by Debra Webb
She hesitated before opening the door, allowed her gaze to move back to his face. “If the Bureau wants in on this case, they should just say so. This kind of tactic is pointless.” Proud of herself for saying the last without her voice quavering, she opened the door and waited for him to get the hell out of her house.
He didn’t do so immediately, which made her want to haul out her Glock and force the issue.
“Remember what I said, Rowen,” he reminded softly. “You must be very careful.”
He walked out. Rowen watched him stride down the cobble-stoned alleyway, the sun glinting off his shiny black hair. He looked exactly like the kind of man who might have haunted these narrow streets two or three hundred years ago. The only things missing in the picture he made were the darkness and the swirling fog around his long legs. The very two items that had likely cloaked his movements as he’d entered her home via illegal means before dawn.
She shuddered and closed the door.
As if on cue, her body started to shake with the receding adrenaline.
Evan Hunter was alive.
She took two or three long, deep breaths to slow her racing heart, to calm her frazzled nerves. Why had he come back?
His warning echoed inside her. How could he know so much about her case unless he was still involved with the FBI on some level? He couldn’t. Maybe his team was investigating the murders.
But the Feds had claimed he was no longer in their service when she’d tried to find him three years ago.
She laughed dryly, bemused at the twinge of surprise the thought provoked. Why on earth was she surprised? Lies were often used as effective tools in law enforcement, from cover profiles to interrogation techniques. She’d used them herself on numerous occasions.
But this had been personal and she wasn’t about to forgive Evan Hunter…no matter how good his motivation for dropping off the face of the planet.
And if the Feds were involved in her case, they’d damned well better get on board and fess up.
The chief had a contact or two. Maybe he could determine if the Bureau was snooping around in any capacity. She glanced at her watch. Dammit. She was late.
She had a date at the morgue.
The click-click-click of doggy toenails announced the arrival of Princess. She looked expectantly at Rowen.
Okay, she had a date at the morgue after she took Princess for a walk.
Life was all about priorities.
She thought about Carlotta Simpson and her decision, despite the threatening weather, to walk home at such an ungodly hour, thereby saving herself the fare. Death was about priorities, as well. The difference was, you didn’t get a chance to regret your decisions.
Chapter Three
With a pair of latex gloves popped into place, a surgical gown pulled on over her clothes and paper covers on her hair and shoes, Rowen hesitated outside the autopsy room. She hated the powder inside the gloves that clung to her skin. Hated even worse the smell of latex. Earlier this morning, she hadn’t actually had time to think about it. A murder had only just been discovered. She’d shifted into cop mode, blocked out all other thoughts to a certain degree.
But that wasn’t the case now. Though there was much that could be learned from the autopsy, the actual procedure was not a part of the hands-on process for Rowen. She merely stood by and watched, listened and prayed the primary piece of evidence in any homicide, the body, would reveal useful information about the killer.
In Carlotta Simpson’s situation, her body might very well be the only source of evidence. Rowen badly needed a break in this case. She needed more than the cause of death, any diseases the deceased might have had, the time, mechanism and manner of death. And yet what she needed wasn’t that much.
She needed just one latent print belonging to the perp. A single piece of genetic material. Any damned thing that would connect another human being to this heinous act.
So she paused a moment longer outside that door, with the smell of latex making her stomach churn in warning that she should brace herself for the unpleasantness to come, and she sent one final prayer heavenward.
With another lung-expanding breath, Rowen pushed through the doors where Dr. Cost and his assistant, similarly garbed, were already deep into the procedure.
Carlotta Simpson lay on the cold steel table, nude and opened up with a Y-shaped incision for internal examination. The two tiny puncture wounds on her throat protruded in purplish rents from the gray canvas of her skin.
Dr. Cost glanced up but didn’t slow in his methodical movements of removing, analyzing and weighing organs.
She didn’t question him. If he’d had something for her, he would have mentioned it already.
Resignation pressed in around Rowen.
It was going to be the same thing all over again. A single victim with absolutely no clues to the perp.
The trace sheet the victim had arrived in, along with her clothes and other personal items, would already be at the crime lab. Though Rowen had been otherwise engaged and arrived later than she’d intended, she hadn’t needed to be here to know that the body had already been examined for trace evidence such as hair, fibers, gunshot residue, semen, saliva and blood stains. Any findings would have been photographed, documented and collected. Clearly, in this case, there were none.
The state of rigor and the lividity—settling of the blood—were next. With this victim, like the previous three, there wouldn’t be as much of the latter visible since most of the blood had been drained from the body.
Body fluids and tissues collected during this portion of the procedure would be sent out for a toxicological examination, which would reveal any detectable drugs the victim had ingested during the past several days.
As the M.E. completed his work, Rowen mentally reviewed the meager list of what she knew about this young woman. Was her murder a random act or had someone followed her from the pub? Had she known her killer? Was that the reason none of the victims’ bodies had shown any indication of resistance? It struck her as odd that all four victims just happened to know their killers. The conclusion didn’t feel right, and yet there were no defense wounds on any of the victims…no visible evidence that a single one of them had put up a fight for his or her life.
When Dr. Cost at last completed his task and sutured closed the incisions, it was past the lunch hour, but Rowen lacked any appetite. After a long period of silence, the M.E. turned to her as if what he had to say had only just occurred to him. “I have two things to show you, Detective.”
Rowen moved to a higher state of alert. She hoped like hell this would be the break they needed.
Cost directed her attention to the victim’s left arm. “She had apparently donated to the Red Cross recently. The puncture is consistent with the gauge of needle used.”
Rowen nodded. That would be easy enough to verify.
“Now for the coup de grâce,” Cost said mysteriously. With his assistant’s help, he rolled the body to one side enough to show a tattoo on the right hip. A white, open-bloom flower about the size of a quarter.
Rowen studied the flower but didn’t recognize it. Kind of like a…then she realized what it was: a dogwood blossom. “Have you seen this particular flower used as a symbol before?” She was certain she hadn’t, other than as related to the tree or maybe as a religious symbol of some sort.
“Look closer.” Cost offered her a magnifying glass.
Rowen peered through the handheld magnifier, studied the bloom with its detailed petals. Her breath caught as she noted the bluish letters glimmering beneath the white of the petals.
“Do you see what it spells?”
The anticipation in Dr. Cost’s voice lit a matching one in her veins.
D…O…N…O…R.
Donor?
“Do you recognize this as a particular symbol?” Rowen set the magnifying glass aside and fixed her attention on the M.E. He was practically beaming, he was so proud of himself. She wasn’t aware of any sort of
similar symbol used by those who donated to Red Cross on a regular basis. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Doc.” She had already pretty much maxed out her stress level for the day. And it was taking every ounce of willpower she possessed not to mentally go down that Transylvania bloodsucker avenue right now. With that thought came images of Hunter’s strange appearance, which she immediately booted out.
He peeled off the clean gloves he’d tugged on after the messier part of his work. “Come, you’ll see.”
Behaving even more puzzlingly, Cost led her over to a computer occupying a large portion of the counter space on a worktable on the other side of the room. He tapped a few keys and the image Rowen had seen on the victim’s hip appeared on the screen.
Another tap of the keys and an explanation of one use of the image popped up next.
Rowen read, hardly believing her eyes.
The symbol was used to mark donors belonging to a certain so-called cult. The same damned one she’d been working so hard to mentally detour. Vampires.
She turned to meet Cost’s waiting gaze. “What do you make of that?” She knew what she’d read, but she wanted to hear what the M.E. had to say first. In the back of her mind, Hunter’s warning that a new dimension would be added to this case whispered, vying for her attention.
“I think this is a lead, Detective.” He scrubbed at his stubbled chin. “Our first in this case. Not that I believe in vampires, but there are those who do. Clearly.”
Rowen nodded. She had to agree. There were those who believed in creatures of the night and this certainly fell into the category of a break in a case that had until now been going nowhere.
But this…she looked back at the screen…this wasn’t the kind of break she’d been hoping to get. Then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“I need to find out where she got this tattoo.” She would need a picture of the one on the victim’s body.
Having anticipated her requirement, Cost picked up a handful of pages from the printer and passed them to her. The digital image of Carlotta Simpson’s tattooed hip covered the first page. The second and third were the generic image and accompanying description Rowen had viewed on the doc’s computer screen, both likely garnered from research on the Internet.
Going back to the chief with something, as bizarre as this might be, was better than going back with nothing, she supposed. But he wasn’t going to like this. Not one little bit.
“Thanks, Doc.” She produced a smile for the M.E. “Let me know if anything useful shows up in toxicology.”
Cost assured her that she would be the first to hear from him. Having received that promise, Rowen headed back to the office. She needed to brief the chief and touch base with her partner. Hopefully he would have more details on the victim, such as who her next of kin were.
They finally had a lead. Maybe a dead-end one, but it was something to move forward on just the same. Nothing like this had been found on any of the other victims, so the tattoo might not even relate to the murder.
Carlotta Simpson either was or had been a donor. If the Internet source could be trusted, a secret society of ordinary humans who provided a regular, fresh supply of blood in a relationship that had nothing to do with the venerable Red Cross.
The benefactors were self-proclaimed vampires.
AT ONE SCHROEDER PLAZA, Rowen parked and entered the sleek, modern complex that housed all branches of the Boston PD, as well as a crime lab. A massive marble-floored lobby with soaring windows and skylights welcomed all those who entered. Though the building was now nearly a decade old and beginning to show a little wear and tear, it still beat the hell out of most cops’ digs.
She glanced back one last time before boarding the elevator. Even now, even here, she felt as if someone watched her every move.
Lack of sleep, she told herself again. Those same old nightmares that had haunted her when Hunter first walked out on her appeared to be back. Just in time for his visit. Wasn’t that nice?
Despite her bitter feelings toward him, she refused to consider that he was stalking her. He wasn’t that kind of guy…not that she wanted to take his side in any form or fashion. The idea of how he’d looked…how he’d reacted to the noise from the cup breaking poked into her confusing thoughts next. There was something very wrong about his demeanor.
Shaking off the speculations, she stepped out of the elevator and surveyed her home away from home. The Boston Homicide Division, with its carpeted floors and contemporary workstations, offered the same conveniences of a swanky corporate office. Not shabby at all.
Chief Bart Koppel wouldn’t want to hear anything about vampires, but Rowen went straight to his office and gave him what she had, just the same.
“If the media gets wind of this, we’ll have mass hysteria on our hands. Not to mention we’ll both likely be committed.” He flung his arms outward in disgust, then paced the length of the room once more. At fifty, the chief generally looked young for his age. But not today. Today, he looked every day of those fifty years. His salt-and-pepper hair lacked its usual sheen and perfectly coiffed style. And the elegant suit looked rumpled rather than sophisticated. Even his tie looked like it had scoliosis.
Koppel had been her chief from day one. She trusted and admired him. He’d gone through a rough patch a few years back when his wife had died, but he’d slowly gotten back to being himself. He was one of the good guys. A nice guy who had a big office with a nice view. He wanted to keep it, but the South End Murders were bringing major pressure down on him. He, in turn, was pushing as much of it as possible in Rowen’s direction. She was the lead detective, after all.
Dirty business always rolled downhill.
“I’ll keep this to myself for now,” Rowen allowed, in keeping with his roundabout suggestion. “See what I can find and let the others concentrate on family and friends of the latest vic.”
By others, she meant her partner, Detective Merv Gant, and Detective Lenny Doherty. She’d partnered with Merv about three years ago, around the same time Hunter came into her life. Lenny had been around longer. His partner had recently retired and he hadn’t been assigned anyone new yet. The chief had put him with Rowen and Merv as soon as the third body in the South End Murders had been discovered.
Any minute now, a full-fledged task force would be launched. The chief, as did Rowen, wanted this case solved before it escalated to that point.
“Keep me posted, Detective,” Koppel reminded before letting her go. “I’ve got a bad feeling this one’s going to get ugly and you and I are going to be caught smack in the middle of the witch hunt.”
He was right. A reasonable explanation and satisfying resolution were required posthaste. Without one or both, heads would roll.
Rowen almost walked out of his office without asking the question that, in spite of the other pressing issue, nagged her. She couldn’t let the possibility go that easily. “Chief, do you know of any Bureau investigation related to this case?”
The chief, who’d only just relaxed back into his leather executive chair, sat up straighter, looked suspicious or nervous or maybe both. “What do you mean, O’Connor? Has someone contacted you?”
She shook her head, not deeming the response an actual lie. Hunter hadn’t mentioned any affiliation with the Bureau. He’d claimed his visit was purely personal. But she couldn’t be sure.
“I just wondered if the Feds might try horning in at this point. You know, with the media hype.” That’s when they usually made an appearance. Not that she would resent the help. God knew she didn’t want any more senseless deaths. If a joint task force would get this done, she was all for it.
“I’ll nudge a few of my sources,” the chief promised and she left it at that.
Rowen made her way to her workstation, hoping she wouldn’t run into anyone en route who wanted to talk. She needed to focus for a while. To get this morning’s murder into perspective and to get her unexpected visitor out of her head. Not such an effortless task, and that infuriated
her all the more. More important, she didn’t want to field any questions from the other detectives, her partner in particular.
She and her partner had been through the steps on this one already. Both knew their jobs. The psychiatrist Boston PD relied upon for analysis in cases like this had worked up a psychological profile. Every possible angle was being considered, for all the good it appeared to be doing.
How did one profile a vampire?
Not funny, she mused.
It didn’t take long for Rowen to get buried deeply enough in her work to cast Hunter into some rarely visited area of gray matter. She’d almost completely forgotten him by the time the phone on her desk rang and interrupted her research into local tattoo parlors and recent Red Cross hits in the area of the latest victim’s workplace and residence.
“O’Connor.”
“Detective Rowen O’Connor?”
Rowen sat back in her chair, her instincts automatically going on point. She didn’t know the caller’s name yet, but there was something about his voice that struck a chord akin to fear deep inside her. Images from the nightmares she suffered all too often flickered like a short in a dilapidated neon sign.
Shaking off the foolish reaction, she confirmed, “This is Detective O’Connor.”
“I think we need to talk, Detective.”
She checked the caller ID on her phone, noting a blocked number.
“Identify yourself, sir.”
If this was a prank call…
“My name is Viktor Azariel. If you have a pen, I’ll give you my address.”
There was something about his voice, something intriguing and yet dangerous. Commanding. And strangely familiar. Who the hell was this man?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Azariel. We haven’t clarified that I need your address. What’s the nature of your call?”
“You are Detective Rowen O’Connor,” he reiterated. “The lead investigator in the South End Murders?”
“Yes.” Her patience was running thin now. Wasn’t someone supposed to be screening out the crazies? Ever since that Reporter article hit the newsstands, hundreds of nuts had called in vampire sightings. Hell, a half dozen or so had confessed!
