by L. K. Hill
Disappointment rolled through him again, but he nodded. “Okay. That was Shaun, by the way.” He explained his conversation with Shaun, while she listened, looking worried.
“Will you let me know what the medical examiner says?”
“Will you promise to stay out of the Mire for at least twenty-four hours to give yourself time to heal?” He didn’t bother asking her to stay away from the warehouse. There was no point.
She looked like she might argue, but thought better of it. “Yes.”
He nodded. “I’ll talk to him before going into work tonight. Call me sometime after that, and we’ll chat.
She nodded.
He nodded toward the living room. “Let me find you a blanket and some pillows.”
Ten minutes later, she was squared away on the couch and Gabe slid into his own bed. He’d left his door slightly ajar, in case she needed anything. He couldn’t hear her breathing, but he lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling and thinking about her proximity.
***
Something pulled Gabe from a deep sleep. A strange sound he couldn’t identify. He sat up, blurry-eyed. Based on the angle of the light coming in around his blinds, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours. He listened. The house was silent. Deciding it had been Kyra tossing on the couch—he wasn’t used to having anyone else in the house while he slept—he laid back down.
The sound came again. A soft sound, like whimpering. Sleepily, Gabe wondered if a stray dog had wandered into his yard. He turned over so he faced the bedroom door. When the sound came again, it slowly dawned on him that it came from the living room. He sat bolt upright, frowning. What was that?
Silently, he threw the covers back and padded across the room in his socks. Easing the door open wide enough to slip through it, he swept his eyes over the room. Kyra slept peacefully on the couch, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. Gabe walked up behind the couch and pulled the blanket up over her shoulder, careful not to wake her.
He looked around. Where had the noise come from? From outside after all? He scrubbed a hand through his hair. He was exhausted and half asleep. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Deciding to do a quick check to make sure everything was in order, he turned toward the back door. The whimpering came again from behind him, and he spun on his toe.
It came from Kyra. She turned from her back to her side, and shivered violently enough to ruffle the blanket. The whimpering began again.
Gabe frowned and moved closer. Perhaps she simply talked in her sleep, but it seemed more than that to him. She wasn’t just whimpering. She was saying something, forming words. Moving around to the front of the couch so he could see her lips, he listened for several minutes before he could make out what the words were.
“Bron…Bron please,” she whispered it so softly he could barely hear. Begging for something from…someone. It sounded like a name. Bron? Bronson maybe?
“Please,” she whimpered. “Please don’t…”
Gabe’s eyebrows jumped. So not begging someone for something, but rather not to do something. A chill ran down Gabe’s spine and he did his best to shrug it away, wondering if he should wake her. It was sure to be awkward, but he couldn’t see going back to bed and leaving her to her nightmare.
He squatted in front of her and put a hand on her arm. “Kyra.” The whimpering had stopped. She didn’t stir. “Kyra,” he said more loudly. When she still didn’t wake, he said it again and shook her shoulder gently.
Her eyes flew open. With a gasp she lunged into a sitting position and pulled a knife from he didn’t know where.
He reacted without thinking, grabbing her wrist to keep the knife at bay. “Whoa, whoa! Kyra, it’s me.”
Her eyes were wild. She blinked several times and they calmed as she took in her surroundings. She looked up at him, then at the knife. With the fingers of her other hand, she rubbed her eyes. He noticed she didn’t actually let go of the knife. When she looked up again, it was with half-hearted scorn. “Don’t do that.”
“Me don’t do that?”
She half smiled and half grimaced, swing her legs over the side of the couch to face forward. “Sorry,” she muttered.
He took the knife gingerly out of her hand and set it on the coffee table before sitting down beside her. She didn’t object to either thing. Gabe didn’t know what to say. “You were, um, talking in your sleep.”
She winced. “I was?” She didn’t seem surprised, though.
“Yeah. Didn’t want to leave you to a nightmare. Were you dreaming about…being chased?”
She glanced at him and shook her head. “No. It’s not that.”
“What then?”
She studied her hands with a look of extreme reluctance. “Personal…problems.”
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said quietly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
He let out a bleak chuckle. “You know, you say that a lot.”
She frowned at him. “That’s because you ask me that question a lot.”
He studied her for a moment. “You don’t always have to be fine, you know,” he said.
“I know. But I am.” She shrugged, studying her hands again. “Eventually,” her voice dropped to a whisper. “I always am.”
She wouldn’t look at him again, and he doubted he’d get much more out of her. “You want me to stay out here with you? Until you fall asleep?”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I will,” he said firmly, “unless it will keep you from sleeping.”
She rested her elbow on her knee and her head against her fingertips, gazing at him from two feet away. “It won’t.”
He nodded. “I’ll sit over here, so you can stretch out.” He started to rise. Her hand on his arm stopped him.
“I don’t mind. If you…stay here on the couch. With me.”
He thought there was color in her cheeks again. He sat back against the couch. “Okay.”
She curled up on her side of the couch. He reached over and adjusted the blanket over her shoulders again. It amazed him what a small space she could fit into. He leaned his head back. The couch back reached high enough that he could rest his head on top of it and be semi-comfortable. As his heart rate slowed, and he listened to the sound of her breathing, it occurred to him that he might be sleeping next to someone who had more tragedy in their past than he did.
Chapter 17
Four days later, Kyra made her way slowly through the Slip Mire, heading for Josie’s part of town. She had no idea what she would say to him. Try as she might, she’d found absolutely no information on Jerome Dellaire. She’d thought about simply not going to see Josie on the appointed night, but dismissed the idea immediately. Josie was too important a bridge to burn. If he’d been testing her, she needed to see his reaction. If not…
Therein lay the problem. If he’d truly sent her on a wild goose chase, she might still have a chance at the job. If he hadn’t, and she accused him of it…that was a great way to make yet another enemy. She had more of those than she wanted already. More than she could handle. Besides, if she landed herself in any more trouble, she thought Gabe might have a meltdown.
Her face still heated when she thought of the night she’d spent at his place. He’d tried to kiss her, and her stomach fluttered in a way it hadn’t in years. Not since Bron. She didn’t want to think about that. With Gabe, it had been a pleasant sensation, but when they were interrupted, she realized how dangerous it would be to get involved with him. He’d been gracious about it, but she could see the disappointment in his eyes, and it pained her.
Then he’d heard her whimpering. She’d pulled a knife on him, for heaven’s sake. The thought made her cringe, even as she walked. Of course she knew what the whimpering was about. She still often dreamed about the nightmare that had been her life two years ago. She just hadn’t realized she still talked in her sleep about it. Her sisters reported similar things right after it
happened, and she’d made a conscious effort not to sleep within hearing distance of another human being at all since. When she’d lived with roommates, they slept at least one room—and therefore several walls—away. They wouldn’t hear her if she did whimper. Gabe had.
What happened back then was over and done with. She’d put it behind her long ago. No matter what her mother said. Despite that, it was too personal to share with anyone. Even Gabe Nichols. She could only hope he would forget it.
It must have been close to midnight when she finally reached the right street. Two of Josie’s guards stepped into her path.
“Josie is expecting me,” she said.
“Wait here.” The one on the right said, hefting his gun. It looked like a small AK series, but she couldn’t be sure in the dark. He backed up several steps, leaving his comrade to guard her, and put a finger in his ear, talking quietly into some kind of com system she couldn’t see. After a moment he nodded and approached her again. “Up against the wall. Spread your feet and hands. Any weapons?”
“There’s a gun under my left arm and a knife in my boot.” They quickly found the weapons and frisked her for others. When they were satisfied, the two of them escorted her toward the house. Kyra vaguely wondered where Jenkins was. She’d always observed him when she watched Josie’s midnight meetings with his family. Since catching Josie’s attention at the city park, she hadn’t seen Jenkins at all. Not that it mattered, but she did wonder why.
Josie met her at the front door. “My, my,” he said in his thick, Caribbean accent. His long, dread-locked hair swayed as he shook his head. “De mysterious Supra returns. Dat’s not a happy face. Not excited to give news. What have you learned about Jerome Dellaire?” He came through the door and leaned against the frame.
Kyra hadn’t decided until that exact moment, but being direct and honest was probably the best way to go. She had the feeling Josie would know if she tried to lie. She wanted to work for him, so she couldn’t afford to gamble with information she didn’t have. “Absolutely nothing.”
His lips turned up in a smug smile. She wished she could slap the pleased expression right off his face.
“And yet you came here, without de information. Not as smart as I first thought, I see.” He shrugged in an off-hand way. “I punish most of my men for failing me, but as dis was a free shot, I suppose dere isn’t more to say. You may go.” He stood up straight and turned to walk into the house.
“Is he real?” Kyra asked, before he could do more than put one foot inside. “Or just a test I couldn’t pass?”
He turned with a raised eyebrow, looking surprised to see her still standing there. “Oh no, my dear. Dellaire is very real. I don’t deal in phantoms. At least, not of de literal sort. I assure you, de man exists.”
“But,” Kyra sputtered. “You said he’s a staple of the Mire. So am I, and I don’t know him. I must have talked to five hundred different people over the past week and not one of them knew who he was.”
He gave her a condescending smirk. “And I t’ought a woman of your intelligence would be innovative. Able to see beyond de obvious and find what others simply can’t see, even when it’s staring dem in de face.”
Kyra sighed in frustration. Was the man obligated to speak in riddles? “Is that his real name?” she asked. She was surprised he was still talking, but as long as he kept answering questions, she’d keep asking.
“Of course,” Josie said. “Just not necessarily the one most people know him by.”
Ah. There it was. “So it’s a secret identity?”
Josie’s yellow-tinted eyes slid sideways as he considered. “I suppose you might call it dat.”
Deciding to be bold, Kyra took a step toward Josie, and immediately found strong fingers wound around her upper arms and the barrels of two guns in her face. She put her hands up in surrender. “Sorry,” she muttered to the two stone-faced guards.
Shaking herself, she stepped back, keeping her hands up. Josie watched her passively, but she doubted those shrewd eyes of his missed a breath or flicker of her eyes. “Look, I need a job. Desperately.”
His face became hard. “And I need you to tell me about Jerome Dellaire.”
“You wouldn’t need to pay me much,” Kyra said, fully aware of how pathetic it was to beg a gangster for a job. “And I can do anything. Run messages, perhaps?”
Josie came to stand directly in front of her and motioned the guards back. “I already have more messengers than I need.” He studied her, then paced a slow, silent circle around her, always studying, calculating. When he stood in front of her once more, his face softened, but it had a sinister rather than a gentling effect. “You intrigue me, Supra. So I will extend my offer. If at any future time you discover who Jerome Dellaire is, I may consider giving you a job. Only consider. De longer it takes you, de less impressed I’ll be.” He took three giant steps backward and put a hand on the door frame of his building. “Your weapons will be returned to you on your way out.” With that, he turned his back and disappeared into the building.
Kyra had no choice but to let the two armed men escort her away.
***
Gabe’s phone rang and he answered it immediately. His phone’s clock read 11:22, and the station was too quiet for the jarring sound of his ring tone. “Nichols.”
“Detective Nichols. This is Noah Tripoly. I’m the traveling medical examiner from Vegas? I understand you were looking for me earlier today.”
Gabe sat up straighter in his chair, hurriedly brushing the papers on his desk this way and that, looking for the one he needed. “I was, Sir. Thank you for getting back to me. I have a question about an autopsy you did six weeks ago.”
“Son, that’s entirely too many autopsies ago to remember off hand. What’s the case number?”
Gabe gave it, and for several minutes heard only the punching of computer keys through the phone. “You performed the autopsy on a thirteen-month-old boy named Wayne Butler.”
“Ah, yes, here it is,” Tripoly muttered. “What do you want to know about it?”
“I notice in your official findings, you said he didn’t die of SIDS, but the actual cause was inconclusive. Why is that?”
“The child was too old for SIDS to take him. As for the rest, his nasal passages were inflamed, and he had some discoloration around his mouth and nose area, but not enough to draw any solid conclusions.”
“What would those things indicate?”
“Both are indicative of suffocation, in great enough amounts, but the discoloration was so minimal, I barely caught it myself. In a child that age, many things can inflame the nasal passages: allergies, colds, dust from any play area.”
“I understand,” Gabe said. “But, is foul play a possibility?”
Tripoly heaved a great sigh. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable inferring that, Detective. A toddler’s skin bruises easily. The bruising you would generally see if the child had been, for example, suffocated with a pillow would be much more extensive.”
“Is it possible to suffocate a person—a child—without leaving much bruising?”
Another pause. “Possible, yes, if the perpetrator knows what they’re doing. But highly improbable.”
“I understand,” Gabe said.
“Anything else?” Tripoly’s asked gruffly.
“Uh, one more thing. You mentioned a chunk of hair missing from the boy’s scalp. Had it been…torn out?”
“No, definitely not. Too clean. Looked like it had been shaved. I know the responding officers talked to the sitter about it, and she claims not to have done anything to the boy’s hair. It might be something the mother did prior to the boy’s death, but she’s dead too, so we couldn’t ask her.”
“Right,” Gabe murmured. “Well, thank you for calling me back. I appreciate the information.”
“Of course. Good evening, Detective.”
Gabe hung up the phone, drumming his fingers on his desk and thinking. He didn’t know what the chunk of hair was abo
ut. Maybe nothing. But a distinct possibility loomed that something more sinister than simple crib death happened to Mallory Butler’s son, on the same night she was murdered. If true, what did it mean? That the killer went after the child? That he had an accomplice? So far, it seemed the killer chose victims of opportunity, casing the streets at night and homing in on them. How would he have even known Mallory had a child? Much less where the child was being tended?
Gabe sighed. Perhaps nothing. Maybe the boy really just stopped breathing, and the entire thing was a grand coincidence. Either way, Gabe was no closer to being able to tell.
Disappointed, Gabe scrubbed his face with his hands and went back to sorting the reports on his desk. Twenty minutes later, his phone rang again.
“Yeah?”
“Detective Nichols?”
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“My name’s Matthew Cutler. I’ve gotten several voice mails from you, Detective. About a warehouse my father owns in Abstreuse City.”
Gabe immediately began swimming through the documents on his desk again, searching for the right one. “Can you give me the address of that warehouse, sir?” The man gave it and Gabe nodded. The warehouse in the Carmichael district Kyra had been watching. “You say your father owns it?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, well I really need to speak with him, then.”
“Unfortunately that’s not possible, Detective. He’s out of the country and won’t be back for several months. He’s put me in charge of his business while he’s away.”
“Do you have the power to make executive decisions, then?” Gabe asked.
“To a certain extent. He calls me every ten days or so and I can run things by him. What’s this about, Detective?”
“We’ve gotten some strange reports that there may be trespassers on your father’s property. Gang bangers, or perhaps hobos squatting. Are you aware of any activity currently going on at the property?”
A long pause followed. “There shouldn’t be any. The place should be totally shut down. If there’s anyone going in or out, they’re definitely trespassing. Why are you calling me? Shouldn’t you just investigate and kick them out?”
