Gypsy Blood (Born to Romany Blood, Book 1)

by Lorrie Unites-Struiff

  Gypsy Blood

  by

  Lorrie Unites-Struiff

  Born to Romany Blood, Book 1

  ISBN: 978-1-927476-24-6

  Published by:

  http://bookswelove.net

  Books We Love Ltd.

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  Copyright 2012 by Lorrie Unites-Struiff

  Cover art by Michelle Lee 2012

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Chapter One

  Detective Rita Moldova peeked around the corner to make sure the hallway was empty. Making a quick right turn, she slipped into the autopsy lab to have a few minutes alone with the body. She tucked her white shirt tighter into her jeans and zipped her windbreaker to stay warm in the chilly room. The harsh odor of formaldehyde hit her nostrils and stung her throat.

  Her heart twisted at the sight of the young, auburn-haired woman lying on the stainless steel table. A white sheet covered her to the navel. Bruises blemished the once pretty face. Contusions marred the pallid skin from elbow to shoulder. The gash on the front of her neck gaped, exposing open veins and torn tissue.

  Rita flipped her thick, dark braid back over her shoulder, snapped on one latex glove, leaned over the corpse, and peeled back an eyelid. In her bare hand, she clasped a star-shaped crystal hanging from the gold chain around her neck, the endowment from her maternal Roma bloodline. The crystal heated in her palm. Warm energy pulsed up her arm to her shoulder. The face captured in the victim’s eye coalesced and stared back. Rita drew in a sharp breath. Bobby Driscoll! She had known him since high school, and now he worked as a uniform in her precinct. What the hell was going on?

  “You know better than to touch the deceased before I’ve completed my examination, Rita.”

  She jerked upright and looked straight into the age-lined face of Doc O’Toole. The chill of the laboratory did nothing to stop the hot flush creeping up her cheeks. “Um, sorry. Just checking the eye color. You know how antsy I get waiting for your report.”

  O’Toole ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I’m waiting on the results of the samples I sent to the County Lab in Pittsburgh.” Doc motioned for her to follow him into the large glass-walled cubicle next to his examining room.

  When Doc turned, Rita quickly tucked the crystal hidden in her palm back under the lace of her bra. She snapped off the glove and trailed him into the enclosure. “Same M.O. as the other two prosty murders?”

  He nodded and went to the computer sitting on a small desk. O’Toole sank onto the metal chair. The screen brightened. “Yes. Here it is. I’m sure this will sound familiar. The specimen results haven’t been verified yet. And, as you know, there was very little blood found at any of the scenes, just a drop or two on the victims.”

  Rita nodded.

  Doc read from the screen. “Body completely exsanguinous. Time of death between eleven p.m. and one a.m.” He looked up at Rita and pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Like the others, this woman was alive when the killer began extracting the blood from her jugular. Once drained, he excised the vein with a sharp instrument, post-mortem. Why does he bother?”

  Rita shrugged. “He’s performing some sort of a ritual, then taking a trophy. Doc, I still think the women had to be unconscious or bound while he took their blood. Any rational woman would fight, or run like hell.”

  “The evidence disagrees. There are no ligature marks on the wrists or ankles of any of the bodies. The bruises on the arms indicate a frontal assault, as if they were pinned or held still. Other than the bruises, no needle marks were apparent, no drugs in any of the stomach contents, no contusions on the heads to indicate they were unconscious until the loss of blood weakened, then killed them. Lack of tissue under the nails also indicate they didn’t struggle at all.”

  “This doesn’t make any damn sense.” Rita shivered, imagining the women awake, not fighting, as the life drained out their bodies.

  Doc rubbed his jaw, shook his head. “And, no matter what weapon I come up with, nothing matches the excised wounds. All evidence so far suggests the killings took place elsewhere, then the bodies were moved.”

  “That’s what my gut is telling me, too.” She glanced through the glass at the woman on the table, the Y incision was puckered and ugly under the harsh lighting in the examining room. “The jogger who found this one on the river path yesterday freaked. Can’t say as I blame her.”

  Rita had become familiar with a few of the prostitutes during a previous case and found the women to be friendly and open, once they knew she wasn’t there to hassle them. When she had inspected the first victim, the dead woman’s eyes reflected another working girl Rita had met before. Carmella.

  Carmella told Rita that she had bummed a cigarette from the woman before a black van pulled to the corner. Her brief glimpse as the interior light of the van flashed on revealed a dark-haired man with a noticeable bump on his nose. Carmella didn’t bother to look at the plates. The woman who had entered the van turned up dead in an alley a day later. Rita had confirmed Carmella’s alibi.

  Her confusion deepened with a different reflection in the eyes of the second dead prostitute. The pizza delivery boy remembered seeing the woman at the Ridge Motel, but his alibi also proved solid.

  She should see the last person the victim’s eyes captured—the killer’s. Damn. The crystal had never failed her before. She rubbed her arms to ward off a feeling of dread creeping over her skin.

  Rita glanced at her watch. A little after twelve. She had time to find out how good ol’ Bobby Driscoll fit into this scenario.

  She jumped when Doc nudged her elbow.

  His thin lips tightened into a scowl. “I’m still trying to determine the gouging tool. We’ve made the impressions, but nothing matches. Tell the Chief I’ll fax what I have to him in a few hours. You know, he’ll want you on the task force.”

  “Yeah. He already set up the meet.”

  The only ones who knew of the crystal’s abilities were Chief Lipinski, Rita’s mother, and her uncle. Her gift had spooked the Chief, but he had sworn to keep her secret. If the others found out, she may as well have “Freakazoid” stamped on her forehead.

  Rita patted Doc’s hand. “Thanks, I really appreciate the heads-up.” They left the cubicle. She looked at the dead woman again and sighed. “Damn it, Doc, we need to nail this dude’s ass fast. The newspapers are already calling him ‘Keyport’s own Jack the Ripper.’”

  Rita drove her battered Range Rover across town to the three-story brick shoebox that housed the precinct. Parking spaces in front were jammed, so she wheeled around the corner to the back lot. Small stones pinged against the undercarriage as the wheels rolled over the gravel. The engine coughed to a stop. Rita stepped out and unzipped her windbreaker. The early fall weather had turned to Indian summer and the sun beat hot on her head. She noticed Nancy, Bobby Driscoll’s wife, sitting in a red Ford parked in the shade of an oak tree near the back entrance. A phone was wedged against the petite brunette’s ear. A toddler slept strapped into a safety carriage on the back seat, sucking his thumb. Nancy’s lips twisted into a scowl as Rita closed the gap, heading for the back entrance.

  “Gypsy Girl, long time no see.” Nancy clicked off the cell and set it on the dash. She laug
hed in the same high-pitched tone that had always made Rita’s scalp itch when they were in high school. “How’s the big-shot detective doing?”

  Rita offered her a cool smile. She hated the nickname the kids in school had tagged her with, and Nancy knew it. “Just peachy, Nancy. Is Bobby on his way out? I need to ask him something.”

  “You’d think he could have a few hours off-duty to spend with his family without being bothered by someone in the department.” Nancy glanced into the rear view mirror and tucked a stray lock behind her ear, then ran her pinky under her lip to erase a slight smear of lipstick. “But, without a husband and kids, you wouldn’t understand. I hear you’re still a loner.”

  Rita hunched closer and looked Nancy square in the eyes. “Hey, smart woman go to college. Not all of us are content to be dependent on a man these days.”

  “Well,” Nancy huffed, her eyes narrowed. “You’re still a somewhat attractive woman in that dark gypsy way, though a little meat on your bones would help. ‘Course, maybe a man isn’t your preference.”

  “Oooh, tired of Bobby already?” Rita winked. “Are you coming on to me?”

  Nancy’s cheeks mottled with pink. “It’s no wonder you live alone. You’re still the same crazy, trailer-park-bitch you were in school.”

  “Damn, some people just never change. Is Bobby on his way out, or not?”

  “There’s my husband now.” Nancy leaned forward. “Tick-tock, Gypsy, you’re not getting any younger.” She picked up the phone, punched in numbers, and turned her face to the opposite window.

  Rita smothered a nasty comment and stepped back. She berated herself for letting a slimy slug like Nancy dredge up those old outcast feelings.

  When Rita’s parents had grown tired of migrant work, traveling from state to state and living out of a small camper, they decided to give up their nomadic lifestyle. Her father acquired a permanent job as a carpenter. They left the clan before Rita’s eleventh birthday and settled into a used, three-bedroom trailer.

  Three years later, after her parents’ car accident leading to her father’s death, Uncle Dragus arrived from Romania to live with them. His small bakery helped with the living expenses. Her mother pitched in to keep them a step up from dirt-poor by telling fortunes in their trailer.

  Rita’s family had been looked-down upon, considered an oddity by the town folk. But, she never let that intimidate her. She was damn proud of her Roma heritage.

  Spotting Bobby, she made her way across the loose stones of the lot, her western half-boots sliding on the coarse pebbles. Rita took a long, slow breath trying to shake off those teenage memories. The smell of freshly mown grass, mingling with a damp earth scent, wafted from the small park across the alley. The leaves had turned to shades of mustard and pumpkin and magenta. Soon, all the vivid colors would wither, fall away, and strip the trees to a bare ugliness—much like the world in which she worked.

  “Gypsy Girl, imagine running into you here at the station, of all places.” Bobby wedged his hands into his uniform pockets and snickered at his joke. He glanced over at his car. “What’s up?”

  Rita bit the inside of her cheek to ignore the nickname. “I’m on the prosty murders. That part of town is your regular. Did you or Gus pick up on anything screwy?”

  “Gus and me saw the vic. Told her to warn the other gals to be extra careful, what with the murders.” He looked down and kicked a stone. “Guess it didn’t help.”

  “What time did you talk to her?”

  “After eleven. When Gus ran into the Hobnob for some coffee.”

  “Did you bother to check out any black vans? Or did Gus happen to see someone odd in the Hobnob?”

  Bobby gave her a cold stare. “We know our job. It’s all in our report.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead, then spat on the ground. “Hey, maybe your Gypsy mother could look in her tea leaves and help us out again like she did when she found that ballsy car thief. You know the one I mean. The guy who ended up being a legit repo-man.” He let out a long, wheezing laugh.

  Rita bristled. “Well, he was the one taking the cars.” She beetled her eyebrows and made a cross with her forefingers in front of his face. “Maybe I’ll put a hex on you for making fun of Ma’s help.” She smirked at the quick spark of fear in his eyes, spun on her heels and walked away.

  Reacting to Bobby’s baiting had been as immature as getting upset with Nancy’s jibes. When Bobby had called her a “Gypsy slut” in front of their junior English class, she had punched him in the mouth, splitting his lip, and knocking his tooth loose. She chuckled. At least that was a pleasant memory. Even with the one-month detention.

  Her grin faded as she entered the building. She had grown-up worries now. Three women in the morgue. How many more would fall victim before they bagged the bastard. Bobby must have warned this last prosty right before she met the killer.

  The crystal felt like a chunk of steel against her chest. She tugged her jacket tighter when a sudden chill washed over her.

  Chapter Two

  Rita waved to the sergeant, passed the main desk, and climbed the tiled steps two at a time to the second floor. Gray desks with their flat screen computer monitors sat at odd angles around the spacious room. The muted voices of the personnel intermingled with the shrill ringing of phones. She weaved between the desks, tossed a “hello,” or “how you doing” to her fellow officers. Rita checked her voice mail, e-mail, then picked up a small notebook from her desk and hurried to the back conference room.

  Orange plastic chairs and scarred wood tables sat haphazardly about the room. The smell of fresh coffee teased her taste buds. Rita needed a shot of caffeine—badly. She hurried to the coffee pot sitting on the corner table and poured the steaming brew into a foam cup. Bumping a chair back from a table with her hip, she sat next to Della.

  Della had become her best friend when they worked undercover as hookers to strengthen the city’s arrest stats. Della’s flawless cocoa skin and lush curves made her the perfect lure. Her take-no-shit attitude and high scores on the shooting range won the respect of every cop at the precinct.

  Rita nodded at Hank and Sully, both good men. Hank’s quick mind and strong physique, plus Sully’s eighteen years of street smarts would be of advantage to their small task force. She settled her attention on the acne-scarred face of Chief Lipinski who stood in front of the whiteboard.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. Rita cast a glance over her shoulder. A stranger walked into the room, closed the door and leaned against the wall in the corner. Black hair curled over his ears and skimmed the neck of his ribbed pullover. The gold cross hanging to the middle of his chest glinted in the sunlight washing through the window. The symbol seemed at odds next to his heavy-duty shoulder holster. The man studied the pictures on the board, the sharp planes of his face set in taut concentration. She sensed a suppressed anger and urgency about him.

  His eyes snapped to hers. She stiffened her spine, lifted her chin, and stared back. His lips relaxed into a quirky half-smile. Rita’s breath hitched. She faced front and concentrated on the Chief. The crystal tucked in the cleft of her breasts warmed, and her palms were suddenly sweaty.

  Della poked her in the rib and whispered, “He’s a hottie.”

  “If you like them too tall, too rough-around the edges, and too dangerous looking.”

  “Well, he sure is eyeballing you, girlfriend.”

  Chief Lipinski set a blue marker on the desk and shuffled papers. “Okay, listen up. Meet Agent Matt Boulet, FBI, PCU or Priority Crimes Unit. He’ll be heading our task force. Our perp is not new at this, but I’ll let Agent Boulet explain.”

  Hank mumbled under his breath and tossed a sharp glance at Boulet. Chairs squeaked as the group shifted in their seats. Sully let out a long-suffering sigh.

  Boulet nodded and, with an easy gait, walked to the front, then hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “Thank y’all for having me. I’ve been sent here ‘cause we’re familiar with this man. Six murders, same M.O., in New
Orleans. Then, we followed the trail of his kills north. Almost bagged him in Charlottesville.” He cleared his throat. “Embarrassed to say, he got away.

  “The powers that be out of your Pittsburgh FBI office asked me to work in tandem with this city’s force. If y’all are wondering why we don’t have a whole team combing your turf, it’s because we’re a little overwhelmed with Homeland Security now. Plus, we’re not really after the credit on this one, folks. No toe-stepping. I need your help.”

  Hank leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table, showing off his gym-hardened muscles. “PCU? Never heard of ’em.”

  “Not many have. We’re a special unit formed in the last few years and headquartered in the mid-states.” Boulet smiled. “They sometimes call us the Peculiar Unit, or worse, Pukes.”

  “Name must be a good fit,” Hank piped up. The others snickered.

  “You’ve been on this actor’s ass so you know more than we do. Ritualistic?” Sully asked.

  “Yeah.” Hank turned a poker face to Sully. “The bloodletting’s a dead giveaway.”

  Everyone groaned. Boulet grinned. Rita couldn’t take her eyes off the way Boulet’s lips moved, the way they slashed into a hard line when serious and the way they curled on one side with that quirky grin.

  Della crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. “We only have a vague idea what this piece of shit looks like from a hooker’s quick take. No set pattern to his hits. What’s the plan?”

  He quieted for a beat, then took a deep breath. “Gonna ask you ladies to work the streets. I brought sketches. The Chief will pass them around. You two gentlemen will be assigned to the ladies. I’ll be near and ready. Do not use your com radios, stick to cell phones. Our player may have a scanner.” He placed his hands on the back of a chair and leaned into the group. His face shadowed with a deep bleakness, so tangible it flapped like dark wings against the corner of Rita’s mind.

  A connection pulsed between them. The amulet warmed her skin. Her throat tightened. She inched forward. A dull ache spread through her chest. She felt a harsh pain, a deep need, radiating from him.