Mahieu came around and opened the door for her. “I texted Remy to let him know you’re here. He’s in interrogation, but he’ll come out as soon as he’s done.” He walked with her up to the door of the station house and reached to open that door for her.

“I’ll be fine. You don’ have to wait with me,” Bijou assured.

Mahieu gave her his cocky grin. “Not a chance, Bijou. Remy doesn’t want you goin’ anywhere without an escort right now. He’s gotten all paranoid between the murders, you getttin’ harassed last night at the club and Robert actin’ like an idiot. You’re goin’ to have to be a little patient with Remy until he figures things out. He’s got a protective streak a mile wide when it comes to you.”

“I’d love to feel very special, Mahieu, but the truth is, Remy feels protective over everyone. That’s why he’s a cop.”

She went inside and stepped back to allow him to lead the way. The truth was, everyone was going to stare at her, and she didn’t mind Mahieu running interference. He was a big man, much like his brother, all muscle with that smooth, fluid way of walking. He exuded confidence, just like all the Boudreaux brothers and Saria. She wanted to be like that and was determined that she would be, given a few months. For too long she’d tried to be someone she wasn’t and in the end she just couldn’t sustain it.

Following Mahieu through the bull pen, she rounded a corner to find the homicide division. Remy’s office was in the corner, with several desks out on the floor. Mahieu waved her to a chair, but there were several policemen looking at her, staring, some sporting grins. She didn’t feel like sitting there on display for them all. Mahieu went over to talk with someone he knew, and she wandered around the room, trying to get a feel for Remy’s work.

Set up in the middle of the largest wall was a huge whiteboard with pictures of Pete Morgan and the altar. Alongside that were pictures of Ryan Cooper and the altar. The pictures were in horrible, gruesome detail, and although it was one of those situations where one could almost not stop looking at the train wreck, she managed to shift her gaze.

In a line down either side of the grisly murder pictures were photographs of men. Her manager, Rob Butterfield, and his friend Jason Durang were among them. Bob Carson was up on the wall as well. She recognized a few other faces from the men who had been in her club and had harassed her. She couldn’t imagine why any of them had been singled out and would be considered suspects.