by Debra Webb
“Excellent point, Detective O’Connor. If we go with the theory that this is the work of a cult that uses the blood for a specific purpose, then the latest victim was either a mistake, which I doubt, or a message.”
“The scene was every bit as clean as the others.” She gave a small shrug. “I suppose it’s possible someone that methodical made a mistake in the final step.” Not right, she decided. “But why let it all go to waste? Why not save what he could? Whatever the method being used, surely it could have been stopped or adjusted.”
“Another valid point,” the doctor agreed. “However, our killer or killers are all too human to fall outside the realm of mistakes. Things could simply have gone wrong, but I would lean more toward the idea that this was a message for someone.”
Rowen gave herself a pat on the back for that one.
Merv spoke up then. “You’re saying our killer wanted to prove something to someone?”
“Yes,” Forrester confirmed. “But this is purely speculation. What we need are more details. Find out who the victims were and you’ll learn certain truths about your suspect.”
Rowen decided his suggestion was by far the straightest avenue for this going-nowhere investigation.
As the meeting broke up, Merv sidled up to her. “Can we have our own conference?”
“Sure.” Now was as good a time as any to clear the air, she supposed.
Since privacy was a premium anywhere in the division, she followed her partner into the coffee room. He closed the door, a move that might buy them a few minutes.
“What’s the deal with the tattoo?”
God, she hated that the chief had suckered her into this.
“The chief asked me to keep it quiet for a few days. Look into it off the record, so to speak.”
Merv grunted. “Well, when you’re following orders, you’re following orders.”
The ease with which he accepted her excuse for shutting him out made Rowen feel even guiltier. But, as he’d said, she was only following orders.
“Thanks, Merv, for giving me a break on this. You know I would never leave you out of the loop unless I had no choice.” And that was the truth.
“So, what do you make of Forrester?” Merv poured himself a cup of coffee and took advantage of the privacy they somehow managed to maintain beyond ninety seconds. Considering the three coffeepots in this lounge were the only ones on the floor, that was a record.
Rowen thought about that for a time. “I think he’s right.” But then, it was an elementary leap. Since robbery and sexual assault had been ruled out, that left only two possibilities: random selection of victims or personal vendetta. “We need to learn all we can about the vics and see where it takes us.”
“All four of us?”
It wasn’t until he asked the question that she realized how her suggestion sounded. Bodies were piling up; they needed to divide and conquer.
“Of course not.” What was wrong with her lately? She couldn’t keep blaming her missteps on lack of sleep. Hunter’s dark image immediately formed in her head. Maybe it was him. His reappearance had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. She had to get past it.
“Put Lenny and the new guy, Finch, on the first three victims, but I want you focused on these last two, Simpson and Green.”
“Any particular reason you want me on the last two, other than the tattoo?”
Dammit. He knew she was still keeping something from him. But she just wasn’t ready to talk about Viktor Azariel. She told herself it had nothing to do with protecting him on some totally insane level. But it felt exactly like that.
“You think maybe we’re looking at different killers here?” her partner prodded.
That was always a possibility, but that wasn’t her thinking. “Maybe Forrester’s right, maybe this last one was a message to someone. And since both the last two vics had the same tattoo, let’s assume maybe they were both warnings.” She was mine. Viktor’s words echoed again.
Before Merv could ask, she said, “I’m going to delve into the cults practicing in the area. If I need backup, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze narrowed suspiciously, but he kept those suspicions to himself. “Just be careful, Ro.”
She gifted him with the smile he expected. “I’m always careful, Merv, you know that.”
EVAN WAITED in the deepest shadows of the parking garage until Rowen returned to her vehicle.
She insisted on continuing to participate in this investigation despite his warnings. That didn’t surprise him, but it did concern him greatly.
His assessment wasn’t complete by any means, but he had his reservations as to where this was headed.
Someone had started a war in the seething dark side of this city. More people would die before it was over.
Pain seared through his brain with the troubling thoughts and Rowen’s connection to them. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass. Only a few days, and already his tolerance to the medication was building.
Time was even shorter than he had realized.
He moved along the murky edges of darkness, keeping close to the wall and watching as she unlocked her vehicle by keyless remote when she neared it. Even now, after his warning, her defenses were not fully in place. How could he make her see the danger?
When she reached to open the driver’s door, he came up behind her and put his hand on her arm. “Rowen, we need to talk.”
She spun around, leveled the barrel of her weapon in his face before he could back off. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that, Hunter. You could end up as dead as I thought you were all these years.”
Though she attempted to pass off the bitterness in her voice as sarcasm, he saw through her. He’d hurt her; there would be no altering that cold, hard fact.
“You have another body,” he said, getting straight to the point. “The killing won’t stop, Rowen. Your life is in danger. You must listen to me—”
She lowered the weapon, but she took her time doing so. “Have you been following me?” She inclined her head and studied him. His heart rate reacted, stirring the remnants of pain that never really went away. Not in three long years. “Stalking is against the law, in case you didn’t know. Doesn’t the FBI teach little things like that at the Farm?”
He wanted to shake her, but that tactic would only worsen her unforgiving attitude. “Do not trust Viktor Azariel.” He sensed that was where she was leaning in her investigation. Viktor was his prime suspect, as well, but for different reasons. Reasons Rowen did not need to know.
Shoving the Glock back into the shoulder holster she wore beneath her jacket, she looked directly at him and let him have it. This time, the sarcasm was real. “You know, Hunter, you really should loosen up. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
She reached behind her and opened the door, then used it as a barrier between them. “Not to mention,” she added with that cocky self-confidence he’d always admired, “I have a big gun and I know how to use it.”
Rowen cut him a warning look. “Keep that in mind next time you break into my house or sneak up on me.”
She ducked into the car, slid behind the wheel.
“You should get more sleep, Rowen,” he said quietly, knowing she would understand that the comment entailed more than advice for her future reference. “You’re more vulnerable than you know.”
Any tolerant feelings she still possessed vanished with the next beat of her heart. He watched her expression darken with anger. “Stay away from me, Hunter. I’m finished playing this game with you. Your hurt me once. I won’t let you close enough to do it again.”
He grabbed the door before she could slam it shut. “I am not the enemy, Rowen. Know that if you know nothing else.”
“Step away from the vehicle,” she ordered.
“Stay away from Viktor. He’s not who you think he is,” Evan pressed for all the good it would do. He released the door and stepped back.
She slammed the door, rocketed int
o reverse and out of the parking slot, cut her wheels sharply, jammed the gearshift into Drive and sped away without sparing him another glance.
There was only one place she could go for answers.
Straight into the lair of his most lethal enemy.
Chapter Six
Rage boiled inside Rowen during the entire trip to the Berkshires.
Evan Hunter had no business coming back into her life now or ever.
Why the hell had he come back after all this time?
She cut into the left lane and went around the idiot determined to drive fifty miles per hour in a zone authorizing a higher speed.
She never got like this. Never lost her temper so easily. She banged her fist against the steering wheel. It was him. And this damned case.
Rowen forced herself to relax against the headrest, loosened her death grip on the steering wheel. This whole damned case was insane.
There were no such things as vampires. Sure, there were those who’d talked themselves into believing they weren’t like other humans. It was an escape tactic as old as time. Pretend to be something else when you hated who you really were. Teenagers did it every day.
Unfortunately for the rest of society, some poor souls outgrew adolescence and went straight into personality disorder.
It didn’t take a degree in psychology, no offense to Dr. Forrester, to know that’s what was happening here. Deviants were killing people for their blood. It wasn’t as if bizarre occurrences didn’t happen from time to time. In Homicide, she’d seen it all. But this was a whole other shooting match.
This killer had technique—clean, precise, almost clinical.
How the hell did he get the victims to sit quietly as he drained away their life?
She’d obsessed on that little detail for the past forty-eight hours. Sure, there were people in this world who wanted to be needed so badly that they sacrificed way more than they should, but this went so far beyond that that it hit another stratosphere. No one in his right mind would permit such a thing.
Unless he or she were a fanatic.
Rowen heaved out a sigh.
Dr. Forrester had urged that they learn all they could about the victims to help solve the case. Well, Rowen knew one fact for certain. These were young, healthy, strong, intelligent people with bright futures and the expectancy of long lives ahead of them.
Suicide didn’t make sense, and suicide was exactly what the scene staging suggested.
Staging.
The epiphany struck abruptly and with gut-wrenching force. Each victim had looked as if he or she had merely sat down or fallen without putting up any sort of resistance to his or her attacker.
That’s the way the perp wanted it to look.
It was so clear now.
Why hadn’t she seen that before?
Her earlier hunch was right on target. Just before she’d left the office, she’d called Dr. Cost and sent him on a search for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Look for the most obscure drug you know, she’d urged, anything that leaves no typical residue in the human system, and which causes instant paralysis.
That would explain a hell of a lot.
If Dr. Cost could isolate the right drug, which might not show up in routine tox screens, and then find the way it was introduced into the victim…
Big, fat, major if.
For now, she had another avenue to pursue. At least two of the victims had been “donors” she needed to understand exactly what that term meant, what the commitment entailed. If Viktor Azariel was acquainted with both Simpson and Green, Rowen needed to know whatever he knew. If she had to arrest him and drag him in as an individual of interest to the case, by God, she would. The chief might have a stroke if she did that. He wanted the Azariel connection kept quiet for now. He wanted her alone following up on the eccentric man.
The idea that Azariel’s major financial interest was vested in a pharmaceuticals company hadn’t escaped her, either. His minions could have developed just the kind of drug that would instantly paralyze a victim and prove undetectable in routine screenings.
She turned onto the long, winding drive that led to his property. The guard glanced at her ID and motioned her through the gate. One glance in her rearview mirror told her the guard had just called her in.
Mr. Azariel would know she was coming before she parked in front of his massive granite steps.
The butler, or whatever the older gentleman in the nice suit was supposed to be, waited on the steps just like before. Rowen climbed out of her car and walked straight toward him without hesitation.
“I apologize for any inconvenience, Detective O’Connor,” he offered politely but firmly. “However, you’ve arrived at an inopportune time and Mr. Azariel isn’t available for visitors.”
She glanced at her watch. Just past three in the afternoon. How inopportune could her timing be? Too early for bed, a little late for lunch.
“As you say I’ve come a long way and I—”
“Mr. Azariel is not taking visitors,” he repeated. This time, the politeness was absent.
Now that pissed her off. “I tell you what.” She climbed the final two steps that separated them, then flashed her creds. “This is official business, not a social call. Now, you let Mr. Azariel know I’m here to see him. If he chooses not to see me, then we’ll have to take the meeting to One Schroeder Plaza.”
The guy was good, his stoic expression stayed exactly the same. “You may wait in the foyer.” He executed a sharp about-face and led the way into the house.
The stark contrast from outside to inside struck her all over again. Mr. Azariel needed a new decorator.
“Wait here,” the servant reiterated once the massive bronze doors closed behind her.
She nodded and continued her study of the primitive architecture as the man hurried to give his employer the bad news. The cop wasn’t going away.
Rowen walked around the mammoth hall and surveyed the artwork. She hadn’t had time to pay much attention to smaller details on her last visit. Too many other elements had been vying for her attention.
The final piece at the darkest end of the corridor was Viktor Azariel himself captured on canvas. No mistake about that. She couldn’t guess when the portrait had been done, but it looked old. And yet, the lord of the manor appeared exactly as he did today.
Okay, hadn’t she watched this scene in a movie? Next, he would tell her how many hundred years old he was.
Not going there.
She shivered as the dank chill settled into her bones. Like a cave. The place even smelled old. Then she remembered that it was. Centuries old. How could she have forgotten reading about the enormous castle-moving project?
“Detective?”
Rowen turned around. “Yes?”
The butler stood at the bottom of the ominous staircase that led up to the second floor. Grotesquely disfigured heads had been intricately carved into the spindles. A wolf’s head, its mouth open and baring fangs, topped the newel post. “Mr. Azariel says that you may come up.”
That gave her pause. “Up? Up where?”
“He’s waiting for you in his suite.”
A trickle of fear made its presence known deep in her chest. No need to be afraid; she was still in charge of this situation. “I think the parlor would be more appropriate.” She gestured to the door which led to the room where they’d first talked.
The gentleman didn’t bother responding. He had his orders. Rowen knew that feeling.
Well, she’d demanded a meeting. She supposed allowing Mr. Azariel to select the part of his home in which he would take the meeting was the least she could do.
She followed his hired help up the garishly embellished staircase and slid her hand along the polished banister the same way she did at home. The sound of their steps echoed in the massive space, bounced off the barren walls.
How did anyone live like this? With no real creature comforts?
Upstairs proved no more suitabl
e.
Dark…cold…forbidding. A long corridor split the space in half—east and west wings, maybe. At the far end of the corridor to the right stood two enormous doors.
When her escort stopped outside those looming double doors, an odd moment of déjà vu made Rowen sway slightly. Too weird.
She shook it off and steeled herself for whatever she would encounter as the doors were drawn open.
Dragging in a deep breath, she entered the room. The doors immediately closed behind her.
Viktor Azariel lounged on a sofa near the room’s fireplace, which resembled the one in the parlor downstairs. Two chairs and a table were the only other furnishings. Her host’s penetrating gaze immediately settled on her with the same suffocating heaviness she felt with each breath she took in his home.
“I appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Azariel,” she said when she’d found her voice. He remained silent.
Without speaking, he stood and strode toward her.
Rowen recognized the tactic for what it was—intimidation. She told herself to focus, to pay attention. She’d been trained to do that in any situation, under the worst conditions. But the details registered slowly. She couldn’t quite understand how or why he had that effect on her, but she’d noticed it before. Today, his hair hung long, draped against his shoulders…bare shoulders. No shirt. Black trousers, like before. Her gaze scooted back up to his chest. She told herself to look away, but somehow she couldn’t.
His skin looked pale and smooth…stretched tightly over well-developed muscles. For one second, the urge to reach out and touch him—to see if he felt as cold and unreachable as he looked—was almost overwhelming.
“Detective,” he said in that deep, deep voice. “What brings you to see me today?”
Rowen tried to read his eyes, but he didn’t allow her to see beyond the rich, dark color that made her feel unreasonably ill at ease.
“I have more questions for you.” Her voice wasn’t quite as steady as she’d hoped for, but it was the best she could do. Hunter’s warning ricocheted through her head, but she forced it away.
