Urban Sensation

by Debra Webb

  “Whatever you think you’re doing, Hunter,” she said, her voice trembling with anger and remnants of the other emotions she didn’t want to feel, “you have to release me now. Let me go without further argument and I won’t press charges. Pursue this crazy scheme and you’ll be doing time in Devens.”

  “If I let you go,” he said cautiously, aware that he’d lost any gained ground, “you’ll end up dead. I won’t let that happen.”

  Her face tightened with fury. “I’m a homicide detective. I deal with danger all the time. It’s what I do. You’re obstructing justice here, Hunter. I have a case I should be working on.” Her voice rose with each statement, making her all the angrier. She looked away, grappled to regain some semblance of composure.

  A wave of dizziness assaulted him and he had to close his eyes to ward it off. The medication was wearing off. Soon he would be forced to take another dose. He couldn’t waste his energy arguing about this.

  She waited for him to look at her once more. The impatience radiating from her put him on edge. “Get out of my way, Hunter.”

  He braced for the coming fight. “I can’t let you go.”

  A rasp of disgust issued from her throat. “You walk away from me and expect me to believe that whether I live or die matters to you? Get real, Hunter. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not going to participate. Now, step aside.”

  “No.”

  And then she did the last thing he would have expected in a million years—she moved in on him and hung her arms around his neck. She snuggled her body close to his and let him feel every womanly curve and contour. His mind reeled with the abrupt about-face.

  “Well,” she said with a sigh, “if I’m stuck here, we might as well make the best of it.” Her fingers crept down to his shirtfront and began, one by one, releasing the buttons of his shirt.

  A tremor of want went through him, but he knew what she was doing. But knowing that and getting it through to his body proved beyond his ability. The crash of excitement into his brain almost took his breath. The pleasure-pain was nearly unbearable. He wanted to feel her hands on his skin…wanted to touch her all over, but the results would be more than he could endure. He knew that outcome would likely destroy him and still he yearned for exactly that.

  He had to be strong.

  He manacled her arms to push her away. She tiptoed and, aiming for his mouth, she kissed his jaw when he turned his head. The feel of her soft lips on his skin sent a shockwave of emotion roiling through him. He couldn’t think, could only feel the intensifying sensations flooding his system, dragging him downward into a spiral of pure sensory mania.

  Somehow, she wrestled one arm from his loosening grip and before he could react snagged his weapon from his shoulder holster.

  “Move away from the door,” she ordered as she backed away from him, the weapon aimed center chest.

  His head was still spinning with emotions and sensations he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. He stood his ground.

  “I can’t do that.” His voice sounded rusty and depleted.

  “Step aside or I will shoot,” she warned. She’d latched on to the weapon with both hands now and released the safety, her feet spread apart for balance. He had no doubt she meant business.

  “Then shoot.” There was no fighting it. He’d pushed too far. He needed another round of the medication. Couldn’t hold his own with her any longer. If she shot him, it would be over. But then who would keep her safe?

  She took a wary step in his direction, her eyes distrustful, her aim steady. “Take off your coat.” She gestured for him to do it now. “I want to make sure this weapon is the only one you’re carrying.”

  Other than the knife in his boot, that was it. But she didn’t know that and, like any good cop, would only believe what her eyes told her.

  He shouldered out of the coat, allowed it to drop to the floor. Knowing what she wanted without having to be asked, he stepped away from the door and turned all the way around. He moved very slowly to ensure his balance and to stave off another surge of pain.

  “Don’t move.” She placed a hand on his shoulder while his back was to her. Setting off more of those pleasure-pain sensations, she patted him down. Didn’t forego a single step in the process. The feel of her hands as she felt up his loins made him shudder…made him want to come inside her then and there. Memories of doing just that flooded his mind, bringing him to a whole new level of agony.

  He couldn’t let this happen.

  She was as lost to him as his life was, but he would die protecting her.

  “Now. Step away from the door.”

  He turned around slowly to face her. She’d moved out of his reach, so there was no hope of getting a grip on her again. It wasn’t so much that he believed she wouldn’t shoot him as it was his desperation to save her that had him frantically racking his brain for his next move. He had to do something before she acted on her threat.

  “Move, Hunter,” she reiterated, “or I’ll shoot.”

  “Shoot,” he baited. “I’m not letting you go.”

  Frustration joined the fury making her heart pound, making her want to do just as he suggested. He watched the dance of emotions across her face and it hurt him to see the painful disillusionment.

  “Don’t make me do this, Hunter.” This time, her tone was pleading.

  He saw the glint of hurt in her eyes. She wasn’t going to back off. Not this time. But it was killing her to force the issue.

  “I can’t do that,” he admitted. There was no way he could hide the depth of his own emotions from her. She got a good look. Her eyes rounded as she processed what she saw in his.

  The high-pitched chimes of a cellular phone interrupted the silence that followed.

  Evan went on guard, knew exactly whose phone it was and where it had come from. The sound pierced him with more shards of torment.

  “That’s my phone,” she said, startled.

  He didn’t bother responding.

  “Where is it?” She surveyed the room, noting the empty, open shelves that lined the wall and the tattered sofa and chairs.

  Evan set his jaw, refused to say a word.

  “Screw you,” she hissed as she followed the sound, keeping one eye, as well as a bead, on him.

  By ring three she’d located her purse tucked beneath the sofa and fished out the cell phone.

  She wrenched it open. “O’Connor.”

  He didn’t have to hear the other side of the conversation—though he certainly could have had the medication not dulled his sense of hearing so well—to understand that the call represented a new devastating layer to this nightmare. All he had to do was watch the evolving expressions setting her face in stone.

  “I’ll be right there.” She closed the phone and turned to Evan. “My partner’s been trying to reach me.”

  The remote quality of her tone set his instincts on point. He waited for her to say the rest.

  “There’s been another murder.” She blinked as shock and disbelief settled more fully in her expression. “Finch…the new detective assigned to my team. He’s dead.”

  Evan moved toward her then. She was shaken to the core. And why not? One of her own—a cop—was dead at the hands of a ruthless killer.

  “He was found at home this morning.” She shook her head. “Just like the others. It’s crazy.”

  With Evan’s final approach, she scrambled back to attention, took aim at him. “Back off,” she snarled.

  He laid his hand on her arm, pushed the barrel of the weapon away from his chest and said, “I’ll take you there, Rowen. But you have to let me stay close.”

  As much as he wanted to keep her here…as desperately as he wanted to keep her safe…there was no backing away from the case now.

  Whether Rowen realized it yet, this new murder was another message.

  This time, it was for her.

  Chapter Nine

  Jeff Finch had lived at Braddock Park, on
e of the leafy residential squares that peppered the South End in distinctive Boston flair. Certainly not the typical place one looked for a gruesome murder or even a cop, unless he inherited well or married better. Long narrow gardens with a splashing fountain or two enclosed by wrought-iron railings welcomed residents to the two- and three-story brick row houses.

  It was the perfect New England setting, with autumn-colored leaves dancing in the morning breeze beneath the watchful eyes of low-browed windows. Balustrades and decorative iron railings around windows and balconies overlooked the street, offering a sense of heritage and beauty.

  But today, that lovely scene was marred by strips of yellow police tape and pulsing blue lights from the Boston PD cruisers sitting askew along the block.

  Shocked citizens, all looking fit and stylish, watched from the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. The presence of the medical examiner’s van was ominous.

  Death had dared to visit their gentrified neighborhood. And the vultures swarmed. News vans and reporters encroached as far as the uniforms would allow into off-limits territory.

  Inside, where curious eyes could not see, Finch’s body was posed in bed. Rowen understood now that the killer had chosen the position as meticulously as he had the method of delivering death. Naked save for the pristine white sheet covering the lower part of his anatomy, Finch’s face bore the look of startled defeat he’d no doubt felt when he realized the end was inevitable.

  As in Ellen Green’s case, the blood drained from him had been left at the scene rather than taken away. It had made a path down the left side of his chest and coagulated in a wide crimson pool around his buttocks.

  There were no signs of a struggle. Nothing appeared to be missing, but his only next of kin—his widowed mother, in ill health and living in Arizona—would be walked through the apartment later to confirm that.

  Rowen crouched next to the bed and studied Finch from a different perspective. He was a cop, for God’s sake. Why hadn’t he struggled?

  Merv was busy overseeing the interviews of neighbors. Doherty was puking in the en suite bathroom. Apparently he and Finch had become good pals over the past few days. Or maybe they’d known each other before.

  What the hell did this mean? Rowen wondered.

  Finch couldn’t have been a donor…

  Dr. Cost and his assistant moved to the side of the bed nearest the victim. “Any reason I can’t begin?” Cost asked Rowen without bothering to shift his attention from the corpse he’d already started to evaluate visually.

  She shook her head and stood. Her gaze latched on to Cost’s. “You know what to look for.”

  He nodded, his expression somber.

  If Finch was a donor, she needed to know ASAP.

  Hunter came up behind her. She didn’t have to turn around. She could feel his presence. Merv hadn’t liked that she’d allowed him on the scene. Explaining her motivation would have taken too long. Even she wasn’t sure she understood why she’d let Hunter get to her like this. He’d taken her hostage, had held her against her will for at least twelve hours. And what had she done? Fallen for his ploy, as if he hadn’t already jerked the rug out from under her feet once.

  Probably another mistake.

  But this case was too important to allow anything or anyone to get in the way. And she knew Hunter. He would not have relented in his quest to protect her.

  “Viktor has been here,” Hunter murmured for her ears only.

  Despite her desire to watch Cost’s examination, she turned to Hunter. “How can you be certain?”

  She couldn’t see his eyes for those confounded glasses, but she heard the conviction in his voice when he spoke. “I can smell him.”

  Rowen barely hung on to her composure, choosing not to question the response. As hard as she tried to hold it back, a shudder went through her at the idea that he could be right. Probably was. “Do your instincts tell you that the two were connected?”

  “No. Viktor was following the killer.”

  Rowen swore softly. “Why didn’t he tell us that he knew the killer’s identity?” If Azariel knew this bastard, he needed to come clean so they could nail the guy.

  “I’m not sure,” Hunter admitted.

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. She hated to ask the question, but her curiosity got the better of her. Not once in her life had she allowed herself to believe such things, but here she was about to show she could. “What about the killer? Do you sense anything about him?”

  Hunter turned away from her a moment. She wished she could see his eyes, analyze his thinking. She hated being so removed from his feelings. But then, hadn’t she always been? She simply hadn’t known how far off the mark she really had been three years ago. That same old bitterness attempted to rear its ugly head, but she tamped it down. Now was not the time. Finch was dead. Five other people were dead, as well. They deserved her full attention.

  When Hunter rested his shielded gaze back on hers, he said, “I sense something else, but it’s too vague to be sure.” He surveyed the room. “The sensation is familiar. Whoever did this is someone I’ve met before. And it has something to do with you and me. That much I’m certain of.”

  What could any of this have to do with her or him? Rowen turned back to where Cost and his assistant were prepping the body for transport.

  She hadn’t even met Finch until a couple days ago. She hadn’t known any of the other victims. Hunter’s conclusion didn’t make sense. He’d been out of the Bureau for three years. What reason could anyone have for luring him back to Boston? The only connection she and Hunter had was their affair. And, clearly, it had been just an affair.

  “He’s baiting us,” Hunter whispered, reading her mind again. “That’s why the first murder was conducted on a night and in a jurisdiction where you would be sure to get the call. As have all the others.”

  That was crazy.

  “You think Viktor is trying to lure me into some kind of trap?”

  That didn’t make sense, either. What did she have to do with him or his bizarre cult of vampire worshippers? Nothing. She’d been remotely aware some people took the whole vampire, witch and werewolf business to the extreme, but she hadn’t known anyone in particular.

  “Not Viktor. He’s as much a pawn or target in this as you.”

  A thought poked through the haze of confusion. “What about you?” She set her hands on her jean-clad hips. She wasn’t dressed appropriately for work, but there had been no time to change. “What do you have to do with this?”

  The tension thickened between them for half a minute.

  “I came here for you,” he said frankly. “I sensed you were in danger and I came to protect you. Whoever is doing this knew I would.”

  “So it’s you who’s been following me?” Ire twisted through her. She needed coffee. She didn’t need him cluttering her reasoning.

  “Yes.”

  “Detective?”

  Rowen issued him one last glare, then turned to join Dr. Cost near the victim.

  Finch’s body was almost fully uncovered now. She resisted the urge to look away. The guy had prided himself on the way he dressed. He wouldn’t like this. Murder was so damned humiliating.

  “I think you’d better take a look at his,” Cost suggested.

  Dread collected in her gut. Surely he hadn’t found the tattoo. As a cop, Finch had to have been way too logical to get caught up in something as illogical as vampirism. She watched as Cost moved the sheet farther down Finch’s lower extremities.

  On the white linen, between his spread legs, starting at his ankles, words were scrawled in red blood.

  The woman is next.

  Her knees gave way, but she caught herself before losing her balance completely.

  “Was Detective Finch married or involved with anyone?” Cost asked.

  Rowen shook her head. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; she knew what the message meant.

  She was next.

  As Rowen and Hu
nter exited the building, reporters shouted questions, except she was in no mood to answer. Bulbs flashed from cameras. She felt Hunter flinch next to her and she suddenly wished she could protect him from this. The morning sun, which had finally poked a hole in the gloomy cloud cover, had to be giving him trouble already.

  The crowd of onlookers had been joined by those wearing Goth attire and carrying signs welcoming the vampires to Boston. Idiots. Didn’t they realize a man was dead inside? Or did they just not care?

  Just when the urge to scream almost had become too great to subdue, Hunter ushered her into his vehicle.

  He backed away from the curb. Reporters followed, pushing and shoving, to get the last shot of the lead detective leaving the scene empty-handed and with an unidentified male. They would make something of that.

  She didn’t care. Her only concern right now was the fact that she had nothing.

  Not the first damned lead.

  Six people were dead.

  Including one of Boston’s finest.

  Her jaw clenched and she fought to stem the overriding emotions.

  Another ten, maybe fifteen, minutes passed before she shook off the disturbing thoughts. She realized then that Hunter was headed in the wrong direction.

  “There’s a postmortem with the chief and Merv at One Schroeder Plaza. I have to be there.”

  The mayor, every damned body, would want something now. She could only hope Cost would find something in the autopsy that would provide some insight. Otherwise, she would be looking for a new job. But there was no reason to believe the M.E. would find anything at all. He hadn’t found a single thing so far other than the tattoo; she doubted he would now. The one and only clue any of these murders had yielded was that damned tattoo and it had only taken them as far as Azariel. Merv hadn’t found a tattoo artist in any parlor in the city who would own up to having done the ones the victims sported or even similar ones. No one wanted to get involved in this dirty business.

  “I understand your need to meet with your chief,” Evan said, “but first we need to pay Viktor a visit.” He didn’t bother explaining that he knew for certain now that Viktor knew a great deal more than he was sharing. Evan intended to have the truth, one way or another. He didn’t like bringing Rowen along, but he couldn’t, especially now, risk letting her out of his sight for a second. He also knew her. She would reach the same conclusions. He didn’t want her attempting to give him the slip and doing this very thing.