  Chapter Six

  The Offering

  The man with the red beard stepped into the bedroom. The walls were painted bubble gum pink, and the sun shone through the Victorian leaded-glass windows, creating facets of dancing light across the room. Pausing by the empty crib, he remembered the baby who had occupied its place. She was a beautiful baby, he recalled. Always hungry. It was a pleasure watching her feed. He lamented that he had to give her up so quickly, but that’s what they wanted. The babies only stayed for a short time before they were transferred. They’d probably have to stop for a while or a pattern would emerge. Maybe the FBI had already found one. He walked to the second crib and looked down at the small figure wrapped in pink.

  “Good morning, Lilith.” He stroked the baby’s cheek. “I’m so sorry you must leave me soon. I wish I could keep you longer, but it’s not to be.” When he reached the third crib, he leaned down and picked up the new arrival with the same care her mother would have, given the opportunity. “You are a beauty,” he said. “What shall I name you? Ah, Persephone, a fitting name.”

  He brought the baby to the young woman with long blonde hair, sitting in a rocking chair, and placed the infant in her arms. She unbuttoned her blouse and unsnapped the panel of the nursing bra. Cradling the baby in her arms and cooing softly, she guided the hungry infant to her chest. Persephone placed her tiny hands on each side of the woman’s breast, as if to squeeze every drop from its overflowing bounty, and suckled hungrily. After a few minutes, the young woman changed sides and the baby drank until she fell asleep. Then she put the sleeping infant back in her crib and covered her with a soft pink blanket.

  The man with the red beard watched Persephone sleep. “You will be a special gift. But the ultimate offering will be Diana herself, Goddess of the Moon.”

  Chapter Seven

  Into the Mythological Realm

  Willy Cash carried the printout into Lucier’s office. “Here’s the lowdown on the babies snatched in the past year, Lieutenant. Two from hospitals like the one here, but different M.O.s for the other. Besides the Seaver baby and the girl in Mobile, one baby went missing in Atlanta.” Cash flipped to another sheet of paper. “A few other reports of missing babies from around the Southeast were parent abductions, and the police found both the parents and the babies.

  “Halloran and I studied the tapes from the hospitals where the other kidnapped babies were born. Our man is in all of them.”

  “We got ourselves a suspect,” Lucier said. “Now who the hell is he?”

  Lucier’s phone rang. Diana. He shot a pleading glance at Beecher. “Give me five, okay?” Beecher left, and Lucier turned his chair around to answer the call.

  “Will you make it here for dinner?” she asked. “I’m trying my hand at pot roast. Even I can’t screw up that.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what time,” he said, curling around the phone. “Might be late.”

  “I’ll wait,” she said. “And guess what’s for dessert?”

  “I give up. What?”

  “Me.”

  Lucier broke into a huge grin. “I’ll be right there.” Her wonderful, full-throated laugh never failed to excite him. “Keep dinner warm, and―” he lowered his voice―“don’t let dessert get cold. I like my psychics warm with a little whipped cream. And I’m starved.”

  He hung up, turned around, and noticed Cash standing near his desk, looking almost as embarrassed as Lucier. Shit. He hated when his men caught him in a personal moment. “What?”

  “Um, we showed the picture of our suspect to the hospital staff. Even though the face is obscured, one of the janitors recognized the jacket. Our guy’s another janitor, named Dudley Reems, and he hasn’t shown up for work since the kidnapping. Here’s the hospital picture. No record we can find.”

  Lucier examined the picture. “Unless that’s not his real name. Any other record of employment?”

  “Not under that name. The same janitor that recognized the coat said Reems didn’t talk much, but overheard him on the phone once mentioned the Sunrise Mission here in New Orleans.”

  “Doesn’t that mission take in the homeless, give them a bed, and help them find jobs?”

  “That’s the place. They’ve been written up several times in the papers. People claim the place saved their lives. Maybe Reems stayed there.”

  “Did you find out who runs it?”

  “Yup. It’s under state control, but it was the idea of a guy by the name of Brother Osiris.”

  “Osiris. What the hell kind of name is that?” Beecher asked, slipping into the office.

  Lucier did a double take. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope,” Cash said, brows raised, mouth twisted in a smirk. “That’s his name, at least to everyone who enters his domain.”

  “Sounds mythological. Find out Brother Osiris’s real name and the mythology, Willy.”

  “I’m ahead of you. Real name is Edward Slater. Forty-one, unmarried, no kids, not according to this, anyway. In the late eighties and early nineties he was picked up on drunk charges a few times, and last year he was questioned after a woman filed a complaint that he swindled her.”

  “What happened?” Lucier asked.

  Cash flipped the pages of his notebook. “Slater produced a signed letter that she’d willingly donated $25,000 to the Sunrise Mission. She didn’t deny signing it and then dropped the charges.”

  “Sounds like a con man to me,” Beecher said. “Hits on the ladies before they know what they’re doing.”

  “Sure does, but you know as well as I that if someone wants to leave all her money to her cat, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it. Remember that hotel heiress? What did she leave to her dog? Twelve mil?” Lucier scanned the sheet on Slater. “I assume you’ve already checked the mythology angle?”

  “Yeah, and you’re going to love this. I’ll give you the abridged version.” Cash carried a computer printout and started reading. “Osiris was an Egyptian fertility god, sometimes called god of the underworld. He was married to Isis and slain by his brother Seth, who then cut his body into fourteen pieces and cast them to the winds. There’s another story that says his body was cut into twenty-si
x pieces. In both, Isis gathered up all the pieces except the phallus and healed the body. She magically restored that little baby ’cause she conceived Horus, who is often portrayed as a babe suckled by his mother.’”

  “Jeez,” Beecher said.

  “Hey, I just wrote what I found. You couldn’t make up this stuff.”

  “What does it all mean?” Beecher asked.

  “He takes the name of a god whose member has been severed and restored,” Lucier said. “Maybe he’s saying he can overcome anything, or maybe it’s a validation of his virility.”

  “This is too deep for me,” Beecher said. “Sounds like the guy’s a whack job.”

  “Could be. It’ll be interesting. Is he always at the mission?”

  “Figured you’d ask, so I took the liberty and called. He’s there all day, every day. Gets in about nine.”

  “Good work. I want to take Diana to meet with this fertility god. Maybe she’ll pick up some vibes.”

  * * * * *

  That evening, Lucier filled Diana in on the case, including the Sunrise Mission. The weight of not finding the missing baby weighed on him. No ransom note, so money wasn’t the object. Then what was?

  She opened a bottle of pinot noir and poured two glasses. “Sounds like a front. Osiris, Jesus. One of the fertility gods.”

  Lucier sipped his wine, stopping at Diana’s statement. “How do you know that?”

  “Mythology interests me. Kind of overlaps into psychic phenomena.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re both mystical in different ways. Mythology is folklore passed down through civilizations, with their own deities and heroes. Zeus, Apollo, Aphrodite―they’re all from mythology. A lot of comic book and movie heroes are based on the mythological warrior.”

  “Hmm, Aphrodite, the love goddess. Why does that spark excitement?”

  “Can’t imagine.” Diana winked at Lucier as she placed slices of pot roast on two plates and spooned a mixture of roasted potatoes, carrots, and onions in gravy on the side. “No one understands psychic phenomena. I’m not even sure I do, but it’s real enough to those of us who have the gift. Same with mythology. Some cultures pray to different gods for rain or for a good harvest. That’s a form of mythology.”

  “Sounds logical when you explain it.”

  “Almost logical, like religion. You have to believe, Ernie, because if you thought too long, most of it doesn’t make sense.” She sipped her wine, then placed the glass on the table. “Let’s eat.”

  “Right, I almost forgot. I’m starved.”

  “You said that hours ago.”

  Lucier forked a piece of meat but stopped before he put it in him mouth. “I keep thinking about the baby. Where is she? Why was she stolen?”

  “No word?”

  “Nothing. Every case has been a dead end. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Nothing special. Answer some email, pay a few bills. Why?”

  “Will you go with me to the Sunrise Mission.”

  A smile brightened Diana’s face. “Brother Osiris? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Lucier put the pot roast in his mouth. “Hey, this is damn good.”

  “Is it? Really?”

  “Absolutely.” He proceeded to polish off his dinner. Studying his empty plate, he said, “Hmm, I seem to recall you mentioned something about my favorite dessert.”

  “Warm with whipped cream―coming up.”

  Chapter Eight

  A Magnetic Attraction

  The next morning when Lucier got to the station, Beecher followed him into his office. “Name of our suspect isn’t Dudley Reems, it’s Ridley Deems. No record, but he has a warning for soliciting a fourteen-year old―a runaway, most likely. The girl screamed and caught the attention of a beat cop. She bolted, and they couldn’t hold Deems without her, but the cop wrote him up. We checked his last address, but he’s slipped under the radar.”

  Lucier took the sheet. “We’ll check if the name and picture mean anything to Brother Osiris. Diana’s meeting me for lunch, and we’re going to the Sunrise Mission together. Maybe she’ll have a take on this creature from mythology.”

  * * * * *

  Diana and Lucier arrived at the Sunrise Mission at two. Situated on the fringe of downtown in what appeared to be an old cotton warehouse, the mission offered the homeless a bed and hot food for those in need. It reminded Diana of a children’s shelter where she spent the afternoon while on tour some years ago.

  “We’re here to see Brother Osiris,” Lucier said to the woman sweeping the entry floor. “We have an appointment.”

  “You must be Lieutenant Lucier, and you, of course, are the famous Diana Racine. Your reputation precedes you.” It was a man’s voice that answered. The speaker was a tall, lean man in his mid to late forties, with olive skin and prematurely gray hair.

  His face, though handsome, was etched with the crags and creases of life’s hard fought battles. A man who’d seen it all was Diana’s first impression. His piercing blue-gray eyes lasered right through her. He wore a long-sleeved, dark red polo shirt, blue jeans, and rubber-soled loafers. He offered his hand to Lucier but not to Diana. She retrieved her outstretched hand and stiffened at the slight.

  “I’m Brother Osiris. Don’t be put off by the name. The Brother is to make people comfortable, and Osiris speaks of a man who, though cut in many pieces, had the good fortune to be repaired. A little mythology, a little philosophy, a lot of hope. Real name is Edward Slater. You can call me whatever you want. Come into my office and tell me what this is about.”

  Well, Diana thought, raising eyebrows to Lucier, he took the phony right out of that, didn’t he? She wondered if Slater’s reluctance to shake her hand meant he feared touching her. Considering all the published accounts about her sensitivity to contact, she found the action, or lack of it, significant.

  “Somehow I thought you’d greet us in a long, flowing white robe,” Diana said. “I didn’t expect anyone so down to earth.”

  He laughed out loud as he led them through a large dining area with a half dozen harvest tables, each seating twelve. Basic condiments and napkin holders anchored the ends of the tables.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “That would be a little over the top, even for me. As you can see, this is our dining room, and these are the sleeping quarters.”

  He held open a swinging door, and they passed through a large room with cots on each side of a narrow aisle. Satchels and plastic bags stuffed with the occupants’ worldly goods filled the floor beneath the cots, some schoolbooks littered the tops.

  “Until Katrina, we had enough to satisfy the demand, except on cold nights,” Slater said. “Fortunately, this old brick building weathered the storm. Other than some missing roof shingles, we came out okay. We did our best to accommodate as many people as possible, but there just wasn’t enough room. It was a nightmare. Much better now.”

  Diana and Lucier exchanged shrugs. She didn’t expect this level of disclosure, and she could tell Lucier didn’t either.

  “Over here is what we call The Closet. All donated items. Clothes, shoes, and whatever else someone less fortunate requires to give them back a modicum of dignity. All we ask is that no one takes what he or she doesn’t need. Some clothes are new, most are used but in good condition. There’s a recreation room with a TV, a communal bathroom, kitchen, and nursery.”

  “And all this is donated?” Lucier asked.

  “Everything, and those working are either volunteers or people staying here pitching in their share.”

  People scattered throughout the facility tended to different tasks, one worked in The Closet—a room the size of an average bedroom—a couple of others prepared food in the kitchen, and still another did laundry at a large washer/dryer. All the workers were women. A few children in the television room played, watched TV, or read. Diana assumed the men were out either working or trying to find work.

  “Do you live here?” Diana asked.

/>   “No, I’m afraid the state would frown on that. There are shifts of employees who work on the premises and take care of the daily business. I eat my meals here, but I have a room in a nearby boarding house. Just a bed and dresser.” He turned to Diana with a crooked smile. “Oh, and a closet to keep my flowing white robes.”

  After years of suffering the sarcasm of audience hecklers, Diana was seldom embarrassed. But Edward Slater had turned her own words back on her, and she felt small and petty. Her cheeks burned with discomfort. “Touché,” she said, forcing a smile. “I deserved that.”

  “Then we’re even.” He opened a door and ushered them inside. “This is my office. Please, have a seat.”

  Nothing in the office boasted of wasted money―a simple wooden desk and four slat-back chairs, two four-drawer file cabinets, and a six-foot bookcase crammed with books of a spiritual nature, from Buddha to Confucius to the Bible to the Bhagavad Gita, tomes on mysticism, mythology, parapsychology, and the psychology of Jung and Freud, among others. A locked cabinet on one shelf roused Diana’s curiosity.

  Everyone took a seat, and Lucier slid Deems’s photo across the desk. “Do you know who this man is?”

  Slater looked at the picture. “Yes, Dudley something or other. He sleeps here on occasion. In exchange for the bed, he offers his services as a janitor/handyman. He comes and goes, as do many of our residents. Why are you looking for him, and why here?”

  “His real name is Ridley Deems. He mentioned your mission to one of his co-workers. We’d like to talk to him.”

  “Has he committed a crime?”

  “He’s a person of interest in a case we’re working on. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t recall,” Slater said. “What do you think he did? What case?”

  “A baby was kidnapped from her home last evening.”

  “I read about that in this morning’s paper.” Slater slid back in his chair. “And you think Ridley’s involved? He was always so helpful. Didn’t strike me as the type to do such a thing.”