flame with his wings and said, “I know how love’s fire can burn.”
The third one threw himself into the heart of the flame and was consumed.
He alone knows what true love is.
Cyrus folded the sheet of paper and pressed it back into the Bible.
“You think that means something?” Cyrus asked.
“It could,” she said. “Could be romantic. Could be erotic. Could be masochistic, the thought that love equals being burned and consumed.”
“Could be talking about God’s love. Could be talking about his suicide, you know.”
“Could be,” Nora said. “Just caught my eye. What about you? You find anything?”
“Credit card bills,” Cyrus said. “Might be something in here.” He picked up the shoebox and pulled a chair to the bed so he could spread out the bills. “You find anything else?”
“What I didn’t find is kind of interesting,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“That cock blocker you found…like I said, it uses a lock and key. That’s how you keep the thing on you—with a padlock. I didn’t find the key. That means someone else probably has it.”
“What does that tell you?” Cyrus asked.
“It means Father Ike probably had a partner. Sex partner? Kink partner? A dominant maybe? Someone locked him into that thing and unlocked him from it. He wasn’t doing it to himself.”
“That’s a big leap,” Cyrus said. “He might have thrown the key away.”
“Then why keep the chastity device?”
“Good question,” Cyrus admitted. “Maybe he’s got the key but not here…”
“The house he died in?”
“Cops already searched it looking for a note.” He glanced around the room for secret hiding places. Nothing jumped out at him. He furrowed his brow as he looked at Nora. “Where do you keep all your gear?”
“My house. My dungeon,” she said. “And I have a bag of gear in my car. Did Father Ike have his own car?”
Cyrus thought about that. “Let me find that out.”
Chapter Fourteen
Nora listened as Cyrus sweet-talked and cajoled a detective he knew on the force into putting out an APB or whatever the hell they were called on Father Ike’s car. So much work for no pay. He was either a very good guy or out of his mind. She gave it even odds.
“Well?” Nora asked when Cyrus got off the phone finally.
“They’ll keep an eye out for it—unofficially,” Cyrus said. “Until then, I’m going to walk around, see if I can find it myself.”
“You’re just going to walk around New Orleans and hope you find his car?”
They’d found out from Sister Margaret that Father Ike did own his own car, a 2005 Sentra in basic gray. Probably ten thousand gray Sentras in the city, at least.
“The neighborhood, not the whole city. Wanna join me?”
“In these shoes?” She held up her foot clad in those red high-heeled sandals.
“Maybe not. You can leave me here,” Cyrus said. “I’ll call Paulina to come pick me up.”
“You sure? I hate to abandon you in the middle of a case.”
“My case,” he said. “Not your case.”
“Fine. Your case. But is there anything I can do to help?”
“Figure out how Ike got your card,” Cyrus told her. “Sooner the better.”
“Right. Card. On it. Leaving.”
She started to go but stopped at the door.
“Will you call me if and when you find his car?” she asked.
“You want me to?”
“You might need me to translate for you. I speak Kink and Vanilla.”
“I noticed,” he said. “I’ll call you. I won’t open the trunk until you get there. Just in case.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. If there’s another one of those demonic cock rings in the trunk, I’m making you pick it up this time.”
“I’ll bring my gloves,” she said.
“Bring lots of gloves,” he said. “And a Hazmat suit.”
She left Cyrus with his box of credit card bills, found her car, and drove straight home. She’d promised S?ren she’d get back by five, and it was only a little after two when she walked through her backdoor.
Gmork jogged to her in happy greeting. A yellow Post-it was stuck to his back fur.
Muzzle me, it read.
“S?ren,” she growled. Gmork growled when she growled. “Don’t worry, boy. I’m not going to muzzle you. I might muzzle Blondie though.” She went upstairs and found the door to her bedroom closed. She didn’t remember closing it last night before leaving. Quietly, in case S?ren was asleep, she opened the door.
No, not sleeping. He lay on her bed, head propped on her pillows, reading. What a sight—an excruciatingly handsome blond man in jeans and t-shirt in her bedroom, framed erotic pen-and-ink art on the red walls.
“Eleanor?” he