Fallen (Seven Deadly Sins #2)(12)
Author: Erin McCarthy

It would seem the police agree, or at least fear public reaction otherwise, as they have set out to investigate Miss Donovan’s murder, and by witness report are focusing their attentions on Mr. Thiroux.

The light was good. It hit the side of Sara’s face, reflected in her blond hair, and showed the healthy rich color of her arms and legs. Gabriel lifted his camera and took another picture of her, zooming in on her face, clicking multiple times as her eyes went wide and she made a sound of distress.

“Stop!” Her hand went up in front of his lens, actually bumping it with her fingers in her vehemence.

He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so he lowered the camera. But he wasn’t sorry he’d taken the shots. Sara was a study in contrasts, like the city around her. She was strong, but fragile, had endured tragedy, yet was still beautiful. Perhaps more so now that her eyes spoke of suffering and lessons learned. He had noticed that her hands moved restlessly, always pulling at something—her dress, her hair, her purse, like she was always pondering, worrying, watching.

There was no particular logic to it, but he was attracted to her, and he recognized the danger in that. But it didn’t make him any less intrigued.

“So how much do you know about the history of New Orleans?” He rewrapped the camera strap around his wrist and started walking.

“Just a vague outline.”

“In 1849 New Orleans was a city that had grown quickly because of the influx of immigrants into the port and Americans who moved in for business opportunities after the Louisiana Purchase. There were also a huge number of gold rushers who stopped in that year on their way to California to make their fortune. Picture a couple of hundred thousand people living in a hot, humid city surrounded by water. A thriving port, lots of sailors and gold rushers—that all leads to drinking, gambling, and prostitution. And of course, the aftereffect of that is crime. They say there was a murder a week in New Orleans at that time.”

“Which explains the attitude in some of those newspaper articles. They seemed disgusted.”

“Exactly. But people get used to violence if they see enough of it. And if it’s contained in an area where no so-called decent people live, then it’s easy to ignore.”

“I don’t know how anyone gets used to violence.”

Gabriel glanced back, surprised at how breathless Sara’s words sounded. They were walking up Dumaine at his pace, and he realized he was striding way too fast. Sara was breathing hard, and she was still two feet behind him, her eyes trained on the precarious sidewalk.

He slowed down. “Sorry. I have long legs.”

“And I have short ones.” She glanced up and smiled. “These sidewalks could stand to be replaced.”

“But that’s part of the charm of the Quarter. And I’ve seen women negotiate Bourbon Street in high heels after kicking back shots, and it’s amazing to me that they don’t break their ankles.”

“I’ve never been to Bourbon Street. This is my first time here.”

“Maybe we can go tonight. You need to at least say you’ve been to Bourbon Street.” Gabriel had no idea why he made the offer. Well, actually he did. It was because he was trying to make conversation with Sara, trying to make her comfortable around him, and he liked the idea of showing her around. That small, nagging attraction was driving him too, and he knew it, should stop it, but wasn’t.

“Sure,” she said. “That would be fun.”

Though she looked like she thought it would be anything but.

“You’ll see that certain things in New Orleans haven’t changed in the past one hundred and fifty years. Still plenty of drinking and sex.” The very things that had sucked him in, the sins he still missed. He had learned nothing, knew he should condemn the licentious, knew he should want the purity of life as he was trying to lead it now, but he didn’t. He still wanted to taste a woman’s flesh and to float off into the haze, removed from the indelicate rude details of mortality. Those were his vices, and he knew that.

He stopped and stared at the light blue house across Dauphine Street.

But he needed to know, needed to believe, that while he did most certainly have flaws, and deep ones, he was not capable of violence. Anger. That he could not have picked up a knife and sliced through Anne’s ivory skin, drawing blood over and over.

He didn’t think he could. Didn’t think he’d done that. But he needed to know. Or he would never let it go, never forgive himself, and the doubt would eat through the center of his already rotting soul.

October 9, 1849

Report taken by William Davidson, second district

The women of twenty-five Dauphine Street were cooperative in discussing the night in question, but none have any helpful insight to offer. No one saw or heard anyone entering or leaving Miss Donovan’s room, other than Mr. Thiroux, and no one heard anything out of the ordinary, aside from a single cry from Miss Donovan overheard by Molly Faye. Approximate time thought to be one a.m., given that Miss Faye insists her client was still in her room at the time, and that he left at a quarter past the hour when he realized he was late returning home.

Miss Donovan’s room is shuttered to the street and remained so, and there is a great hulk of a man who watches the front door for Madame Conti. He insists no one got past him at any time during the hours in question. In speaking to the six ladies who were in the house, I can conclude with a fair amount of accuracy that there were five men present at the time of Miss Donovan’s death, including Mr. Thiroux and the doorman. Twelve persons total when counting the victim. Three of the six ladies provide alibis for three of the men, and vice versa. Two ladies provided alibis for each other, as they were playing cards together in their shared room. That leaves only Madame Conti, the doorman (whose name is Jim Fury), and Mr. John Thiroux in doubt.

While it is easy to imagine the giant of a doorman, or the street-hard Madame Conti as capable of violence, I cannot see where either would benefit from the death of Miss Donovan. Madame Conti certainly had much to lose in terms of business from the notoriety of such a death, and no one in the house indicated there was ever any animosity displayed between Jim Fury (despite his sobriquet) and Miss Donovan.

The natural conclusion, therefore, is that Mr. Thiroux took the knife to his lover under the influence of pharmaceuticals and stabbed her to death.

Sara really had no interest in going to Bourbon Street. From all accounts, it was loud and dirty, and she envisioned drunken men spilling beer on her while women with vast amounts of cle**age vied for attention from same-said drunken men. It made her brain hurt just thinking about it. But she had said yes immediately, because the offer came from Gabriel, and that disturbed her. She wasn’t in a good place. It wasn’t the time to get involved with a man.