by Debra Webb
The M.E., Dr. Bernard Cost, a man of about sixty who had been summoned from bed at half past four in the morning, hovered close by, waiting to assume control of the body. Rowen hadn’t talked to him just yet. She didn’t want to color his perspective by discussing what she had concluded after one glance at the victim.
This case in particular required unshakable objectivity.
Rowen blinked to clear the spots the camera flashes had caused from her vision and resumed her search of the scene. Using her police-issue flashlight, she covered the entire length of the alley once more, moving the light from side to side, carefully scanning for blood or any damned thing else that might be related to the murder. She’d performed this walk-through examination twice already, once before the techs were allowed on site.
As lead investigator, it was her job to get a feel for the scene and organize an approach for collecting evidence. She’d had to look at the big picture and determine how best to conduct the necessary business that would facilitate speedy justice for the victim. Then there had been a second sweep with the aid of the floodlights, and now, one last painstaking scrutiny just to be sure she hadn’t missed anything while hyped with the adrenaline of discovery.
She clenched her jaw and restrained the anger ramming against the wall of detachment she’d erected from the moment she received the call.
This one was just like the last one.
And the two before that.
No evidence. Not a single footprint or cigarette butt or drop of blood. No shell casing, no murder weapon. No witnesses. Nothing. The M.E. would have no better luck when he processed the body. Whoever had done this knew how to cover his tracks. There wouldn’t even be the first latent print or indication of trauma. Not one damned thing.
It was as if the perp first hypnotized his victims and then sucked ’em dry.
Rowen shuddered inwardly and evicted the concept from her brain. She would not let the press hoopla color her thinking.
When Dr. Cost moved into position near the body, Rowen set aside the infuriating reality of what this fourth murder meant and headed back in that direction. She had to do this right. No matter that she wanted to scream in frustration. How could this keep happening?
“Morning, Doc,” she said, infusing her tone with a calm she in no way felt and wishing she had a cup of coffee…anything containing caffeine. She’d left the house without taking the time to brew a pot. The urgency she’d experienced upon arriving at the crime scene had morphed into anger and now into a disheartening blend of frustration and defeat.
She dropped into a crouch a few feet away from the M.E., allowing him plenty of elbow room. Though the crime scene was Rowen’s domain, the M.E. had legal authority over the body. Since he was the expert, Rowen had no problem whatsoever with those boundaries. She liked boundaries. They kept her out of trouble.
Cost grunted his usual greeting. Once he dove into his initial assessment, he paid little heed to anything or anyone else around him. He palpated the deceased woman’s scalp, then the neck, and downward, checking for broken bones or other readily assessable evidence of trauma. He tested the right arm.
“No rig in the larger muscles yet,” he commented for Rowen’s benefit.
Though the smaller muscles of her face were already affected, indicating at least a couple hours since death, the lack of rigor mortis in the muscles of the arms signified the victim had not been dead for much longer than three or four hours, tops. As Rowen watched, the doc removed a syringe from his kit and withdrew vitreous fluid from the victim’s eyeball. Rowen swallowed back the bitter taste that rose in her throat but refused to look away. She needed to see all of this, to mentally document every step.
The fluid removed would provide postmortem potassium levels, which would convey an additional estimate of time of death. Core body temperature would be checked at the morgue, Rowen presumed, where the doctor could take a closer look before inserting the thermometer. Even with the floodlights, this alley was no place to look for signs of sexual assault. Removing clothing or inserting thermometers could eliminate or contaminate evidence. Dr. Cost opted not to take the risk.
The M.E. glanced at Rowen’s gloved hands. “Help me turn her over.” A trace sheet had already been laid in place for wrapping the body.
Rowen obliged, subconsciously registering the non-human coolness of the woman’s skin. A layer of latex on her hands and paper covers on her shoes were automatics for Rowen. She never took chances with her crime scenes. Though they offered little in the way of armor shielding against the horror of death.
She’d always harbored extreme fear when it came to dying, significantly more than what most people considered normal. The panic she felt at times bordered on outright phobia. Those who knew her struggle—they were few, only her closest friends and family—couldn’t understand her need to go into homicide. Rowen deemed it her little way of doing all she could to stop those who committed the worst of crimes against others. And maybe to prove she could not only face the inevitable but could wage a sort of battle against it.
Cost shook his head slowly, a heavy sigh splintering his quiet ruminations as he considered the victim. “Nothing. I see nothing, Detective, that is going to separate this victim from the others.”
Rowen’s apprehension amped up another notch as she watched him bag the vic’s hands. “But you can’t be certain just yet.” She needed to hear something different but she knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“Look at her, Rowen.” He gestured to the grayish white skin that was strangely lacking in the usual lividity or marbling effect caused by blood pooling in the veins. “And if that isn’t enough, there is no outward indication of trauma other than this.” He pointed to the small marks on the victim’s throat, in the area of the body’s most prominent blood-carrying vessel.
“The same as the other three,” he stated unnecessarily and gave a small shrug. “I’ll do all I can. But I can’t find evidence if it isn’t there. At this point, I would say the victim died of extreme blood loss. End of story. Just like the others.” He looked over at Rowen then; his entire visage grim. “The only question is, how?”
And there it was. The riddle for which she had no solution. The one thing she and Cost knew for certain was that, in the other three murders and most likely in this one, the vast majority of the victim’s blood had been drained in a manner similar to how one siphons fuel from a gas tank with a hose. Only, they didn’t have a hose. They had no murder weapon whatsoever.
Maybe the Reporter was right.
Maybe Boston had itself a vampire.
A thirsty one at that.
WHEN THE BODY had been taken away and the crime scene secured for a second evidence sweep in the light of day, Rowen peeled off the latex gloves and shoe covers and shoved them into the pocket of her blazer. A fog had lifted and the dawn had come, swathed in a chilling, morose gray that had more to do with her mood than it did with the climate.
She climbed into her car and headed to One Schroeder Plaza, the main headquarters of Boston’s police department. There was time to check her messages and make some calls before the preliminary report from the autopsy would be ready. This case had priority status. Any new victims would be pushed to the front of the line. The powers that be were waiting, holding their collective breaths, for some sort of verdict. For any indication of a reasonable explanation that didn’t include sidebars to the Reporter’s melodramatic suggestions. Just what the city needed this close to Halloween.
So far, the murders had all taken place in one area and had since become known as the South End Murders. Not exactly original, but better than some others suggested at the station. It was bad enough that a smart-ass reporter had tossed out the idea of vampires to the general public. Having anyone in Homicide mention it, even as a joke, was not good at all. Especially since the reporter couldn’t have made the obvious connection if someone hadn’t leaked the cause of death.
Daylight crept over the city, the sun bleaching some of
the gray, as Rowen reached Columbus Avenue. But she still felt shrouded in darkness, gripped in the choke hold of uncertainty.
Though she ignored the haunting feeling when working a case, the moment she was alone, her mind no longer focused on the scene or on a related report, she felt it…stronger than ever. It was more than the sensation of being watched. Far more intimate, somehow. As if her own shadow was in a peculiar manner “following” her.
Rowen shuddered and kicked the disturbing concept out of her head.
She had bigger problems to worry about.
“Damn.”
She cringed, felt like smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand. She’d left home in such a hurry this morning she couldn’t remember if she’d put out any Kibbles for Princess. Definitely hadn’t taken her out for a potty walk. Coming home to a puddle or worse was not among her favorite things to do. And letting the animal go all day, and possibly part of the night if an emergency came up, without food was unconscionable.
Thinking of her spoiled and pampered Maltese made Rowen smile no matter how irritating the domineering animal could be. She’d had the arrogant little piece of white fluff for two years, having rescued the dog after its original owner had been murdered and no one else had wanted a pet. Especially one who wore a genuine rhinestone collar and sported pink toenails.
The elderly woman’s body hadn’t been found for two days and Princess had stayed right beside her master the entire time, not leaving her side to drink or eat even though both bowls had been full and waiting. Now that was loyalty. Everyone should have someone or thing that cared that much. She supposed that was how she ended up taking the prissy pooch home. Rowen was tired of being alone.
According to the dog’s registration papers and the veterinarian who’d provided her health care, she was almost five years old now.
Rowen loved her like a child.
Her smile faltered. Memories she’d thought she had laid to rest three years ago filtered into her mind as if she’d flipped that switch with the mere mention of children. She forced the thoughts away, refused to loiter in that part of her past.
There was plenty of time for finding the right life partner and starting a family. It wasn’t as if thirty-one was that old. But on mornings like this one, she felt a hundred.
After parking she made her way along the slender cobblestone byway to the eighteenth-century row house she called home. Rowen had inherited the brownstone, once the home to servants of the wealthier Beacon Hill residents, from her grandmother, who was purported to have been a direct descendant of one of those servants. Rowen’s family was immensely proud of its heritage, however lacking it was in the historically privileged blue blood of the area. Her mother would say, “Who needed blue blood when you had greenbacks?” Her mother’s marriage to Rowen’s father, a rich Irishman, had infused the family with a healthy dose of financial security if not a royal lineage.
A genuine smile slanted across Rowen’s lips. This was Boston, after all, the city that gave new meaning to the phrase melting pot.
The steep cobbled alley that led to her front door was lit at night by gas lamps and embellished year round with overflowing flower boxes. From pansies in the spring to mums in the fall, there was always something blooming. She even managed to keep a cluster of spindly flowers alive in her own planters.
Despite the house being located in one of the city’s most esteemed neighborhoods, history would not let her forget the ghosts from the past that seemingly lurked between every brick and cobblestone. She laughed dryly as she turned the key in the modern lock that secured the ancient door. Boston possessed far too much ambitious history to be considered anything but haunted. The city was the perfect backdrop for crime novels. Gritty, with gothic architecture, and as old or older than anything that could be found in this country.
Rowen tossed her keys onto the table in the entry hall. “Princess!”
There was a time when the snobby little pooch would have met her at the door. Not anymore. She waited, ensconced atop her favorite pillow on the sofa, for her master to come attend to her every need.
Rowen paused at the archway leading to the parlor. Princess lifted her head and gazed at her mistress. “Hey—”
The rest of the greeting evaporated in Rowen’s throat.
The sensation of being watched, of not being alone was suddenly overpowering.
Instinctively, she reached for her weapon.
Princess angled her head as if to show off her pink ribbon and to say, Why haven’t you walked over here and picked me up? I’m precious and helpless.
Slipping into cop mode, Rowen wrapped her fingers around the butt of her Glock and eased into the parlor. Princess, the useless fluff, continued to sit there and stare at her master as if she’d lost her mind or, at the very least, her good sense. She didn’t even bark.
Listening for the slightest sound, Rowen stood very still for a few seconds. Maybe she’d imagined the feeling. She’d been awakened before three in the morning to go to a crime scene. It wasn’t impossible that lack of sleep had her imagining things. Especially considering vampires and other ghouls were dancing in her head, screwing with her need to form impartial conclusions.
Truth was, she hadn’t slept well in days. Six, to be exact. That’s how many it had taken for three young women and one man to end up dead, all from the same malady—a fatal blood donation.
The ancient hardwood floors creaked as she moved around the room, and she cringed at the sound. It wasn’t as if she could memorize the spots; they changed with the climate. She focused on keeping her respiration slow and even, listening intently for any noise.
Partially closed blinds permitted minimal light to filter into the rooms. Soaring ceilings and massive pieces of dark furniture merely absorbed the sparse light and did nothing in the way of reflecting it. If she ever re-decorated, light would be the dominant theme. Her grandmother might roll over in her grave, but Rowen would just have to take that chance.
She skirted her ancestor’s massive dining table and made her way as quietly as possible toward the kitchen. Gold-trimmed china winked at her from the towering cabinet. China she never touched, much less consumed a meal from. Who had time for that kind of sit-down dinner?
The back door was secure.
The brush of a shoe sole against a carpet paralyzed her.
Upstairs.
Hallway.
Rowen swallowed tightly and moved back into the entry hall. She hesitated at the bottom of the staircase and took a deep, steadying breath.
There was no way to assess in which of the four upstairs rooms the intruder had chosen to hide, and there was only one way to find out.
She moved up the staircase in five seconds flat, incredibly without hitting the first creaky spot. The hall stood empty. The window curtains at the very end shifted in the early morning breeze, drawing Rowen’s gaze there.
The intruder had entered through that window.
A flurry of anticipation shimmered along her nerve endings.
There was no doubt in her mind as to whether she had locked it or not, which meant he certainly had to have broken a pane of glass. She gritted her teeth. Antique glass. Handblown. Dammit.
Now that pissed her off. The invasion of her home was bad enough, but did the perp have to go damaging a piece of history to do it?
She took a step in that direction, her gaze sweeping from doorway to doorway, right to left and back.
“Lower your weapon.”
Rowen swiveled to face the threat that had come from the landing behind her.
Her fingers tightened on the Glock. Her aim zeroed in on the intruder.
“It’s me, Rowen.”
A fine tremor quaked through her limbs, this one not motivated by concern for her immediate safety. The bottom dropped out of her stomach and the resulting sinking sensation made her knees weak.
Evan Hunter.
She moistened her lips. Surveyed his tall frame once more just to be sure she wasn’t
seeing a ghost.
Wasn’t he supposed to be dead?
“What’re you doing here?” The question came out reflecting exactly how she felt—confused, bewildered.
“We have to talk.”
She slid the safety back into the On position, then lowered her weapon as he’d requested. He didn’t appear armed and she knew this man. Or, at least, she had thought she’d known him. Her palms started to sweat as more bewildering tidbits filtered into her head. She shoved the weapon back into its holster and resisted the urge to swipe her damp hands against her thighs. She didn’t want him to know he’d affected her that way. Didn’t want to ask the questions she desperately needed answers for. Then he would fully comprehend how much his leaving had damaged her.
Suddenly, in an abrupt moment of clarity, the full impact of the situation hit her and fury obliterated all other emotion.
She stared at the man who stood maybe four feet away. Dark glasses shielded his eyes, protected his thoughts. But she would know him anywhere. And that made her all the more furious.
She had only one thing to say to him. “Get out.”
Chapter Two
It wasn’t until Rowen had uttered the words, heard them echo in the thickening air, that the reality of the situation actually hit her.
This wasn’t a dream—wasn’t her imagination.
Evan Hunter stood only a few feet away from her.
The man who’d promised her things that hurt too badly to recall even now, three years later. The man who had walked away without looking back once. The same man she’d searched for, made endless calls about, only to learn that he’d either left his position with the FBI or he was dead. No one really knew for certain. She was a cop and hadn’t even been able to find out for sure.
“I came here because you’re in danger,” he said quietly, as if those three years hadn’t passed…as if he hadn’t broken her heart beyond repair.
In that pivotal instant, the full weight of her fury broadsided her with the force of a runaway dump truck. Evan was alive. He looked whole, at least as far as she could tell with him wearing dark glasses and a long black coat that almost reached the floor.
