Violets Are Blue
A combination of circumstance and circumstances put me in New Orleans on Halloween night in 1999. It was a memorable night for many reasons — the cross-dresser blocking traffic at the corner of Bourbon and St. Anns will never fade from memory — but one memory came rushing back, over and over, as I read VIOLETS ARE BLUE by James Patterson. It is the memory of two men walking down Bourbon Street, both blond, apparently twins, tall and buff, dressed only in bib overalls, striding through the crowds like bronzed gods slumming. The most striking thing about these gentlemen were their eyes: blue, hollow, and without palpable emotion. It was interesting to watch the reaction of those who encountered them. People of both sexes didnt make way for this couple; they actually appeared to recoil from them. My reaction, then and now, was “Those guys are vampires.”
A good portion of the latter half of VIOLETS ARE BLUE takes place in New Orleans, and most of it involves a hunt for a serial killer — or killers — who rend their victims during ritual murder and drink their blood. We learn fairly early on who the killers are. They are brothers
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