There were more photographs of Remy and Bijou dancing together and they definitely looked like lovers, dancing so close their bodies were practically entwined. There was one of Bijou looking up at him and his heart clenched hard. There was love stamped on her face. She looked beautiful, so beautiful. The moment should have been private between them, but Carson had planned on spreading it out in a tabloid, with photos of Lefevre as well and calling it “love triangle with a twist.”

Remy went still when the next set of photographs appeared. He could feel Gage watching him. Rob Butterfield was hunched over the trunk of his car, one hand on the latch as he talked to Jason Durang. The two looked furtive, which had probably been the reason they drew Carson’s attention.

Durang’s vehicle, a four-wheel-drive Jeep, was parked very close to Butterfield’s Mercedes. The next shots showed the Mercedes trunk open and Butterfield reaching in to extract a large plastic tarp and more plastic sheets folded. Remy’s mouth went dry. He glanced at his brother, who looked grim.

“Keep goin’,” Gage suggested.

The next shot showed Butterfield spreading a leather-type case open on the hood of his car. Both men peered down at it. Carson used a zoom lens to focus on the set of surgical tools.

Remy’s pulse leapt. His leopard snarled. They had planned a murder, but whose? Bijou’s? Had they planned to kill her and make it look as if the bone harvester had done it? He’d been worried about that for a while. Had Carson caught them in the act and then been caught himself?

“Get a warrant, Gage. Let’s search both vehicles. We should have enough with these photographs for that.”

Remy continued to examine the pictures Carson had taken that night. After he left the parking lot, he’d gone to the small studio Lefevre rented to work in. The room was surrounded on three sides by mostly glass for the light. Again there was a series of photographs, all capturing the Frenchmen engrossed in his work, busy sketching. At times the artist almost looked frantic, driven by his relentless need to create. There were dozens of sketches of Remy’s eyes. Of his face. Some just of his mouth.

Remy could see how Carson could twist the photographs into something altogether different than an artist’s captivated interest in facial structure and features. He could definitely piece together photographs and make them look like a love triangle with Arnaud interested in Remy. Carson’s plan was to accuse Bijou of a threesome. The headline he’d chosen was “Bijou’s two lovers in love.”

Arnaud clearly was totally absorbed in his work. Remy doubted, if Carson had actually been in the room with him, that the artist would have even noticed him taking photographs. Carson had zoomed in on the sketches just as he had the surgical instruments earlier in the parking lot. Remy’s eyes had been drawn over and over, but Arnaud had discarded the sketches in frustration, compelled to capture the exact look he had seen in Remy’s eyes and clearly failing.

The next set of photographs was of two men in the shadows who seemed to be watching Arnaud through his studio windows. They were back in the alley and Carson must have caught them by accident. The second photo showed the two men appearing to argue.

Remy realized Arnaud looked as wealthy as he was. He sat alone in a well-lit room where anyone hard up for money and willing to rob him would see. He probably appeared to be the perfect victim, a man who was so focused on his work he wouldn’t notice intruders until it was too late.

“He didn’t get their faces,” Remy complained. “But they look as if they could be Jean and Juste Rousseau. What do you think?” He handed the camera back to his brother and turned to look at the body one more time.

The forensic team had arrived, and the photographer was busy getting shots of Carson from every angle. The sunlight came in through the cypress trees and spilled over them. Remy crouched low, angling from one side to the next to better see the body. It was right there. Right in front of him. Frustration had him rumbling low, under his breath.

“Make certain you get some good shots of the altar for comparison,” he snapped.

The photographer scowled at him, but refrained from speaking. He knew his job and was irritated that Remy might not think he did.

Remy wasn’t even looking at him, instead he was staring at the body. He stood up slowly, light dawning, the pieces falling into place. He knew exactly what was different.

“Gage.” He waited until his brother turned to face him. “It’s wrong. This is all wrong.”

“What is?” Gage moved closer, frowning, trying to see whatever it was his brother saw.

LeBrun, the ME, stopped what he was doing. Even the photographer paused. Remy was good at his job and usually spotted discrepancies before anyone else. He had an eye for murder and an uncanny knack of solving them.

“He doesn’t do this.”

“This is exactly what he does,” Gage argued, frowning at Remy.

Remy shook his head. “No, Gage.” He indicated the torn chest with a sweep of his hand. “This is wrong. He has a pattern, and he’s broken that pattern.”

“I don’ understand.”

“The bones. He already took those bones with the first victim. He should be takin’ bones from the legs, but he didn’t. He follows a pattern, and he never takes the same bones,” Remy said.

LeBrun nodded his head. “That held true four years ago. But maybe he doesn’t always do that.”

Remy shook his head. “I studied every murder he’s committed that I could find over the years. He always kills four victims and he takes the bones in a specific order. He’s never deviated.”