Gabriel

by Naima Simone

  A shudder passed over her as she stepped back over the kitchen threshold and into the tiny backyard. She tugged down the shirt from her nose and mouth and inhaled her first deep breath in ten minutes. Striding away from the house, she holstered the SIG and removed her cell from her pants pocket.

  Trembling, she dialed.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  “My name is Leah Bannon,” she said, surprised her voice didn’t betray the tremors rippling though her. “I need to report a murder.”

  Chapter Five

  The trip to Evelyn Sheldon’s Dorchester home from his Charlestown condo should have taken twenty minutes. Gabriel made it in fifteen. Images of blood, broken limbs, twisted metal, gasoline-soaked gifts—

  No, damn it! He shook his head as he strode up the sidewalk. Get a fucking grip.

  He gritted his teeth, and forced the constricting bands around his chest to loosen. After a moment the paralyzing terror receded, leaving thin, icy remnants of fear slithering in his veins.

  When Leah had called to tell him what had happened, she’d assured him she was fine. Gabriel kept reminding himself of that. And thankfully Evelyn hadn’t been home. His loved ones were okay.

  They. Were. Okay.

  A murder. At Aunt Evelyn’s. Jesus. The victim could only be one person—Darion Sheldon, his aunt’s husband of ten years and Chay’s stepfather.

  How could this have happened? True, Dorchester wasn’t the best of Boston’s neighborhoods, but as long as he and Chay had been friends—which had been all of their lives—nothing like this had ever taken place in this neighborhood. He’d always felt safe here.

  Hell, how was Evelyn going to deal with Darion’s death? First Richard, now this. She would be crushed.

  Sorrow curled in Gabriel’s gut. Been there, still doing that.

  Sometimes, this world could be a really fucked-up place.

  Yellow-and-black caution tape already barricaded the property, warning onlookers to maintain their distance. Well, he wasn’t an onlooker.

  He skimmed his gaze over the heads of several officers looking for a recognizable long, dark ponytail. Not with them, he noted, impatient frustration spilling through him. Peering at the front door of the olive-green house that had been like a second home to him, he squinted at the two police officers who stood in the open doorway. It seemed…profane.

  He pushed forward up the driveway and was immediately stopped with an authoritative palm to the chest. The police officer frowned as Gabriel leaned into his hand.

  “Stop right there, sir. You can’t pass.”

  “I’m family,” Gabriel insisted.

  The officer’s expression remained placid, but his hand exerted more pressure. “I understand, sir, but I’ll need to verify—”

  “He’s okay, Officer Jamison,” a woman called out. “He’s with the family. Please let him through.”

  Jamison nodded and lowered his arm, complying with Leah’s request. With barely a glance at the cop, Gabriel ducked under the tape and strode forward. But, as if an invisible wall had sprung up, he drew to a sharp halt at the bottom of the paved walk leading to the porch. And not out of respect for the crime scene before him.

  Until that moment, he hadn’t realized the tension within him stretching tighter than a guitar string was due to a panicked dread bubbling just below the surface. Though Leah had claimed to be unharmed on the phone, he’d needed to see her lovely face with his own eyes. He’d needed to determine for himself she was safe and untouched by what she’d witnessed.

  With her thick, black strands of hair smoothed back from her face, the fairy eyes seemed more ethereal, the black fringe of lashes more pronounced. Of course, those were the only things delicate about her. Where Maura had been petite and curvaceous, Leah reminded him of an Amazon—beautiful, tall, and with a grace that could make mincemeat of a fleeing perpetrator as easily as execute a perfect Viennese waltz.

  That didn’t stop him from inspecting her slim figure from the top of her glossy hair to the tips of her brown stiletto boots for injury as she nodded to the officer, turned, and descended the porch steps.

  Her long stride didn’t falter; it was confident, alert. A cop’s walk. Two years ago, she might’ve shown up for this call in one of Boston’s finest’s squad cars. Had she thought of that while giving her witness report to her former brothers in blue? Did it bother her to see them there, to be on the outside of the fraternity she’d once belonged to?

  Yes. He noted the grim, unsmiling line of her lush mouth, the aloof, rigid expression, and the bruised darkness in her eyes he knew had nothing to do with finding Darion Sheldon’s dead body. Being outside the brotherhood bothers her. He recognized the particular sheen of hurt and anger dimming the normal brilliance of her gaze.

  “Hey, Gabe,” she said. The remote coldness hardening her features was echoed in her tone.

  He nodded and slipped his hands into the pockets of the dark blue peacoat he’d yanked on as he’d left his condo. Either he did something with his hands or he would grab her close and wrap her in his arms until the shadows evaporated from her expression.

  “Thanks for calling me.” He dipped his chin in the direction of the officers around the house. “Did they find out anything?”

  She shook her head and mimicked his pose. The movement nudged her jacket open, and he glimpsed the strap of her shoulder holster as well as the butt of the SIG Sauer she carried. His mouth went as dry as a Bill Belichick interview after a Patriot win. Usually the sight of her weapon didn’t faze him, but with Darion’s body cold in the house, cops standing guard on the porch, and the frenetic tension of a crime scene humming in the air, it shook him. Hard.

  Maura had been a homemaker; her most hazardous trip had been to Wal-Mart with Ian pre-nap time. Leah’s job as a PI, while mostly fact-finding, entailed trailing people who didn’t want to get caught in illicit activities, digging into lives, and uncovering information people fought to keep under wraps. It required a damn gun.

  He’d lost Maura on a conventional, risk-free drive to her parents’ home for a Christmas party. Where would he lose Leah? While on surveillance? Outside a target’s home? Entering a house with a dead body where a killer could remain, lurking in the darkness in wait for another victim?

  His heart thumped like a bass drum, loud and hard, reverberating through his body. Yet another reason to keep his distance from her.

  For a moment, it drowned out the primitive beat of desire humming in his blood.

  Just the thought of wanting Leah caused guilt to flay his gut. Yeah, Maura was gone, but her death served as a vivid, agonizing reminder of why he didn’t dare risk anything with Leah other than friendship. Opening his heart and losing Leah, the best friend, would wreck him. But losing Leah, his best friend and lover, would destroy him.

  Leah was a risk he—his heart, his soul—simply wasn’t willing to take.

  “No,” she replied to his question, bringing him back to the situation. “Nothing new. I just finished up my statement with the officers. The ME arrived a few minutes ago, and the detectives are still going through the house. They have Chay around back and are interviewing him. It’s probably going to be a while before we find out anything.”

  She fished in her jacket pocket, pulled out a peppermint.

  “Want one?” When Gabriel shook his head, she unwrapped the candy and slipped it between her lips in an unconsciously sexy gesture. He clenched his jaw. Shit.

  “How’s Chay?” he asked, disgust at his unruly hormones sharpening his tone.

  “He’s”—she twirled her hand in the air as if attempting to conjure the correct term to describe their friend—“Chay.” She sighed, tucked the wrapper into her jacket pocket. “Calm, quiet, keeping it together.”

  Yeah. Keeping it together…while inside he was probably screaming. But damn if Chay would show it. The four of them—Gabe, Mal, Rafe, and Chay—all had their issues, their inner demons. Gabriel had lost Maura and Ian in a senseless,
tragic accident; Malachim had daddy issues that made Hamlet and his father look like drinking buddies; Raphael had an eternal case of black-sheep-itis. And Chay— Gabriel often wondered what event would ultimately bring his friend’s emotional house of cards tumbling down.

  “Is it bad?” he asked.

  Leah grasped the meaning behind his question, and slowly nodded. “It isn’t pretty. I’ve seen a few murder scenes in my day, and this one…” She glanced over her shoulder toward the house. The front and side of the structure had been roped off with several officers standing guard, and one uniform posted at the front door with a notebook. As they watched, the cop stopped a man in a Tyvek suit, gloves, and booties, scribbled something on the pad, and then allowed the crime scene tech inside the house. “This one’s up there in brutality. I’m not an expert or psychologist, but the stab wounds—they were vicious, savage. Whoever did this was angry, filled with hate. This was very personal.”

  Good God. Gabriel closed his eyes, shuddered. Instead of Darion, his mind reflected Leah lying on the floor, bloody, battered, torn apart. Terror clawed at his chest, spilled a bitter tang on his tongue. His lashes lifted as though his soul needed reminding she stood before him, whole, unspoiled.

  “I want to pull you into my arms and hold you right now.” The confession was ragged, hoarse, dragged from the part of him he’d buried with his wife and son—the part of him he denied existed any longer.

  She blinked. Stared. Then a hesitant, tentative smile wavered on her lips. As if uncertain of his words’ meaning—or her reaction to them. The expression, so jarring on the confident, stubborn woman he knew, pierced the atrophied muscle he called a heart.

  “Thanks,” she murmured. “It’s enough that you want to. I—”

  “Hey, Bannon,” Jamison shouted from behind him. “These two here. Do you know ’em?”

  Leah sidestepped and peered around Gabriel. “Yes. They’re with the family, too. Let them through.”

  Gabriel turned in time to watch Malachim and Raphael rush forward. In spite of the circumstances, the corner of his mouth twitched as Jamison eyed Rafe as if he belonged in the back of a squad car handcuffed, not crossing a police barricade. Clothed entirely in black from his hoodie and jeans to his combat boots, with long, black hair falling around his face and small silver hoops piercing his brow and ears, Rafe presented an intimidating figure. Malachim, in his perfectly tailored black suit and long wool coat, cut an equally striking figure. His cool, refined elegance was the antithesis of Rafe’s roughness, yet they both shared the same take-no-prisoners demeanor that made Rafe an excellent security specialist and Mal a formidable litigator in the Boston area.

  Rafe reached him and Leah ahead of Mal. Gabriel stepped forward and they embraced, the hug brief and tight. He repeated the clinch with Mal, murmuring a hello.

  “Hey, sweetheart.” Rafe planted a kiss on her cheek. His eyes searched her face. “You okay?”

  Leah nodded. “I’m fine.”

  Mal leaned forward and kissed her opposite cheek.

  “Chay called you?” Gabe asked his friends.

  “I did,” Leah interjected. “I figured Chay would want you all here for support.”

  Gabriel stared at her and wondered if there would come a day when she would cease to amaze him. Beautiful, intelligent, and compassionate.

  “This is a mess.” Mal glanced toward the front porch. If the officers’ presence disturbed him, he concealed it well. But then, Mal had always been the rock of their group, older than the rest of them by ten hours. Even as a teenager, he’d been more mature than his years, the natural leader of their group, whom they all turned to for the guidance only one teen male could give another. Mal turned back to Leah. “So you’ve been inside,” he stated. When she nodded in acknowledgment, his tone hardened. “I guess it didn’t occur to you that whoever did this could still be in the house?”

  Leah glared, her shoulders stiffening.

  Rafe’s muttered, “Fuck,” didn’t go undetected by her. Her fierce scowl swung in his direction, blasted him. “Don’t you dare start with the overprotective bullshit.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” Rafe said, holding his hands up. “But I happen to agree with Mal. You could’ve been hurt, or worse.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I was a police officer for six years. In that time I learned a little—just a little, mind you—regarding the correct procedures upon entering an unsecured crime scene,” she stated with such icy precision Gabriel wondered if Rafe’s balls might be frostbitten. “I assure you both the integrity of the evidence and my safety were uppermost in my mind. The blood smears on the door were dry. And the smell of decomp when I opened the door was unmistakable. That scene had obviously been undisturbed for a while. No one was in that house.”

  Maybe Mal and Rafe realized pursing the line of conversation meant having their asses handed to them in slings. Or maybe they, too, caught the hurt ghosting across her eyes. Gabriel swallowed, glanced away.

  Part of him wanted to reach out and stroke a hand over her soft, black hair, press a kiss to her forehead. She was a strong, smart, capable woman who, despite her personal connection to the home and possible victim involved, had handled the grisly crime scene with a cool, level head. As a suspense author, he’d heard more than one cop complain about inexperienced or clumsy first-response officers inadvertently bungling a scene when they stumbled upon it. But not Leah. Boston PD had lost a jewel when she’d resigned.

  On the other hand, the coward who fanatically sought to protect his heart from further harm yearned to wrap her in plastic bubble wrap and ship her to a deserted island where the most danger came from eating the wrong berries. Too clearly he recalled sitting in the hospital, frantic as they waited on word about the surgery required to remove the bullet from her hip.

  “I’m sorry,” Mal said softly. “You’re right. Sometimes it’s hard to flip off the big-brother switch.”

  “I apologize, too, sweetie.” Rafe winked. “Even though I believe Mal was a bigger ass than me.” When Leah snorted, he rubbed a palm down her arm, a silent apology added to his spoken one. “So what brought you by here, anyway?”

  “Evelyn came up in a case I’m investigating. Richard Pierce’s disappearance.”

  The announcement plummeted into their midst like a huge stone into a still pool. Leah may not have noticed the ripple effects of her declaration, but Gabriel immediately saw the anxiety tightening the corners of Mal’s mouth and the stiffening of Rafe’s shoulders.

  “Your uncle?” Rafe asked, no trace of his customary amusement evident in the flat tone.

  “Yes.” She shot Gabriel a glance. “You didn’t tell them?”

  Two pairs of eyes swung in his direction containing twin expressions of what the hell?

  “Yes, Gabe,” Mal murmured. “You didn’t tell us?”

  “Didn’t have a chance to yet,” Gabriel gritted out.

  “No big deal,” Leah said, her gaze skipping from one to the other. “I intended to speak with each of you eventually.”

  If she had hoped to diffuse the rising friction, Gabriel noted with an inner wince, her good intentions fell woefully short.

  “Hey, guys.” Chay’s soft voice interrupted the simmering keg of tension. The group’s attention shifted to the fourth and youngest member of their tight circle. Chay’s light brown hair was pushed behind his ears, and Gabriel had an unrestricted view of his friend’s grave hazel eyes and stern, unsmiling mouth. “I didn’t know you were all here.”

  Rafe put a hand on his shoulder. “Leah called, let us in on what went down. No question we’d be here.” His face twisted, sorrow and rage creasing his brow, darkening his expression. “God, we’re so sorry about Darion.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Chay closed his eyes briefly before meeting their collective sympathy. Stark pain filled his expression. “I had to identify his body. He—” His voice cracked.

  Mal cupped Chay’s shoulder, squeezed. A heavy moment of silence passed between th
em, and Gabriel could’ve choked on the pain pouring from Chay. Yet, his friend allowed himself just one display of grief. When Chay raised his bowed head, the agony over the death of his stepfather, a man he admired and loved, was erased, buried under a stoicism as much a part of him as his hazel eyes.

  “Have you called your mother yet?” Gabriel asked.

  “She’s on her way home now. Your mom is bringing her, Mal. Mom didn’t take it well.” Chay’s lips firmed, his fingers clenching into fists next to his thighs. “I’m afraid….”

  Chay didn’t need to complete the thought. After Chay’s father’s abandonment before her son’s birth and then Richard’s disappearance, Evelyn deserved peace. Ten years ago, Darion had finally brought that contentment to her life. Would his death send her spinning into a despair she wouldn’t be able to return from? A wave of empathy broke over Gabriel.

  “The medical examiner believes he may have been dead for at least forty-eight hours. He’s been lying there on that kitchen floor since Saturday—” Anger roughened Chay’s quiet tone, lending it a harsh edge they rarely heard. “If his estimation is accurate, then Mom should have been lying there alongside Darion. If not for Aunt Pam convincing her to go away for the long weekend, Mom would’ve been home, too.”

  Another silence, ominous with images of would’ve- and could’ve-beens, fell over them. Gabriel added Leah to the disturbing visual, and his nerves did a tap dance.

  “Bannon!” a man yelled from the porch. “They need you ’round back.”

  Leah started, but quickly recovered. “Coming,” she said to the cop who’d summoned her. “Be right back.” She brushed her fingers over Chay’s hand, then turned away.

  They all watched her stride up the walk. One of the officers bounded down the steps and led her around the side of the house until she disappeared from their sight.