Crescent Moon - By Lori Handeland Page 0,42

gone.

I'd chased him out of the touristy section and into a slightly run-down area where small jazz clubs lined the street Mostly empty now, a few stood open as employees prepared the places for the evening. All of them had interesting names like The Spotted Cat.

A thin, elderly black man swept dust out the front door of a building without a name. As I passed he nodded, smiled, and murmured, "Ma'am."

"Did anyone run through here just now?"

He shook his head but kept his eyes on his broom. I frowned. He had to have seen Charlie. Unless my quarry could just up and disappear.

For all I knew, he could.

I retraced my steps to Jackson Square, where the party continued. I no longer had any desire to linger. The sun was completely gone.

At Cassandra's, I burst in, then stared. Detective Sullivan appeared as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

"Ms. Malone. What are you doing here?"

"Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing."

"I have questions for Ms. - " He broke off with a scowl and turned back to Cassandra. "What's your last name?"

"Priestess Cassandra is good enough."

"I am not calling you Priestess."

"Cassandra's fine, too."

Detective Sullivan's face got so red I was tempted to help him loosen his tie. However, I didn't think he'd appreciate the gesture. The man probably slept in a suit.

Although - my gaze lowered to that tie, imprinted with a tiny Lucy holding a football for a clueless Charlie Brown - I was starting to think Sullivan wasn't as humorless as he pretended to be.

"You two know each other?" he managed.

"Yes," Cassandra and I said at the same time.

"How?"

"I came in to shop."

"For what?'

"What are you, a cop?" I quipped.

He blinked, a confused expression replacing his annoyance. "Well, yeah."

Cassandra laughed, then turned the sound into a cough. I took pity on the man and answered his question - kind of.

"I heard this was an interesting place. Came in, looked around, and - "

"We bonded," Cassandra put in.

"Bonded," he repeated.

"I liked her; she liked me. Pals." Cassandra crossed her middle finger over her index finger. "We're like this."

Now I was the one who choked on a laugh.

Sullivan didn't appear convinced, but he let the matter drop. "I'm investigating a missing person."

I thought of Mrs. Beasly. The New Orleans PD was really on the ball.

"Well, not exactly a person," the detective said, and Cassandra and I exchanged glances. "At least not anymore. There's a body missing from the morgue."

I started, but the detective was staring at Cassandra and not at me. He didn't notice my reaction. Cassandra did, but she was savvy enough not to ask why that information disturbed me.

"Whenever that happens," Cassandra murmured, "the voodoo priestess is always the first suspect."

"Because?' I asked.

"Zombies." Cassandra rolled her eyes. "What else?"

"You can't believe Cassandra is raising zombies," I demanded, even as my mind raced.

I'd come here halfway believing I'd chased a zombie out of Jackson Square. I should tell Detective Sullivan, but I couldn't get the words out of my mouth.

"I don't believe it," he muttered.

"He's from out of town." Cassandra smirked.

I didn't bother to point out that she was, too. Cassandra seemed as much a part of New Orleans as the humidity and the jazz.

"His superior ordered him to come," she continued.

Sullivan made an impatient sound. "I don't understand this place."

"You're not supposed to." Cassandra patted Sullivan's arm. "Since you didn't find the body in my closet, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No," he snapped, and headed for the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob. "I was going to come and talk to you tomorrow, Ms. Malone. Have you seen Adam Ruelle?"

"Yes."

"And you gave him my message?"

"Yes."

"He didn't call."

"Sorry."

Sullivan cursed. "I don't have the manpower to beat the swamp for him. All I want to do is ask a few questions."

"You really think Adam strangled a perfect stranger with his bare hands?" I asked.

"Someone did."

True.

"Funny that you should call the victim a stranger," he continued.

"Funny ha-ha? Or funny weird?"

Sullivan's lips didn't even twitch. "The victim had no ID, he doesn't match any missing persons report; no record of anyone of his description entering by public transportation; fingerprints don't pop in the FBI files."

"Maybe it was a plain old robbery on Bourbon Street," Cassandra said, "and someone dumped the guy there so they'd have enough time to get out of Dodge."

"Tourists have hotel rooms, rental cars. One thing they don't usually have is a fully automatic rifle."

My mouth opened,