No One Left To Tell no-2

by Jordan Dane

  Unending darkness escalated into suffocating fear. Torturous screams stabbed his memory, only drowned out by incessant gunfire and a painful ringing in his ears. And the feeling of being completely defenseless unleashed debilitating despair.

  God, please. Not now!

  Catching sight of the cottage, he quickened his steps and distracted himself with a recollection. As a boy, he'd been terrified of the dark after that night, when his life had been changed forever. But now, he found an odd sense of relief with the anonymity of it. It took him years to cultivate the feeling. But in doing so, he'd paid a price—isolating himself in his obsession.

  Get a grip, Delacorte!

  Closing his front door behind him, he shut his eyes and slowed his breathing. Clammy skin scurried chills across his chest. His demons were never far from the surface.

  "God, Fiona. This time, you've asked too much."

  Gray slush glistened on the road, plastering Raven's wheel wells with melted snow, dirt, and salt. The sun fought a losing battle, eventually covered by the onslaught of dingy clouds. When she drove by the chapel, Raven caught sight of the yellow police tape whipping in the breeze. In the stark daylight, it served as a cruel reminder of what had taken place only last night. Children played on the sidewalk, yards from the barrier. The murder investigation, coupled with the renovations to the cathedral, left this neighborhood without its shining spiritual beacon. Another obligation tugged at her. She had to find the killer and restore balance to this community. Pulling into a parking spot in front of the rectory, she listened halfheartedly to Tony's advice.

  "All I'm saying is, you better not push this guy too hard. He doesn't look like the kind of guy who'd take it well. He's dangerous, Raven."

  "Yeah, I hear ya, partner." Killing the engine, she turned to him. "It's just that he got under my skin. And when people do that, I push."

  "Don't I know that." He chuckled. After sliding out of the car, he slammed the door. "Hey, before we go in there, just wanted you to know I have no intention of sharing everything with our new partner from Transylvania. You and I are gonna sanitize that file. He's only gonna see what we want him to see. It's still our case."

  "Glad to hear you say that, partner." She grinned and tapped her fist to the top of her gray-splattered Crown Vic. "Now let's see what the priest has to say."

  On the stoop, Raven pushed the doorbell, hearing the buzzer muffled behind the door. Father Antonio answered the chime. Eyes puffy from lack of sleep, the young priest looked older.

  "Thank you for coming so quickly. Can I get you any hot tea or coffee? It's such a chilly day."

  "I could use some coffee if it's made," Raven replied. Tony followed them, letting her establish rapport with the priest once again. A practiced maneuver. "You didn't get much sleep, huh?"

  A fleeting smile flashed across the cleric's face. "No, not much. But it helped to pray. I didn't feel alone."

  Knitting her brow, Raven wondered if it would be that easy. Could she erase the images of death with prayer? Or would her petition fall on deaf ears? A part of her didn't want to know the answer to that question.

  "I brought the file from my room. It's on the table," he offered. He gestured around the small kitchen and break room. "Please, fix whatever you would like."

  Raven quickly filled a mug with black coffee, forgoing her usual cream. She couldn't take her eyes from the manila folder on the table. Once at the table, she pulled out a chair and sat near the priest.

  "So, tell me about what you saw last night, Father."

  "When I was on my way to the chapel, I saw him at his family's gravesite. He comes here often."

  "You said before that the man didn't follow the pattern. What did you mean by that?" she asked.

  "I think he saw me watching him. That's probably why he didn't stay. The man's eyes. I have to admit it. He scares me." Father Antonio met her gaze, then clarified, "He usually goes to the cemetery, then comes into the smaller chapel. He never talks to anyone, just sits in the back pew. But last night, he—"

  "He what, Father?" Tony edged closer. "What did he do?"

  "He just—vanished."

  Tony tilted his head, then smiled. "People don't just vanish, Father. With all due respect, were you nipping at the sacred chalice?" Humor—the great equalizer in Tony's book.

  Father Antonio chuckled. "No, I can assure you I was not imbibing in wine, Detective. But the man didn't come into the chapel. He just left, I suppose. Like I said, the chapel was dark when I got there. Someone turned the lights out. All I know is that I saw this man in the cemetery before I found—"

  Raven's gaze dropped to the manila folder placed before her. "And you said you know who this man is? You did research on him?"

  "Yes. I hate to even admit it now, but I was curious about him. He was always so reticent to speak to me, so I..." His voice faded. Pushing the folder toward her, the priest added, "Take a look for yourself."

  Raven opened the folder, finding countless newspaper clippings and other documents in the file. But one name she recognized.

  "Are you sure about this, Father?" After Father Antonio nodded, she looked across at her partner. "You're not gonna believe this, Tony."

  CHAPTER 3

  Raven pulled at the collar of her coat to fend off the chill. She still held the file Father Antonio had given her. With Tony at her side, she stood within the wrought-iron gates of St. Sebastian's cemetery—her eyes upon the headstone marked Delacorte. Roses wilted by the freeze lay abandoned at the base of the stone jutting from the ground. And the floral offering eclipsed a marker for a child. A tribute of a weathered cloth doll lay against the monument. Christian Delacorte's parents and younger sister had been killed on the same date, according to the headstone.

  And the newspaper clippings in Father Antonio's file told little of how a ten-year-old boy had escaped the same fate.

  "You know how I feel about coincidences, Raven." Tony's voice drew her back. "Delacorte was here last night."

  "Not to play devil's advocate, partner, but the priest didn't exactly get a good look at him." Looking back over her shoulder, she turned toward the breezeway windows to the right. "Not from this distance—and in the dark with snow falling? He won't make a credible witness."

  "Maybe we just see what Delacorte says about it. We'll get a shot at him this afternoon at three. We pretend to catch him up on the case, then turn it into a subtle interrogation. You up for the challenge of one-on-one with Mr. Freeze?"

  "I don't want to hog all the fun. Why one-on-one?"

  "Just seeing the way you got to him at the Dunhills'. If anyone can get Delacorte to talk, it'll be you." With caution in his voice, he added, "Be careful with this guy. If he's dirty and you push the wrong button, he could be real dangerous. But I'll be in the next room, watching his every move."

  Raven wasn't sure if Tony didn't have that backward. Christian Delacorte slipped his way under her skin without effort. She would've preferred to pass on round two with him, especially with her shrewd partner watching behind a two-way mirror.

  "Not sure I agree with your take on it. But if we're gonna do this thing, we'd better run a background check on Delacorte. I gotta have more ammunition on this guy."

  "Agreed," he replied. Her partner turned to head back to the car, then glanced over his shoulder. "Let's get out of here. Place gives me the creeps." He wandered away, muttering, "Which is ironic considering what I do."

  But Raven found herself rooted at the grave, wondering what drew Delacorte back here, time after time. Images of her father's funeral flashed in her mind. Even though he'd been taken from her by an act of violence, she hadn't witnessed his death. Her memories were grounded by a father's love. Yet in contrast, what monsters lurked in Delacorte's past? Only a young boy, he'd seen everything, according to the newspapers. She couldn't imagine such horror. Some of the articles in the priest's file alluded to a bungled police raid by crooked cops. Nothing proven.

  She now understood Christian's re
sentment toward law enforcement—even if it did hit close to home. And to compound the outrage, his desire for retribution couldn't be directed at anyone in particular. Charges were never filed. She had no doubt he believed a massive cover-up had robbed him of justice. No wonder he bristled with hostility to the badge.

  Despite feeling a connection to this man, she had to remain objective in her investigation. If he had killed Mickey Blair for a reason they'd yet to uncover, she must be able to see it and act upon the evidence. Her sense of duty bound her to that pledge.

  But something gnawed at her gut. Nothing about this case looked simple. And with Christian Delacorte involved, she had the feeling things were going to get complicated.

  The smell of fast food came from her wastepaper basket, providing a necessary alternative to the ever-present odors of cigarette smoke and stale afternoon coffee that permeated the bullpen of desks across the homicide department. Someone had left a nearly empty coffeepot on the burner. The stench lingered heavy in the air, challenging her ability to block it out.

  Reading over the file on Delacorte, she was lulled by the usual background noise. Ringing phones, the never-ending sounds a metal desk makes, and idle sports diatribes in low male voices. From various searches, she uncovered that Delacorte had graduated with honors from the business school of the University of Chicago with an MBA and a minor in computer sciences. He had also received training from the FBI SWAT school in Denver and had achieved expertise in hand-to-hand combat, handguns, executive protection, and high-speed driving—all the credentials of a security specialist.

  But his unique training method in the dark seemed highly unusual, almost a personal fixation. Raven made a note in the margin of a page. The thought steeped in her brain as she tapped the eraser of her pencil against the file.

  Overall, he was squeaky clean. Certainly, nothing implicated him as a killer. The chief wanted a briefing on the investigation by the end of the day. And they didn't have much to report.

  "You know, after we checked out Blair's apartment, I kept thinking we missed something," she muttered, looking up from the manila folder. "We found an SUV in his garage, but the man struck me as a guy with more extravagant taste in vehicles, so I checked DMV. His Mercedes was AWOL. I issued an APB on it. Maybe something will turn up."

  "Yeah, good idea. It's shaping up to be a long day. After Delacorte, we talk to the ME, then update the chief. He'll wanna know about the autopsy report before his press conference at six." He knitted his brow. "Want a cup of coffee? I'm buying."

  "Very generous of you, Rodriguez, considering this swill is closely related to toxic waste. They wouldn't dare charge for it. Maybe we should analyze the stuff in the forensics lab." She shook her head, declining his offer.

  "Not a good idea, Mac. In this case, I'm a firm believer that ignorance is bliss."

  Before making the trip to the break room, Tony called home to let his wife, Yolanda, know he'd be late. The sound of Spanish spoken softly into the phone had grown familiar. She'd even begun to pick up a word or two. After hanging up the phone, he reached for his wallet.

  "Five bucks says he's late. You gonna take that bet?" Tony taunted her with money. He waved it under her nose and dropped it on her desk as he walked by. "Guy's got a lot of attitude."

  When he returned, sipping his coffee, Raven replied, "Yeah, I'm gonna take that bet. I got five that says he won't be late. Let's synchronize our watches. Six till three."

  "No, nothing doing. We use the bullpen clock, and according to that, he's got three minutes to—"

  Before Tony finished, the desk sergeant stuck his head through an open door. "Hey, Mackenzie and Rodriguez. Got a man by the name of Delacorte asking for you two. What shall I do with him?"

  "We'll come get him." She smiled, then stood and pocketed Tony's five-dollar bill. "Aha! You shouldn't be placing any bets today. That clip-on tie is bad luck."

  "I think you're right. Wish I'd thought of that." He yanked the tie from his shirt collar and tossed it onto his desktop, then unbuttoned his shirt. "Not sure I've ever heard when a clip-on tie brought any other kind of luck."

  With a sly look, Tony asked, "Hey, wanna bet the vampire Lestat has never owned a clip-on? Give me a chance to get my money back?" After she graced him with only a raised eyebrow, he whined, "Come on, Raven. Where's your sense of fair play?"

  Christian Delacorte would have stood out in any crowd, but amidst the tangle of street riffraff lining the hallway by the front desk, the man looked terribly out of place.

  Yet he didn't flaunt his difference. Hands in the pants pockets of an elegant charcoal-gray suit with black turtleneck sweater, he stared out a nearby window onto a harbor pier on Lake Michigan, lost in thought. The man looked good enough to eat with a very small spoon. But such a trivial analogy didn't fit Delacorte. He deserved better.

  Alone in a crowd, he wasn't part of the world she knew. And as Raven stepped toward him, she caught the subtle fragrance of his cologne, another distinction from the smell of sweat and desperation in the waiting area.

  "Guess after your shower, you're willing to accept a proper greeting." Extending her hand to force the issue, she kept her eyes on him. "Hi, I'm Detective Raven Mackenzie."

  He turned and glanced down at her hand. She wasn't sure he'd reciprocate, but slowly he acquiesced. A firm grip.

  "Can we get started?" The man was all business.

  Tony raised his fingers in a wave. "Hey, how's it going? We got ourselves a room to talk. It's up on two. Raven will take you there. Can I get you some coffee? I'll brew a fresh pot."

  Delacorte glared at them both, probably wondering if the coffee was laced with strychnine. Raven knew their brew didn't need poison to be considered downright lethal. But the man eventually accepted the offer.

  "Yeah, make it black."

  As Tony disappeared among the throng of people, Raven escorted Delacorte to the elevators. After she punched two on the elevator panel, they were hoisted to the second floor. Glancing to her right, she caught his reflection in the dull metal doors. Those eyes. She remembered her visit to St. Sebastian's cemetery, seeing the name Delacorte chiseled in stone. The man's past reflected in his eyes now. Then again, maybe she read too much into him.

  When they reached their destination, the doors opened. Out of reflex, Raven touched his elbow to direct him to the interrogation room. An innocent gesture. But the intensity of his stare took her aback. Her reaction had been tangible—like an electrical shock to the heart. Damn it all. Control yourself, Mackenzie.

  "This way." She swallowed hard. "We've got number four."

  Delacorte held out his hand, indicating she take the lead. Still, he hadn't said a word since the first floor. His effortless sensuality unnerved her. Only one way to combat that.

  "You know, if you've lost your voice, maybe we should stop off on three. File a report."

  Her sarcasm earned her continued silence on his part, but for an instant, she thought she saw a spark of humor in his eyes. His expression softened for a second. It caught her by surprise.

  Aha! Score one for the Raven lunatic. She basked in the glow of her small victory. More than likely, wishful thinking tainted her perception. She'd love to melt his icy veneer to see what lay beneath. Then again, maybe his true nature would leave her wishing she'd left well enough alone. The thought of him with his guard down sent shivers across her skin. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt like this. It scared the hell out of her!

  He allowed her to enter the room first, but his eyes were immediately drawn to the table strewn with photographic evidence. Raven was eager to see his reaction after they'd staged it for that purpose. And if he didn't recognize the church, she would ask him point-blank about the significance of the location. But his reaction had been anticlimactic. If Delacorte had been shocked by the graphic nature of the scenes, he never let on. His expression remained poised and unreadable as he sat in one of the chairs.

  "The body was found in the small chapel at S
t. Sebastian's." She hesitated, allowing him time to react. Her eyes held firm, watching for a change in his body language. But the man looked unflappable as he thumbed through the photos.

  "Was Mickey religious?" she finally asked.

  A low chuckle escaped his chest, sounding more like he'd cleared his throat. "The only thing Mickey revered was the almighty dollar." Raising his gaze, he added, "And himself."

  "Dunhill must pay pretty well. His apartment's nicely furnished and his clothes cost more than I'll make in a lifetime." She sat in the chair across from him. Her eyes never left his.

  "That sounds like you're insinuating something, Detective." A thin smile appeared, then vanished. "Tomorrow morning, eight sharp at the Dunhill Tower on Michigan, ask for me. I trust you can detect your way there. I've got you set up with the Human Resources Department. They've been instructed to give you all that you need on Mickey Blair."

  As if he'd heard a sound, he raised his head toward the large picture mirror along the far wall. Staring beyond his image reflected in the glass, Christian shifted his focus. Raven knew Tony stood in the next room, watching. Uncanny; the man seemed to sense her partner's presence.

  "We'll want to see his office, too." Her voice rose a notch, echoing in the small room as she tried to distract him. "And any other place he might have personal effects."

  "I'd anticipated that." He stood and stepped toward the glass, then turned abruptly to face her, leaning his back on the mirror with his arms folded across his chest. "You'll get what you need."

  Raven believed in a strong offense when everything else failed. Time to be direct.

  "St. Sebastian's. Are you acquainted with the church?" She stood and stepped toward the man, mimicking his stance, standing a safe distance from him. "It's quite charming, a historical area of Chicago."

  A long moment passed. Silence. His face changed almost imperceptibly. Then a lazy smile curved his lips. She found her eyes drawn to those lips—like a damned moth to a proverbial flame.