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more. D'Ambrosia was rumored to be thorough and efficient, brutal when necessary, always uncompromising.
    In a word, the perfect man to replace Cain. With his dark hair, dark eyes and rough edges, all he had to do was slip into a ratty black T-shirt and jeans and he fit in with the city's underbelly with remarkable ease.
    "You said it was important," Gabe said when D'Ambrosia approached. "What's going down?"
    D'Ambrosia motioned for Gabe to walk with him.
    "A body was found in the warehouse district earlier this afternoon. Male. Caucasian. Probably twenty, twenty-five tops."
    "Cause of death?"
    "Single gunshot to the temple."
    "ID?"
    "None."
    Gabe tensed. "Black fleur-de-lis on his ankle?"
    "You got it." The two men stopped at Decatur Street and waited for the light to turn as a horse-drawn carriage packed with tourists ambled past. Nearby, a street performer belted out "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" on his sax.
    Gabe chewed on the information, acutely aware eighteen months had passed since the last murder victim had turned up with the mark of a fleur-de-lis. It had been a commercial pilot, and the son of a bitch had been in jail. Cain had made the arrest. "Oncle."
    D'Ambrosia started walking a second before the light turned green. "Probably a courier."
    Gabe reached the sidewalk and the two men turned left.
    "There's more," D'Ambrosia said, and his pace quickened. Never once did he look at Gabe. "It's about Prejean."
    Alec Prejean was not just Cain's former partner, but also he'd been a friend. Gabe and Val had spent numerous evenings with Prejean and his wife, Tara.
    Val. Christ. He'd forgotten to call her, to tell her he'd be late. She'd talked about a special dinner…
    "We've made a positive ID on the body," D'Ambrosia said, and his grim tone sent Gabe reeling.
    "Oh, Christ, it's not—"
    "Not yet." D'Ambrosia wasted no words, not on details, not on compassion. "Prejean was spotted leaving the scene."
     
    Cain's imagination had always served him well. As a boy he'd frequently left the stuffiness of the Robichaud estate and ventured out into the swamp, where fallen trees and tangled vines created his own personal sanctuary. Later, as a cop, his ability to conjure possibility out of nothingness had kept his solve rate among the highest in the state. As a photographer, his penchant for seeing beauty where others saw only waste had earned him national acclaim and an impressive income. As a man, his proclivity for experimentation brought great pleasure.
    But now his imagination betrayed him. He looked at Renee Fox standing not ten feet away, at the shadows playing across her face and the fire burning in her eyes, at the curves bared by her clingy sweater and slim-fitting pants, and knew he needed to see a threat, not a woman who made him itch to touch. And taste.
    For a long moment she just stood there, watching him as though she'd come face-to-face with one of the ghosts rumored to inhabit the old church.
    Then she stepped toward him and smiled. It was a slow smile, almost mocking. "Tell me something," she said in a voice so rough and smoky his blood ran even hotter. "Do you personally try to run off every visitor to Bayou de Foi?"
    He curved his mouth into a slow smile. "Not every visitor."
    "I see," she said, shoving her hair behind her ears.
    "Just us unfortunate souls who innocently stumble across your land?"
    "Innocently?" The word practically shot out of him. "There's no such thing as innocence, cher ." He pushed away from the porch rail and strolled toward her, didn't stop until he stood so close she had to look up to see him. "Everyone is guilty of something."
    The wind blowing off the bayou pushed the hair back into her face, but this time she made no move to brush the strands away. A few lodged against her mouth, a soft pink with the slightest trace of gloss.
    Ever since he'd arrived at the gallery the crickets had been carrying on, but as he watched her, he no longer heard them, heard only the sound of her