Contact. Evelyn Vaughn

terrified you’re going to pull a Thomas King,” said Tamara, referring of course to the Navy SEAL team leader who’d vanished and been thought dead for over a year, until his recent dramatic rescue. Because of the political ramifications of his mission, he was still making news. “If something happened to you, what would I do? Maybe you should move back home. For a while. Just until things die down.”

      “What things? The funeral? My friends’ grief? They need me now more than ever, Mom.”

      “But you’re so close to Rampart Street, to Storyville….”

      “You’re the one who moved us to the murder capital of the United States.” As soon as she said that, Faith regretted it. Not only was it cruel, but it put the city in far too dark a light. “I’m sorry, Mom—”

      “No. You’re right. I’m just glad to know you’re safe.” And Tamara hung up.

      “Damn!” Faith hung up, too, and pressed fingers to her forehead. She loved New Orleans. She’d been just as glad to leave Kansas City, where she and her mom had lived for two years before coming south. New Orleans had a dark side, yes. But the flaws of this old, magical, slow-moving city were what made it feel like home. It made her own flaws—or her eccentricities, anyway—more acceptable somehow. More normal, even.

      Faith had longed to be normal her whole life. Living amidst the quirks of the Big Easy was as close as she’d come to it, especially once she’d found the psychic community. The older she got, the more aware Faith became of how guilty her mother felt. About something. Tamara wouldn’t say and Faith couldn’t—wouldn’t—sense it off of her. It was one thing to stumble across a jumble of half-clear impressions about someone. It would be another thing entirely to drag out someone’s hard-kept secrets. That would be invasive. A violation. Damn it.

      But whatever it was, Tamara shouldn’t also feel guilty about moving them here.

      The phone rang again and Faith took a deep breath before answering it. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

      “Glad to know it,” said a much deeper voice than the one she’d expected. “That’s exactly the word I would have used.”

      His energy actually seemed to pulsate out of the phone. Or was that just the man’s inability to moderate his voice?

      “Detective Chopin,” greeted Faith, sitting up. Like he could see her. At least he’d called, and not his partner. Faith had been on the phone with Butch Jefferson as an anonymous contact too often to risk letting him recognize her disembodied voice. “Do you want to talk to one of the technicians, or maybe Mr. Boulanger?”

      “If I’d wanted to talk to them, I would’ve called them,” he said. “I figured…that is, I thought I’d ask…”

      Faith waited, feeling as handicapped as if she’d been blindfolded. All she could hear over the line in this busy office was that Chopin sounded frustrated. If he were here, she could have read his body language and his scent and even his temperature as if he were holding up cue cards with personal insights. On the phone…

      Maybe that’s why she and cell phones had such a bad history. She resented their limitations.

      “You are Faith Corbett, right?” asked the cop, managing a slightly quieter voice after all.

      “Yes, Detective. What can I do for you?”

      “I just wanted…” Chopin swore, and his voice went normal again. Which meant, pushy. “Evidence. On the Tanner case. We’re past the 24/24, and I need a damned progress report.”

      The 24/24 stood for the day before and the day after a murder, the time from which the most valid clues came. Soon, people’s recall would fade. Undiscovered physical evidence might vanish. That’s why the majority of murders were solved within the first forty-eight hours.

      Krystal had been dead thirty-seven hours and counting.

      “I’m not supposed to involve myself with the Tanner evidence, Detective Chopin.”

      “Which wouldn’t keep you from looking from a safe distance, right? So what’s the status? And call me Roy.”

      He had her there—she had looked, on the computer network. She just hadn’t modified any files. “We’re still waiting on the M.E. for the autopsy results, and so far Officer Hinze hasn’t found concrete matches on any of the fingerprints from the scene. Considering that there were over fifty prints and partials, that’s still going to take some processing. The footprints will be even more tricky—for some reason, there was a lot of spilled salt on the floor. You know this one went to the night shift, don’t you?”

      “Yeah, I know. So, is the body still there? Did it—” Then he said, “Aw, f—” He bit off the swear word. “I’m sorry. Hell. I almost forgot it was your friend. I mean…uh…she.”

      “You were right the first time,” Faith assured him. The evidence in the morgue was no longer Krystal. “I hope you’ve got some leads on the bastard who murdered her.”

      He knew better than to commit himself. “Just to humor me—the body’s still there?”

      As in many cities, the crime-scene investigators were not part of the police department, so they didn’t have offices at the police station. Neither was this unit part of the parish— Louisiana talk for a county. As soon as the city coroner finished with the corpse, it would be released to the funeral parlor or moved back to the parish morgue. But as long as it remained evidence to be examined…

      “The body’s still here.” Faith’s fingers darted across her keyboard to access the proper file and confirm that. Looking only. No interference. “Why do you need to know? Do you need to see it for…something?”

      “Unless the M.E. has something pertinent to the case, I’m just as happy leaving that part to you folks. Hell. Maybe I do need to talk to Boulanger.”

      “Hold a moment, and I’ll put you through.” Never had she felt more like a glorified secretary. But at least her job kept her near law enforcement. She’d dropped out of college the previous year when she was questioning everything, including why she’d thought she would even want to be a lawyer. But in the meantime, she had to pay the rent. This job felt…right.

      Greg’s voice mail clicked on, and Chopin swore again.

      “Would you like to leave a message?” Faith asked.

      “No. I’d like you to find him. I need to see if anything got—” Did he start to form the T from taken, or was Faith imagining it? “Hunt Boulanger down and have him call me. Got it?”

      “Yes sir, detective sir,” said Faith.

      “You’re cute when you’re a smart-ass,” said Chopin, as if he could see her, and hung up.

      Faith let the phone roll off her shoulder into her waiting palm. Her neck felt cricked already. But once she had the receiver in her hand, she held it for a long moment, as if she’d be able to sense anything of importance off of it.

      Other than the fact that Officer Leone had used her line recently, she sensed nothing. Not off the telephone, anyway.

      Roy Chopin had called her cute. Actually, at the start of the conversation, he’d called her fine, too. Then he’d gotten self-conscious.

      He’d called to talk to her? Using her friend’s corpse as an excuse? Surely not.

      She’d thought she was socially inept.

      Since she’d been sitting too long anyway, Faith decided to head down to the autopsy room where the medical examiner would be working his magic. If Greg wasn’t with him, she could work her way back from there, but there was no reason to waste time checking the nooks and crannies if she’d only find him where he usually was—with the evidence.

      The frigid autopsy chamber was large for a room, but small for a morgue. Only a dozen stainless steel drawers fronted one wall, with three slabs—two regular steel