Something Wicked: HarperImpulse Romantic Suspense

by Campbell, Angela

  She arched an eyebrow at him and pointed at a photo of the last crime scene. “Can we go here? I might be able to pick up on something there. There’s something about this location that’s significant to the killer.” She flipped through another file. “Actually, all of the locations are significant. I just don’t know how yet.”

  “Sure. Let me see if Reedus can send that sketch to my phone as soon as it’s done. Give me five minutes.”

  Reedus was at his desk playing solitaire on the computer. Nice. Dylan tapped the back of his chair and perched on the edge of the desk. “You’re busy.”

  “I’m waiting on results and a sketch artist to finish his job. Leave me alone.” Reedus frowned at Dylan, but his eyes followed something behind Dylan, all the way toward the captain’s door. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not a good sign?”

  Dylan turned and saw a familiar figure in a pantsuit step into the captain’s office. He’d recognize Stephanie Rodriguez’s sleek brown hair and feminine figure anywhere.

  Dylan muttered a curse.

  Rodriguez was a fierce reporter he likened to a terrier with a bone. Once she caught scent of the marrow, she became a serious pain in the ass to get rid of.

  He’d also dated her for a few weeks after moving here, and she’d taken that as an okay to hound him for information on stories whenever a big one came his way.

  She turned and pointed at him through the glass office, caught him looking and smiled.

  He swore again.

  The captain also caught his gaze and waved him forward.

  Dylan glanced toward the conference room and took a deep breath. Alexandra would have to wait a few more minutes.

  As soon as he neared the captain’s office, he could hear Stephanie saying, “And I understand you’ve consulted a psychic, too. I’d love to talk to her.”

  “Out of the question.” The captain gestured for Dylan to close the door. “Detective Collins, we have a bit of a situation on our hands.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  Stephanie cast him one of her cat-like appraisals. “I got a very interesting call after my newscast this morning, Dylan. I have it recorded, and I plan to air it on tonight’s newscast. I wanted to be courteous and give you a head’s up.”

  A phone call? Dylan crossed his arms and glanced at the captain. The man was stone-faced.

  “Ever heard of The Grim Reaper?” Stephanie asked and watched him close for a reaction.

  Dylan shrugged. “Hasn’t everyone?”

  “Tell me this. Does Charleston have a serial killer on the loose? Is that who killed Councilman Burke’s niece? Because I have a pretty convincing guy on tape claiming responsibility for her death and two more. He also said more would come, and you’ve consulted with a famous psychic on his case. Does any of that ring a bell, Dylan?”

  “We want to hear the call,” Capt. Deveraux said. “It’s potential evidence in a criminal investigation.”

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a digital voice recorder. “I let you listen to this, you give me an exclusive on the story. Deal?”

  “Or we could arrest you for withholding evidence,” Dylan countered.

  Her smile broadened. “Our attorney would have me out in time for tonight’s news, and you know it.”

  Dylan wanted to warn the captain Stephanie’s producer would never let her air the recorded phone call without more evidence to go on—frustrating woman was calling their bluff to dig for more information—but his superior sighed and reached out a hand.

  “We give you an exclusive on the terms that you only release the information we want released. You got that?”

  “I can do that.” Stephanie dropped the recorder in the captain’s palm and then winked at Dylan. “All you have to do is hit play.”

  The captain set the recorder on the desk, adjusted the volume and pressed the button. Stephanie’s voice answered with a professional greeting. In the same distorted voice Dylan remembered from yesterday, a man said, “I murdered Candice Christopher, Gerard Nicolby and Jennifer Bradley, and I will murder more people by the week’s end. My name is The Grim Reaper and I want people to know I’m out there, stalking the streets of Charleston.”

  There was a static-filled pause. Finally Stephanie answered, “I’m sorry. Who is this?”

  “I told you my name. I want you to tell the people of Charleston there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

  “Listen, pal. I’m a serious reporter. If there was a serial killer in Charleston, I’d know about it. I don’t know what kind of hoax this is, but it’s not a very funny one.”

  The call ended.

  Stephanie reached for the recorder. “I hung up on him. He called me back not even ten seconds later.”

  “If you hang up on me again, I’ll gut you like a pig.” The Reaper’s distorted voice was calm, which made it all the more menacing. “Call Detective Dylan Collins with the North Charleston Police Department. He knows who I am. He was supposed to let all of the news outlets know about me. Because he didn’t, I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

  “Detective Collins?”

  “Yes, your old boyfriend.”

  Dylan’s gaze jerked to Stephanie’s. How did this guy know their history?

  “Did Dylan put you up to this?” Stephanie’s voice changed. “I get it. He’s playing a prank. Ha ha. Not funny.”

  “This isn’t a joke.” The caller breathed hard into the phone. “I positioned Candice Christopher’s body. The police didn’t tell you that, did they? Why don’t you ask them how I positioned her, and ask them why they’re so afraid of me that they called in Alexandra King to consult on my case? I’m very happy they did. I’d like you to give her a message for me.”

  “Who is Alexandra King?”

  “Don’t disrespect her by pretending you don’t know who she is!” The calm was gone, replaced by barely controlled anger. Heavy breathing. Then, calm again. “Please tell her I’m glad she’s here, and I look forward to playing with her.”

  Click.

  Silence filled the room.

  Stephanie reached across the desk and retrieved her recorder. “Now why don’t you gentlemen begin by telling me what that was all about. And better yet, why did you bring in a psychic?”

  Chapter Eight

  Dylan had been gone for a lot longer than she’d expected.

  Alexandra pushed out of her chair and paced the room, eager to exercise her limbs and exorcise the kinks that had worked their way into her muscles from sitting most of the night and morning.

  She wandered over to the door and peeked into the department’s work area. No sooner had she spotted Dylan than Reedus scared the crap out of her by barking in her ear, “Got the sketch back from the witness at the bar. Wanna take a quick look at it and tell me if you recognize him?”

  Dylan’s partner must have been standing right outside the conference room door. He shoved an 8x10 drawing in front of her before she had time to calm her racing heartbeat.

  The man in the drawing looked average and completely unknown to her. A dark stocking hat covered his hair, and his eyes were shadowed.

  “Doesn’t look familiar to me. Sorry.” She handed it back to him. “Who’s that in there with Detective Collins?”

  “A shark in high heels.” He coughed and pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth. “Stephanie Rodriguez. TV news reporter. If she’s here, she’s probably figured out something to do with this guy. Can’t be good.” Reedus puffed up his chest. “Guess I’d better throw myself into the feeding frenzy. We’ll need her help distributing this. Wish me luck.”

  Alexandra smiled and watched as he went to the small office, knocked, shuffled inside and handed the captain the sketch.

  “He likes the attention.”

  Alexandra’s heartbeat, her whole body, jumped at the unexpected voice behind her. Turning slowly, she swallowed and stared at Rebecca Collins with wide eyes. Dylan’s mother did not look like she normally did. She looked haggard an
d dirty.

  Reaching behind her to shut the door, Alexandra asked, “Where have you been? I’ve been worried I did something to you.”

  Rebecca’s eyes were dark and unfocused. As if she were in a trance. “I’ve been—” She shook her head, dazed. “Hiding from him.”

  “Who?”

  Rebecca looked down, confused. “I don’t know.” Finally, she looked at Alexandra and her eyes were lighter, clearer, more normal. “He doesn’t want me to help you. He doesn’t want any of us to help you.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I don’t know. I just know he’s dangerous. I know you and Dylan are both in danger now.” Rebecca rubbed at her temples. “Why can’t I remember clearly?”

  Good question. Was she talking about the man calling himself The Grim Reaper?

  He’s fascinated by death.

  Alexandra considered all she’d learned about this case and weighed it in her mind.

  “Is he playing around with black magic? The occult?” That might explain it, or some of it.

  Rebecca still looked a little dazed. “Yes. I think that’s it.”

  Alexandra took in the spirit’s strange appearance and thought back to how poorly she herself had been feeling since she’d arrived in Charleston. “Whatever the killer’s messing with could be affecting us both.” Black magic was not something Alexandra knew much about. She described the gray beams she saw shooting toward the sky every time she neared her hotel. “Rebecca, do you know what that is?”

  “No, but I like to be near it. It makes me feel…strong. Alive.”

  An ache began forming at the base of her skull, so Alexandra tried to massage it away. This was all so confusing.

  She would tell Dylan to check with any occult stores in the city, have him ask about regular clients. Maybe their killer had consulted with other psychics here. Maybe he was working with one. She got the feeling he was the type to be drawn to psychics.

  He certainly seemed drawn to her.

  “Where’s my son?” Rebecca asked.

  “In the other room. He’s fine.” She opened the blinds on the office window so Rebecca could see. Young ghosts could not see through things the way older ones could.

  Rebecca visibly relaxed, then tensed again. “Don’t tell me he’s with her again.” The disdain in the older woman’s voice was sharp.

  “Who?”

  “That woman.” The ghost pointed through the blinds. “She didn’t love him the way he deserved. My little boy can do better.”

  “Oh.” Ohhhh. Rebecca meant that Dylan and the reporter had been—“I see.” She closed the blinds and moved away from the door.

  A hot poker of jealousy seared at Alexandra’s gut, but what sense did that make? She didn’t have a claim on Dylan. So what if they were sleeping together? It was only temporary.

  Which reminded her. How much had Rebecca seen of Dylan and Alexandra since she’d been here?

  “Rebecca, have you been watching me this whole time?”

  The older woman frowned. “No. Not always. It’s like sometimes there’s this wall I can’t get beyond, like you’re pushing me away. Other times, I’ve been hiding. I go check on Zachary.”

  “Hiding from who?”

  The door to the room pushed open, startling Alexandra again. She normally wasn’t this jumpy. What was that about? She blew out a breath and forced a smile for the man they’d been discussing.

  Dylan stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He looked unhappy. “Sorry. Change of plans.”

  “No problem. Anything I should be worried about?”

  He shook his head but his sour expression didn’t change. “Something I should worry about.” He turned away from her and rubbed at his forehead. “The media has gotten wind of this. They know about you. They know about the link between the killings.”

  “They? Or she?”

  He turned back toward her. “You saw?”

  She shrugged. “I saw enough.”

  “The killer called Stephanie Rodriguez. She’s the reporter who came to us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t call others. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “He likes the attention,” Alexandra repeated Rebecca’s earlier words and glanced toward where the ghost had been standing. She was gone again.

  “Yeah, I think so.” Dylan took a deep breath. “He told her your name. He even got angry when she didn’t know who you were, as if he were insulted on your behalf.”

  “You’re kidding.” It wasn’t like she was some famous mystic or something. She’d been featured on a handful of TV shows in very minor capacity. Nothing to write home about. Certainly not enough to pay the bills. “I got some information from the other side while you were gone. I don’t know if it’ll pan out, but I think the killer has been dabbling in the occult, and not in a good way. I’d suggest checking with local stores to see if anyone suspicious turns up.”

  “Should be easy enough. We only have a few.” He half smiled. “Makes sense. He left a tarot card at the last crime scene. Thanks. I’ll check on it.”

  There was a knock on the door and Reedus stuck his head in. “Collins, there’s a guy out here wants to talk to you about the Christopher case and the alley murder.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Seems to think there’s a connection.” Reedus lifted his eyebrows. “Want me to send him in here?”

  Dylan met Alexandra’s startled look. “Yeah.”

  The man that walked into the room a minute later reminded Alexandra of a lumberjack. With shaggy auburn hair and a full, neatly trimmed beard, he wore jeans, a flannel shirt, a faded old sports coat, and was about the size of an ox. One of his giant hands was curled around some sort of book.

  He reached across and engulfed Dylan’s hand with his free one. “I’m Jason Murray, a professor of history at the College of Charleston.”

  “Detective Dylan Collins.” Dylan pointed to Alexandra behind him. “This is—”

  “Wow.” The professor’s eyes lit up with excitement as he stared at her. “You’re a psychic medium.” He snapped his fingers before reaching across to shake her hand. “I’ve seen you on TV.”

  He had? Alexandra uncrossed her arms and stepped forward, forcing a smile. She felt Dylan’s gaze watching her. “I should come to Charleston more often. People know me here.” She shook the man’s hand. “Alexandra King.”

  “Right. You were on that show. Um, what was it called?” He tapped the side of his head.

  Don’t say The Psychic Detective. Say something else.

  “Sixty Minutes.” Her voice was a desperate rush. “I was on Sixty Minutes once. Everyone recognizes me from that.”

  The man nodded slightly but looked confused. “It was—”

  “Sorry to be curt, Mr. Murray, but why is it you wanted to speak with me?” Dylan inserted, pulling out a chair for the man. He gestured for her to take a seat across from him. “I’ve got an appointment I need to keep in a few minutes.”

  “Sorry.” The lumberjack professor shuffled awkwardly into the chair. “I’m not sure it’s even relevant, but a few of the other tour guides and I have been speculating on ideas since that young woman was murdered in the cemetery. I decided one of us should probably come forward and tell you our theory.”

  Alexandra glanced at Dylan. His eyes were narrowed. His lips were pursed. “What other tour guides?”

  “Sorry.” The man laughed softly and scooted closer to the table. “I own a ghost tour company, you know, something on the side, and sometimes after tours the guides from all the companies will get together for a beer and chat.”

  Dylan nodded. “Go on.”

  Alexandra focused on the burly man sitting across from her. He slid the book he’d been carrying across the table and tapped his hand on the cover, almost protectively. “I started my tours 12 years ago, after I wrote my first book about the ghosts of Charleston. Now there are at least four other ghost tour companies here.” He reached up and scratched his beard. “P
oint is, if you’re looking for an expert on the city’s history or its alleged ghosts, I’m your guy.”

  A sudden image of the word PIRATE flashed in Alexandra’s vision, and she said, “You know a lot about pirates.”

  Murray slid even closer to the table and smiled at her. “Yes. You’ve read my book?”

  No, I think I’m reading the dead person attached to you.

  She shrugged. “No, sorry.”

  “Oh.” He looked at Dylan. “She’s right. I talk about pirates a lot on my tour.” He reached for his book and began flipping through pages. “When that man was found murdered in the alley off State Street, it caught my attention. That’s one of the stops we do most nights. See?” He spread the book open, slid it toward Dylan, and tapped at an illustration underneath the heading The Ghost of Black Billy. The illustration was almost identical to the crime scene photo Dylan had in his files. A pirate lay sprawled in a half sitting position, his back slumped against the building wall, his legs spread eagle in front of him, a dagger sticking from his chest. “That’s not the only one.”

  Dylan pulled the book closer. “What do you mean, not the only one?”

  The professor stood, reached across the table, and flipped to another page. “The cemetery where the woman was found dead a couple of days ago.” He stopped on a page and tapped. “The Crying Woman’s Ghost. It’s one of the stops on our tour. Not always, but sometimes. We like to change things up for repeat customers. Keep it fresh, you know?”

  A black and white photograph seemed to show a transparent woman leaning over a grave, sobbing. Alexandra blinked and felt disoriented. The sound of weeping was as loud as if the woman were doing so in Alexandra’s ear now.

  “What’s her story?” she asked.

  “Jasmine Carter. She lost her husband and her two year old son to the Spanish influenza in 1919 and was so grief stricken, she climbed to the church’s bell tower and flung herself off. She landed in a twisted mess on one of the graves. To this day there are sightings of her roaming the same cemetery. Usually, people hear her crying.”

  Poor woman.