She waited while he handed over the phone, tapping one expensively shod foot restlessly. Donata could tell when the EMT came on the other end, because Doc straightened up and put on her “official” voice.
“Right,” she said briskly. “This is Doctor Cassandra Havens of the Central Gates Precinct. ID number two, two, seven, five, seven. I’m authorizing you to bring the body of the deceased directly to me here at the coroner’s office.”
Donata couldn’t hear the response from the other end, but she could imagine the paramedic practically saluting. Doc had that effect on people on the rare occasions when she chose to exert the full force of her will.
“That’s right,” Doc continued. “I’ll declare him myself when you get here. Thank you, I appreciate it.” She winked at Donata. “Put Mr. Casaventi back on the phone, please.”
“It’s all set, Peter,” she said when he came back on the line. “They’re going to bring him here. I’ll handle everything once they get the body to the morgue. Try not to worry.” He said something Donata didn’t catch. “Yes, of course. Are you up to driving? You’re sure? Okay, then just follow the ambulance over. Hang on a sec—here’s Donata.” She handed the phone back to Donata.
Donata took another deep breath and said, “I’ll see you in a few minutes, then.” She bit her lip. “And Peter—I’m so, so sorry about your father.”
She clicked the phone shut and stared at it blankly for a minute.
“Are you okay, Donata?” Doc asked hesitantly.
Donata shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “No, I’m not okay,” she said in a hoarse voice. “This is my fault. Raphael’s death is on my hands. And now I have to tell Peter I killed his father.”
Chapter Fourteen
Doc snorted. “That’s a little drastic, don’t you think? How is Raphael’s death possibly your fault? Last I checked, you couldn’t stop lightning.”
“No, of course I can’t,” Donata said, her shoulders bowed. “But if I had helped him when he asked me to, maybe together we could have figured out the identity of the sixth race before they killed him.” She put one hand up to rub the suddenly tight muscles at the back of her neck.
“Are you sure he was murdered?” Doc asked. She looked dubious. “A few minutes ago you were certain he was just trying to manipulate you with some story about being in danger.” Stripping off her protective gloves, she tossed them on the table next to the body.
She picked up a clipboard and together they headed out of the room and down the hallway. “People do get hit by lightning, you know. I had one in here last year; guy was out in a canoe, paddling along in the rain, and then BAM.”
Donata jumped. “Yeesh, Doc.” She shook her head, following the coroner as she walked, heels clicking briskly, toward the loading bay where they would meet the ambulance. “A few minutes ago, I didn’t know he was dead. One of the older officers told me once, ‘If a victim tells everyone somebody is trying to kill him and then he turns up dead—odds are, he was telling the truth.’”
“I suppose you’ve got a point,” Doc said as they entered a large room with two sliding double doors that were open to the outside. “Here, help me with this gurney, will you?”
They each grabbed one end of the rolling stretcher and moved it toward the doorway. A chilly wind whistled in from the opening, bringing with it a swirl of autumn leaves. The bright colors lent an ironic festive note to the otherwise depressing room.
“So what are you going to do?” Doc asked her friend.
Donata shrugged, peering out to see if she could spot the incoming ambulance. “I guess I’ll do whatever it takes to help Peter get to the bottom of this. I owe him that much. Hell, I owe Raphael that much.”
“Is it going to be hard for you to work with him? Peter, I mean?” Doc asked. “I know you guys sort of had unresolved feelings for each other, and he just disappeared for six months. And then you started dating Anton . . .” She blinked mascaraed eyelashes. “Hell, what are you going to do about Anton?”
“I have no idea,” Donata said as the ambulance pulled in next to the unloading dock, lights off and siren silent. “But I can only handle one man-crisis at a time. And for right now, dead Dragon trumps lying boyfriend.”
* * *
Doc signed the last piece of paperwork with a flourish and the paramedics lifted Raphael’s body onto the gurney with a grunt and a thud that made Donata wince. Peter stood out of the way, his white face blending in with the drab wall behind him. His impassive demeanor was belied by the tense set of his shoulders and the shaking of his hands. When he saw Donata notice, he tucked them behind his back, acknowledging her presence with a short nod. About six feet tall, he was still as slim and handsome as she remembered, his dark hair reaching down to touch his collar and a few days’ stubble shadowing his strong chin.
She wanted to go over and give him a hug, say something kind—but his posture made it clear such a gesture would be unwelcome. So she waited for Doc to wave good-bye to the attendants, and they walked over to Peter together. Donata put her hands in her pockets so she wouldn’t reach out and touch him. Her heart felt two sizes too big for her chest, pounding in time with the headache forming in her temples.
“I’m so sorry about your father,” she said. “I’m happy to see you again, but I wish it was under different circumstances.”
Peter nodded, grim and distant. “Thank you.” He turned to Doc. “And thank you, Doctor Havens. I didn’t know what to do when they said the body—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “When they said Raphael would have to go to a hospital and be examined by a physician. I was afraid if they did an autopsy . . .” He trailed off, looking lost.
Doc nodded, her attitude professional but still somehow exuding an aura of comfort. Donata didn’t know how she did it; it was like a kind of magic, but not one that Donata had ever mastered.
“I’m glad I could help,” Doc said. “And I’m sorry we had to meet under such trying conditions. Donata has told me a lot about you.” She put out one small, perfectly manicured hand and he shook it, hanging on for a moment longer than usual, like a man clinging to a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea.
“You are very kind,” he said. “So what happens now?” He leaned his tall body back against the wall as though the act of standing had suddenly become more than he could handle.
“There is a mortuary in the city that caters exclusively to Paranormals,” Donata told him. “Doc will fill out a death certificate and have the body—sorry, your father—sent there.” She put out a tentative hand and placed it gently on his shoulder. “You can give them any instructions you want for a service.”
Peter’s face was a bleak landscape of loss and sorrow. “I only found out a few months ago that he was my real father. I’ve barely gotten to know the man.” He spoke so quietly, Donata had to strain to hear him, even in the silence of the big empty room. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to bury him now.”
“Anything I can do to help, just ask,” Donata said. Her hand tightened on his shoulder in a small approximation of the hug she wished she could give him.
“I want to know who killed my father,” Peter growled, shrugging off her fingers and pushing himself away from the wall to stand up straight. “If you think you can help me with that, then you are welcome to try.”
Donata opened her mouth to say something—maybe some futile additional apology for not having taken Raphael’s concerns more seriously—but she was interrupted by a shrill ringing sound. They all patted their pockets in unison.
Peter pulled his phone out and stared at it for a moment as if it was a creature from another planet before tapping it and uttering a short, “Yes?”
His face grew even grimmer as he listened to the voice on the other end. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” He tapped the phone off.
“Trouble?” Doc asked.
“It would seem so,” Peter said. “That was the security company. Something or someone has set off the alarms at Raphael’s house.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hecate’s tits! Donata cast a slightly frantic look at Raphael’s body, and then at Doc. Now what?
Doc nodded in the direction of the gurney. “I’ve got this,” she said. “You two go find out what’s happening at the house.” She made shooing motions as Donata hesitated, looking from the tiny coroner to the large dead Dragon. “I can call an attendant to help me. That’s what they get paid for. Go on, get out of here.”
Peter was already striding toward the door and Donata hurried to catch up with him, her work shoes making scuffling noises among the leaves at the entryway. She stopped for a second at the door, taken aback for a second by the sight of his familiar Harley with red flames streaking down its black body. He’d been riding it the first night they’d met.
“Peter, wait for me,” she said, out of breath. “My BMW is in the lot behind the precinct next door. I’ll go grab it and be back in under five minutes. Then I can follow you to Raphael’s.”
He shook his head, slightly too-long dark hair flopping into his eyes. “No time. The security company will have notified the police, but I want to get out there as fast as I can.” He gave her an indecipherable look from underneath bushy brows. “If you’re coming, you’ll have to ride with me. I’ll get you back here later.”
Not waiting for her to answer, he swung one long leg over his bike and a second later the loud roar of its engine sprang to life. Donata could feel the rumbling through the soles of her feet where she stood next to it on the pavement. Without hesitation, she grabbed the spare helmet he thrust at her and hopped onto the seat behind him. They were on the road almost before she had it on her head.
Peter handled the large motorcycle with experienced skill, weaving in and out of traffic gracefully. Within minutes they were on the exit ramp, racing onto the highway heading out of town. Donata hung on tightly with both arms wrapped around his slim torso, thankful for the leather jacket she wore over her thin work khakis and cotton shirt. The fall chill whipped at her cheeks, stinging a little, and she tucked her face behind Peter’s large shoulder to keep it out of the wind.
Donata knew that Raphael lived in a wealthy enclave about twenty minutes outside of town, but at the rate Peter was pushing the bike, they’d be there a lot sooner than that. She hoped they didn’t get stopped by the highway patrol for speeding; it would be hard enough to explain to the Chief later why she’d disappeared in the middle of the day, without the added embarrassment of a ticket to explain too.
On the other hand, she wasn’t telling Peter to slow down. She felt an involuntary smile move her face against his broad back. She knew she should feel guilty to be enjoying the ride so much, but she couldn’t help it. The smell of the fumes mixing with the musty leather of his jacket tickled her nose, and the vibration of the bike ratcheted up and down her spine like an aggressive Japanese massage. It was all she could do not to laugh out loud at the heady combination of speed, open road, and a fine-looking man to put her arms around. Too bad the circumstances were so grim.
A few minutes later, they slid to a stop in a spray of gravel, and the elated feeling vanished like so much smoke in the wind. Raphael’s house was huge—more of a mansion than a home—set back from the road behind an iron fence, now hanging battered and askew. A local town cop car sat on the side of the road next to the entrance, both doors ajar and the interior empty except for a half-eaten sandwich.
“Damn,” Peter muttered. He put the motorcycle back into motion, but at a much slower speed, and drove it carefully through the small space between the damaged gate and the brick wall next to it.
“Nice house,” Donata said in his ear, speaking up to be heard over the rumble of the bike. “Cozy.”
He gave an ironic laugh. “Yeah, Raphael really likes—liked—his stuff. Wait until you see the inside. Apparently all those legends about Dragon hoards had some basis in fact.”
They came to a stop in the middle of the circular driveway at the point closest to the house. There was still no sign of either cops or intruders, but as they dismounted Donata put one hand on her gun, just in case.
The house itself was a combination of stone foundation, topped by wood-shingled sides and a slate roof. Glancing up, Donata saw statues of gargoyles seated at the four corners, over dormers that turned the third story into a story-and-a-half. It was beautiful, in an austere and slightly forbidding fashion; much like its owner, which made a certain amount of sense.
The front door, also hanging cockeyed on twisted hinges, was made of polished wood that had once held stained glass in the middle. Now there were shards of red, blue, and green glass everywhere, crunching underfoot as they entered a marble-inlaid foyer. As they passed through the doorway, Donata noticed a set of security cameras aimed at the footpath, red power lights now only a dim memory.
Footsteps sounded loud on the polished wood floors as someone approached from the back of the house. Donata started to draw her gun, and then slid it back into its holster when two uniformed officers appeared. She pulled out her badge instead, flipping it open as she stepped forward.
“Hi guys,” she said, walking toward them, “Officer Donata Santori, Central Gates Precinct. This is Peter Casaventi, son of the owner of the house.”
The older officer, graying and slightly plump, nodded his head in greeting. “I’m Dugan, and this is Ferguson. The alarm company called in the alert, but it appears we got here in time to scare off whoever did this. Doesn’t look like anyone made it into the house.” He peered over their shoulders at the front door. “Sure as hell made a mess of the outside, though. Sorry about that, Mr. Casaventi.”
He cocked his head to one side, reminding Donata for a dangerous moment of her great-aunt’s parrot familiar. She bit the inside of her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh.
“Central Gates, huh? You’re out of your jurisdiction. Did you just decide to escort Mr. Casaventi here for fun, or is there something else going on I should know about?” He looked at Peter suspiciously and his partner moved in a little closer.
Peter stepped forward to stand next to her, his voice heavy as he spoke. “My father died about two hours ago,” he said. “I was at the precinct with his body when I got the call from the alarm company about the break-in. Officer Santori is a friend of the family, and she was kind enough to offer to come with me, just in case.” He glared at Dugan, eyes glinting black in the dull light of the foyer, and the policeman took an involuntary step backward.
“Oh. Oh, sorry to hear that.” Dugan gave a half-hearted conciliatory wave with one pudgy hand. He looked intrigued at hearing about Raphael’s death. “So, was your father murdered?” Donata could see his brain cells churning, as he gazed at the damaged door and put two and two together to get some not-unreasonable number.
She and Peter exchanged glances and she gave a tiny shake of her head.
He cleared his throat. “No. It was natural causes. He was hit by lightning while playing golf. I’m afraid this was just one of those strange coincidences.” He shrugged. “I appreciate you coming out, though.”
Dugan held his hand out and the two men shook. “Not a problem, sir. That’s our job, after all. Guess you’re just having one hell of a bad day, huh?” He gestured for the silent Ferguson to follow him and they all started walking back toward the door. “Although there’s always a chance that someone heard about your father’s death on a police scanner radio and decided to try to take advantage of the situation.” He shook his head, disgusted by human nature. “You’d be amazed at how often that happens.”
The two police officers headed down the driveway to where they’d left their car and Ferguson turned his head and said over his shoulder, “I’d get that gate fixed right away. Looks like whoever broke in was pretty determined to get inside. You don’t want to take
any chances on them coming back now, do you?” Their footsteps faded away, gravel grating slightly under their shoes.
Peter leaned his head against the door frame wearily.
“I guess I should call someone to do something about the door too.” He didn’t seem enthusiastic about the idea, and Donata didn’t blame him.
“Why don’t you let me handle that?” she said. “You just call the alarm company and see if they can come out here and do something about these cameras.” She gazed up at them and sighed. “Maybe they can get some kind of images off of the things, but they look fried to me.”
He craned his neck to see where she was pointing. “So what do you think did that? More freak lightning?” His face was still drawn and white, anger deepening the creases next to his mouth.
Donata lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe if lightning hit something electrical higher on the house and traveled down here. I don’t see any scorch marks on the cameras themselves.” She knelt to look at the bottom hinge on the crooked door. “This looks like something just grabbed it and twisted. Lightning wouldn’t do that, no matter how freakish it is.”
Peter gusted a sigh. “I guess right now it doesn’t matter what did it. I just need to clean up the mess and get on with things.”
Donata eyed him dubiously. “Are you sure you don’t want to try and get some rest after you talk to the alarm company? You’ve had a tough day, and to be honest, you look wiped out.”
“I’m fine,” he said, shaking off her concern the way he had her hand on his shoulder earlier. “I’ll rest when we’ve found whoever murdered Raphael. And dealt with them, once and for all.”
* * *
Two hours later, the front door had been replaced and the gate repaired. Amazing what large sums of money will do to speed up response times, she thought. The security company technician had shaken his head at the cameras and simply replaced them; he promised to call if he got any useful pictures out of the equipment, but he didn’t seem to think it was likely.
Veiled Menace Page 9
